Chapter Text
July 1995 (25 years before the present. )
The lights flicker. ‘ Geez, for a top-tier place like the Orpheum, the practice room sure is doggy…’ Ritsu thinks to himself, while lying on the stage floor.
“Leader, please don't do that!”
Ritsu looks up from the floor to see Tsukasa yelling at Leo who's writing on the timetable sheet again.
Sena is standing over by his drums, Arashi is to the right and slightly in front of where Ritsu is and Tsukasa is on the left of the centre—where Leo is SUPPOSED to be, instead, Leo’s sprawled out on the concrete floor, furiously scribbling—on the back of the timesheet they were given for tonight mind you—like his life depends on it.
Ritsu vaguely remembers him shouting something before he ran off of where he was meant to be— but honestly? he's way too tired to concentrate on anything right now. His normal level of tiredness is enough but with the constant practice Sena was insisting they do, right now Ritsu feels like he could sleep through the show ( not that he wasn't already lying on the floor trying to skip practice )
Ristu’s eyes flicker away from the boring argument happening in the background and over to the small box TV that happens to be in the room they’re practising in.
‘ Knights are a band that had made their way up slowly, starting in a garage that was rented out to them for cheap. Now the band of 5 have made it up so high that tonight they are opening in the Orpheum.’ A lady in a red raincoat stood outside the entrance to the large building, in the pouring rain.
Ritsu didn’t care much for fame or money, or placing in well-known places. The many reasons he had started a band was that he found it fun, but he knew this meant a lot to the others, so he wasn't going to mess it up.
From the corner of his eye, Ritsu watches Sena jump off the stage towards Leo.
“Alright, Leo come on we need to get to practising”
_____
Arashi pulled on Ritsus's arm trying to keep him upright. It felt like Sena made them practice for hours on end. Makes sense though he did mention he wants to prove himself to his parents, guess the pressures getting to him.
Arashi was pulling time towards a hotdog street cart.
“I'm so hungryyy!” Tsukasa hung his arms down low.
The five boys quickly grabbed the hotdog topics they wanted and taking a seat in a shady booth.
Just as Ritsu was about to take a bite, Leo dramatically stood up.
“INSPERATION!!” All the tables around them gave the five boys dirty looks as Leo quickly ran off almost knocking over a table in the process.
“Ah, leader-”
“Just wait there Tsukasa, i'll go get him.” Sena placed his somehow already half eaten hotdog next Leo’s and quickly ran off towards him.
“Hey is it just you guys or do they taste a little different than normal?” Arashi spoke up as if she hadn’t even heard Leo running off.
“Geez, you're so picky Nacchan, it's not like street dogs have killed us!”
Arashi shrugged in Ritsu's direction before continuing eating the hotdog.
May 2019 (1 years before the present. )
Mao sat on the cold concrete just outside the studio he shared with his mum. He’d recently gotten into a fight with Subaru—something stupid, really, not even worth remembering. What mattered was how it ended.
As Mao stormed out of the classroom, Subaru had shouted something about his piano skills. The words themselves weren’t what hurt—though they did—but it was the fact that Subaru knew how insecure Mao was about his playing. And he’d still used it against him.
Poor Makoto and Hokuto had been stuck in the middle, trying to play peacekeepers.
Mao leaned his head against the cold garage door. The soft sound of piano music echoed through it. He stood, rising onto his toes. He was just tall enough to peek through the dusty windows. Inside, he saw his mum, Keito, sitting on the old piano stool, reading the sheet music on the stand. A student sat next to him on the second stool.
“You really have to play it more allegro when you come out of the bridge section here,” Keito said, looking up from the sheet music to address his student.
Listening to his mum’s playing was the only thing that could instantly cheer Mao up—well, that and Subaru, Makoto, and Hokuto. But he couldn’t talk to Subaru right now, for obvious reasons, and he didn’t want to drag Makoto and Hokuto into it more than he already had, forcing them to take sides.
“Ah, thank you, Mr. Hasumi.”
Mao heard rustling papers and the sound of a backpack being zipped up. The door of the garage swung open, nearly hitting him. He quickly stepped aside, silently apologizing to the student for being in the way.
“I thought I heard someone spying out here,” Keito called from inside, still sitting at the piano.
“I just like listening to you play, that’s all.” Mao crossed his arms and stepped inside the studio as Keito began clearing the papers scattered around from the lesson. He made space for Mao to sit beside him.
“Well, maybe you should do more than just listen.” Keito tapped the now-clear space next to him, pulling out his notebook and waving it in front of Mao’s face.
“It’s Saturday. Don’t you have another lesson lined up?” Keito was one of the best piano teachers in the city—or even all of LA. There was no way Mao could keep him from doing what he loved.
“I had a last-minute cancellation.” Keito shrugged, flipping open his notebook and placing it on the piano stand.
“Geez, people should learn some manners,” Mao mumbled under his breath. Okay, maybe I’m still a little sore from the Subaru fight. But you can’t just be a jerk to people because they don’t fight back! ...Yeah, that’s definitely not about the cancellation, Mao thought, sighing and looking down.
Okay, Mao. Just breathe.
Keito looked up at Mao’s furrowed face.
“Sometimes you just gotta let things go, Faith,” he said, smiling softly as he placed Mao’s hand in his, holding it tightly. His chartreuse eyes melted away Mao’s lingering frustrations about the Subaru situation.
His mum had given him the nickname Faith when he was little. Mao meant faith, anyway, and it was kind of a girly nickname—but he never minded.
Mao’s eyes shifted away from Keito’s steady gaze, his face scrunching up in an angry scowl as he stared at the floor.
“Then how about we take another look at our song?” Keito’s hand tightened around Mao’s as he quickly slipped into the seat next to him.
Mao quickly nodded. There was nothing he loved more than writing songs with his mum.
_________
It had been about a week since Subaru and Mao had made up. Now, Mao sat on Subaru’s bed with Makoto, while Hokuto and Subaru sat on the floor. Not that they couldn’t fit—Subaru just insisted it was "comfortable" and dragged—like actually dragged—Hokuto into sitting with him.
Once Mao had calmed down that afternoon, he’d finally told his mum about what had happened. Keito had quickly steered the conversation away from Mao blindly apologizing and pushed him to talk to Subaru instead. After all, Mao, Subaru, Makoto, and Hokuto had been friends since childhood, and it was only natural that Keito would know what Mao should do.
The four of them were all part of their school’s music program at Yumenosaki High School, and they had a performance assignment coming up. Naturally, they planned to perform together. The four of them had always planned to form a band, and that hadn’t changed.
Mao did most of the songwriting, being the most experienced, while the others contributed input, composed, and of course—ate snacks.
“Oh! That’s perfect!! Right, Sally?!” Subaru exclaimed, pointing to the screen while Makoto adjusted the beat to fit Subaru’s taste.
Subaru sat up on his knees to see the screen properly, Hokuto did the same, both focused on the details. Instead of watching, Mao sat off to the side, writing in his notebook. Since making up with Subaru, his writer’s block had lifted, and he was finally able to get some lyrics down. Plus, he knew the others could handle the rhythm without him.
“Uhm, Subaru, I don’t think you should do that many beat drops,” Hokuto said, gently placing his hand on Subaru’s shoulder.
“Subaru—!”
The trio’s bickering was cut off by the loud ringing of Mao’s phone. All three turned toward him as he fumbled to grab it.
“Ah, sorry…” Mao mumbled, apologizing softly as he quickly rushed out of the room.
‘Dad.’
That was odd. His dad didn’t normally interrupt when he knew Mao was working on homework. It must be important.
.
.
.
.
.
The words “I’ll always love you, my dear Faith” would forever burn and bleed in Mao’s mind at the same time/
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
July 2020 ( the present. )
A loud ring fills Yumenosaki High School, as doors swing open almost simultaneously. Hundreds of kids run out of classrooms at the exact same time.
A boy with dark mauve hair shyly pushes their way through the crowd, the boy's fringe is let down almost completely covering his eyes, he has a baseball hat covering what of his eyes aren't covered by his hair. He has a long oversized plaid jumper and patchwork jeans.
Mao moves his way through the crowd barely making it to his locker without getting trampled. He fiddles with the books overflowing in his arms—nearly dropping them way to many times to count—before finally getting all his books for music class. They only give a couple minutes in between classes so I better hurry-. Suddenly the locker in front of his face slaps shut reveling an orange-haired boy with his hand still on the locker and a waving blonde before him.
“Seriously Subaru? you nearly made me drop my books—AGAIN.
A giggle comes from the orange-head.
“He insisted on scaring you” Makoto gives a pitiful look, but his still giggling makes Mao think otherwise
Hokuto suddenly appeared on Mao's left opposite to the other two boys,
“I know this might sting a little, but have you decided on what your gotta play today?”
“I'll know when it happens”
A loud gasp comes from Subaru.
“WHAT!? That's all you're giving us?”
“Mr. Sagami said this is your last chance, Your last!!” Makoto's voice raises to a whisper-yell.
“I know” Mao pauses, sighing just so they know they're annoying him. “I was there..”
“Sally, You can't get kicked off music!!” Subaru interrupted Mao's last word.
“Maybe... It's for the best if I leave..”
“HUUUHAH?!” Somehow in syn,c all three boys yell out.
“You don't mean that!” Makoto pushed past Subaru, placing his name on Mao's shoulders.
“I do-”
Suddenly a loud bell rings throughout the hallway.
“Come on, we should get to music..”
___
Mao rests his head on his knees, which are brought up to his chest. The class sits in a circle on chairs around a makeshift stage in the centre of the music room.
All eyes are on the so-called "Class Bad Boy," a title so cringeworthy that it nearly makes Mao vomit in his mouth.
Koga Oogami.
The order of the performances had been decided by drawing sticks—everyone except Mao, of course. Sagami didn’t care when Mao performed, as long as he actually did it. Naturally, Mao had chosen to go last.
Koga stands in the centre, his posture loose but grounded. His hands move over the guitar strings with precision, like he’s commanding them. The room falls silent, everyone’s attention pinned on him as the chords resonate.
Then, the melody shifts—speeding up, climbing higher. His fingers slip over the strings in a way that feels almost chaotic, but the cocky smirk on his face makes it clear it’s intentional.
The sound is captivating. Even Mao, curled up in his corner, can’t ignore the tension hanging in the air, the way the room seems to pulse with every vibrating note.
The grading for the assessment wasn’t officially a competition, but it might as well have been. Whoever scored highest was either praised or hated for the rest of the year.
As the final vibrations fade into silence, no one moves. Koga lowers his guitar, his trademark smirk firmly in place as he shrugs off the growing applause like it’s no big deal.
“As expected of you Koga—almost as good as the light music club performance last week”
Koga turns bad ignoring Sagami and taking a seat next to Subaru.
“Okay, we have one last performance… Mao”
Mao slowly raises his head which is still resting on his knees. Sagami’s knowing look nearly gives him chills—that and the completely silent class… Mao couldn’t help but wish his life wasn’t just some gossip for everyone…
Mao stands up (Fighting the urge to immediately sit back down) and quickly walks past all the kids silently whispering as he passes them.
The piano looks more like a death trap rather than a musical instrument. Taking a seat he places his music book onto the top of the death trap.
Oh. shit.
Mao can feel the tears well up in his eyes, he must have grabbed the wrong book… This is one he and his mum worked on together.
After one last look up to Sagami to see if he was actually gonna make him do this.
To Mao’s horror, he gets a nod from Sagami.
He slowly lifts up the piano cover.
His eyes meet the rest of the class, seeing, Subaru giving him two thumbs up with both hands, Makoto giving him a shy smile and Hokuto giving him an intense nod.
One finger presses on the key—before Mao removes his hands from the piano, breaking the tension in the room entirely.
“I'm sorry” Mao whispers before running out of the room.
.
.
.
“Mao!”
Mao stops—he’s halfway down the stairs when he turns around, and is met with three angry faces—faces that would usually be filled with worry or concern. But Mao understands. He’s angry too.
Subaru opens his mouth, hesitating for a brief moment before speaking anyway.
“Mao, you better get back up here and show them!” The light from the window catches in the corner of his eyes, reflecting the tears welling up. “That you can sing!”
Subaru never calls him Mao…
“Subaru…” The quiet whisper comes from the blonde to his left.
“I’ve tried…” Mao begins, his voice laced with anger, before lowering it to a trembling whisper-shout.
“I’ve tried for Mr. Sagami.”
The regret is written all over Subaru’s face.
“I’ve tried for you three.”
“I’ve tried for Dad.”
Mao doesn’t even notice the tears spilling down his face until they brush his lips.
“…And I’ve tried for Mum.”
“For a whole year, I’ve been trying,” he continues, a soft, bitter giggle escaping his mouth. “But I can’t do this anymore.”
“I’m sick of doing this—for everyone else.”
Mao turns slowly, walking down the rest of the stairs.
“Not when it makes me miserable.”
“MAO!” Subaru shouts one last time, but the only response is the sound of the courtyard door slamming shut behind him.
Subaru takes a hesitant step down to where Mao had stood moments before, his legs giving out as he collapses onto the floor.
He feels a gentle hand rest on his back.
“Come on… We should get back to class,” the voice says, echoing Mao’s own words from earlier
_____
Math homework sits on the kitchen table, Mao glaring at it as though sheer intimidation might make it disappear.
Heavy footsteps echo down the stairs.
“Oh, good, you’re home!”
Mao doesn’t miss the cheerful tone in his dad’s voice, but he’s pretty sure that enthusiasm would vanish if his dad knew he’d gotten home a good three hours earlier than he was supposed to.
Kurou Kiryuu.
Mao’s dad’s smiling face sends a pang of guilt through him, a reminder of the day’s less-than-stellar decisions.
“I was just about to head out to your sister’s game,” Kurou says, running a hand through his messy hair. “It’s been nonstop all day—photoshoots from morning till now. I haven’t even had a chance to eat.”
Mao bites back a sigh. It’s funny—no, stupid—how his dad is always on his case about taking care of himself when he’s the one who passed down the family trait of burning the candle at both ends.
“But,” Kurou says. Ah, the word but . Enough to send shivers down any kid's spine.
“I got a phone call today.” Kurou sighs, pulling out a chair at the dining table.
“I figured as much…”
“...Yeah, well, it was my realtor friend.”
“Oh. That. ”
“She says if we’re serious about selling the house, she wants me to take some photos—for the website and all—which means we’ll have to do a lot of cleaning.” Mao can sense the worry coming from his dad. After your mom dies, that’s something you get used to sensing. “I thought… you could tackle Mom’s studio?”
“Your sister and I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
Mao tries to keep his face neutral but fails miserably.
“Hey—if you’re not ready—”
“No!” The word comes out much louder than he intended. “Maybe I’ll try tonight.”
“Yeah? Awesome! Oh, and don’t forget the loft. You know all those instruments need a new home.”
“Mum would like that.”
“She would. Oh, shoot, I’m gonna be late—”
“Under the mail,” Mao sighs, reaching for the pile and pulling out an old-looking set of keys.
“Lifesaver,” Kurou says with a grin, snapping his fingers at Mao before rushing out the door.
.
.
.
.
.
Mao makes his way down the outside steps, now dressed in his pyjamas. Pyjamas aren’t the typical choice for cleaning your dead mum’s studio—but then again, this isn’t exactly a typical situation.
He stops at the last step, just before his feet touch the cold concrete. The studio, always carrying a melancholy air, feels far more eerie at night.
Mao takes a deep breath and grabs the edge of the garage door, slowly pulling it open. The creaking sound echoes into the quiet night. He reaches for the light switch, his hand moving on instinct—not that he didn’t already know every inch of this loft by heart.
The faint hum of the old fluorescent lights fills the space as they flicker to life, casting uneven shadows across the room. The familiar ache returns as his eyes fall on the studio’s contents. The sad reminder comes the instant the lights flicker on—the reminder as to why he hasn’t been here since the day it happened.
He remembers it too vividly. The moment he’d come home from Subaru’s, full of dread and denial, he’d bolted to the garage, desperate for it all to be some sick joke of his dad’s. But the sheet-covered piano had told him otherwise.
And there it is now, exactly as it had stood a year ago. The piano is still covered in the same white sheet.
The piano somehow makes the room feel vast and empty without her. The airtight windows make it feel suffocating—even with the garage door wide open, revealing the pitch-dark night. The air tightens.
And tightens.
Even tighter.
…
…
…
Tighter.
.
Before Mao fully registers what’s happening, his feet are moving faster than his thoughts. His bedroom door slams behind him, the sound reverberating in the quiet house. Despite leaving the studio, his chest doesn’t release its grip; his breathing quickens. And quickens. Until it spirals into what everyone else would call hyperventilation.
It’s not fair. She’s been gone for a year now. Why can’t he just clean the stupid studio without thinking of her? He doesn’t want to think of her.
Breathe in.
Mao softly closes his eyes, forcing himself to bring his thoughts closer to the family and friends still with him.
Breathe out.
He opens his eyes.
...Dad. He’s gotta do this. Ray’s doing everything he can to support him, yet Mao can’t even handle something as simple as cleaning a stupid garage? No, he has to. He has to at least try.
Retracing his steps through the unusually quiet house, he finds himself back on the path of stepping stones leading to the garage. He’d left the garage light on, its yellow glow cutting through the darkness. It’s the only thing guiding him now, aside from the dim, cheap garden lamps his dad had bought back when Mao was still in diapers.
Hesitantly, Mao makes his way back to the sheet-covered piano. His movements are slow, almost reluctant, as if each step carries the weight of the memories tied to the instrument.
Lifting his arm, he drags the sheet off. Dust swirls into the air, momentarily obscuring his vision. When it settles, the piano comes into view, unchanged from the last time he saw it.
It’s odd—it looks exactly the same. Somehow, that’s comforting.
Even though it lacks Keito’s touch now, the piano isn’t broken. It’s still whole. It hasn’t shattered into pieces, even if Mao feels like he has.
The piano doesn’t care.
The piano doesn’t even know.
Because it's just a piano…
Mao lifts his head, moving around the piano, dragging his hand along the worn wood as he goes. The old stool, once vibrant with use, now has dust filling the carved curves and etched pictures. Keito always cleaned the stool every week—he hated it when it was dirty…
“I’m sorry… so sorry I haven’t been out here, Dad,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. Taking a deep, shaky breath, he adds, “It’s just so hard… without you here.”
The words feel freeing in a way, like a weight lifted from his chest. Yet, even as he speaks, he feels a warm tear trace its way down his cheek. His voice falters as he whispers:
“...to hold my hand.”
His hands feel so cold now, without Keito’s in them.
Mao’s gaze drifts across the loft above the studio. That’s right… he promised his dad he’d at least try. With a deep breath, he stands and hesitantly climbs the ladder leading to the raised platform.
Even when Keito was alive, the four of them rarely came up here. It was always cluttered with the previous owner’s junk, and they never seemed to find the time to clean it out. Still, Dad—Kuro and Mum—Keito used to talk about how cool it would have been to turn this space into a hangout spot for him and his sister—Mai.
Hey, maybe now’s the perfect time to—
Ah.
That’s right.
They’re moving… away from here.
Shaking his head to snap out of his thoughts, Mao kneels down on the creaky wooden floors. He spots a bag of clothing, an old 4-stringed bass, a desk—though he’s too low down away to spot what’s on it—and a pile of just straight-up junk.
Before tossing the bag of clothes off the loft and onto the concrete garage floor, he feels up the plastic garbage bag to make sure it’s just clothes and nothing breakable. "Save that job for later..." Mao mutters to himself, humming as he continues to sift through the junk. Some of it is clothes, some old DVDs or toys—though some nerds would argue, "THEY'RE FIGURINES, NOT TOYS! There's a huge difference, you know!"—and then there’s just straight-up trash. He does not envy the 20-year-old fast food wrappers he just found. And they don’t just look twenty years old—they’re marked 1994 . “Geez, what kind of slobs were my parents when they were younger?”
It’s weird even if he enjoys going through all this stuff, though—it feels more like it's owned by a teenage boy than by his parents. Even the smell of everything is like overused deodorant—and somehow it still lingers even after no one’s been up here for, like, twenty years...
Mao stands up, relieved that at least the floor is clean. Unfortunately, in his focus on scrubbing, he completely forgot about the mess that’s still scattered everywhere else.
With a groan, he rubs his sore hands, his eyes wandering over the chaos until they land on a CD sitting on the filth-covered desk. “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to take a short break…” he mutters, stepping toward the desk.
Carefully, he picks up the CD, wiping a layer of grime off its surface. Slipping it into the old CD player—the one he and his mum used all the time—he spins around and plops down on the couch.
As the music starts, Mao leans back. The song has a familiar vibe, reminding him of an 80s musician he likes.
"‘Take off, Blast off, count down till we blast open the top,’" the lyrics begin, accompanied by a slight crackle of static—expected for a CD that’s over 20 years old.
"‘Face first, Full charge, electric hammer to the heart.’"
The lead singer’s voice stands out, smooth and raw in a way that feels personal. “Not bad,” Mao murmurs, nodding along. Definitely not the worst indie band he’s heard.
Mao flips over the CD cover as the song keeps playing.
CD
- Now or Never
- Crooked Teeth
- Late Last Night
- Lakeside Reflection
- In Your Starlight
Neat song names, Guess the one playing is Now or Never. He continues reading:
- Leo: Lead Singer / Keyboard
- Ritsu: Guitar / Side (or back-up) singer
- Sena: Drums / Back-up harmonizer
- Arashi: Bass / Back-up harmonizer
- Tsukasa: Rhythm Guitarist / Back-up harmonizer
Written in small text under the picture of the five of them on the back:
Mao squints to read it. None of the names are familiar—guess none of them made it big in the music world. Even if the band broke up, it’s saddening to think that none of them reached their dream.
He pulls his phone out of his pocket, chewing his lip. If they were still active, he’d have heard of them—Mao doesn’t think there’s a single band in the rock genre he hasn’t come across. Still, he can’t help but hope he’s wrong.
The song continues in the background.
‘Cause it’s all we’re after now, Oh~’
Mao flips the CD case around again, rereading the name before typing "Knights" into the search bar. A few clicks later, he skims through a random article. His scrolling slows as something catches his eye.
"It’s saddening to think how close they were to fame," the article reads, followed by a few quotes from people who were there that night. "But now they’ll go down in history as: ‘A garage rock band that died in 1995 due to food poisoning.’"
Mao freezes. Food poisoning? He rereads it to make sure he isn’t imagining things. A garage rock band, so close to making it big, wiped out by bad takeout? It’s ridiculous—and heartbreaking.
“Died in 1995…” Mao mutters, staring at the screen. It feels surreal. Still, he knows this is probably the last time he’ll think about these guys. They’re just another forgotten band from before his time.
With a sigh, Mao stands up and heads over to turn off the CD player.
"‘up right now, and even if we hit the ground…’"
He feels sick as it keeps playing, now knowing what happened.
His hand hovers over the stop button—
Suddenly, the music glitches—much worse than before. The sound jolts him, and he stumbles back slightly.
“Geez! Right, old CD, old band…” he mutters, trying to calm himself. For some reason, he’d let himself believe this was something modern.
Then, without warning, the CD player erupts in loud, bone-chilling screams—not from the music this time. Actual screams.
Mao jumps back, nearly collapsing onto the couch. His hands fly to his ears, trying to block out the horrible noise.
“What the hell?!” Mao yells, his voice cracking as he fumbles with the unresponsive CD player. It won’t stop no matter what he tries. His heart pounds in his chest, every thundering beat echoing his rising panic. “Is this some kind of sick joke?!”
Before he can process further, a sudden force, like a wave of wind, slams into him, shoving him back onto the couch he’d just scrambled away from.
The screaming grows louder, but now it sounds eerily less robotic than when it started. Mao squeezes his eyes shut and clamps his hands over his ears, bracing for the noise to end.
And then, as suddenly as it started, everything goes silent.
For a long moment, he doesn’t dare move. The silence feels just as unnerving as the chaos before it. How did none of the neighbours hear that? Shouldn’t someone have come over by now?
With a shaky breath, Mao cracks his eyes open—and freezes.
Four teenagers are sprawled out on the floor, groaning and scrambling to pick themselves up.
Mao’s body reacts before his mind catches up, launching him off the couch with a startled yelp. No need for scrambling on his part—he’s already standing.
“Huh? How.. Why are we here-?” Mao thinks it's the redhead talking but he is way too panicked to be able to tell properly.
And yet again the room fills with screams—though this time it isn't from the strangers, though the second Mao starts screaming the strangers join in, their screams layering into one loud, chaotic chorus. The strangers hug-huddle up mid-yelling.
Panic takes over Mao’s mind in the situation and is only thinking one thing ‘Escape’ Without thinking, he spins around and bolts for the garage door, his own screams escalating as he fumbles almost tripping over the bag of clothes he sabotaged himself with.
“WHAT IS HAPPENING?!” Mao yells mid-run, his voice cracking as he practically trips over himself trying to escape.
“NOPE, NOpe, nope, nope!” He is still yelling by the time he makes it out of the garden onto where the front door is, he spots his sister—Mai and his dad—Kurou who just got back from Mai's baseball game.
“Huh!? Ah, Mao, you scared me! Slow down, what happened you look like you’ve seen a ghost…” Hearing his dad’s voice semi-calmed him down for a second—BEFORE REMEMBERING THERE WERE DEAD PEOPLE IN HIS GARAGE.
“I HAVE?!” Maoa screams, semi-forgetting his dad wasn’t aware of what had just happened.
“Sick!” Mai pipes up, “Are you INSANE?!” Mao screams before sprinting into his bedroom.
Mao practically slides to hide under his bed—still rubbing his now sore shoulder, he grabs out his phone. Without thinking he opens the group chat he has with Subaru, Makoto and Hokuto:
OverworkedandMotherless 8:04 PM
911!!
SmartyetSoStuipd 8:04 PM
What??
StuipdStar 8:05 PM
Saly? Is evrytng alrght?
GamingHamster 8:05 PM
Isara? Should we actualy call the police?!
StuipdStar 8:05 PM
Slly?
sally
Saly HELLO?
I swer if u wernt mrudrd ima do it myslf
SmartyetSoStuipd 8:05 PM
Learn how’da type first…
_
“Come on, guys, 911 means 911!” Forgetting to wait for a response, Mao shoves his phone back into his pocket with more force than necessary.
Taking a shaky breath, he leans back on his bed, trying to calm down.
“Hey?”
Mao visibly jumps two feet in the air at the sudden voice. Still tense, he whirls around.
“Oh, it’s just you,” Mao exhales, relief washing over him.
Kurou stands in the doorway, looking as nervous as Mao feels. “Sorry, I just wanted to make sure you were okay…”
He steps cautiously into the room, like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal. Slowly, he lowers himself onto the couch across from where Mao is sitting on the floor.
“You don’t believe me, do you…” Mao mutters, crossing his arms.
“Honey, of course I do!”
For a split second, Mao starts to breathe a sigh of relief—until—
“I see your mum all the time.”
Never mind. Of course, he doesn’t understand.
“This isn’t like that!” Mao snaps, his voice rising despite himself. He really doesn’t mean to yell, but the frustration is impossible to swallow.
“Yeah, it’s different for all of us!”
“You’re not listening to me!” This time, he raises his voice on purpose. “I SAW something out there!”
Kurou raises his hands in a calming gesture. “Alright, okay, okay—I’m listening. Just you and me. Tell me what you saw.”
Mao narrows his eyes. “You sound just like Dr. Madara.”
“Well,” Kurou mumbles under his breath, “maybe seeing Dr. Madara isn’t such a bad idea…”
“DAD!” Mao snaps, more sharply than he intended, though it’s hard not to be annoyed when people think they know better. “Can we just drop it?”
Kurou hesitates, then nods. “Alright, dropped.” He stands to leave but pauses by the door. “We good?” He holds out his pinky.
All the anger Mao felt up until now seems to have vanished. With a sigh, he links his pinky with his dad’s. “Yeah, we’re good.”
Kurou gives him a small smile before slipping out and gently shutting the door behind him. Though the second he does Mao’s attention fully turns to his bedroom window, which faces the top of the loft. He slowly creeps into the hallway—hearing his sister watching some dumb TV show in the lounge he grabs the cross from the place on the wall where his mum placed it, and climbs down the stairs softly before going out the back door so his sister nor dad would hear him.
When Mao reaches the garage again he's met with nothing but eerie emptiness, no ghosts, no teenagers and no whatever Mao saw. Geez, he knows schizophrenia runs in the family but he thought he skipped that gene…
“Come on… I know I saw something. I can't be crazy, right?” Mao mutters to himself, his habit of speaking out loud usually earning him strange looks, but in this case, it doesn’t matter.
“Well… we’re all a little crazy,” comes the reply.
Mao spins around, and suddenly, he’s faced with four boys:
On the farthest left stands a boy with black hair, who seems to be the third tallest, though his posture is slouched, so he could very well be the second. His eyes glow a deep red, though he keeps blinking rapidly, almost as if he’s trying not to fall asleep. It’s hard to say for sure, but it’s enough to make him look almost... dreamlike.
Next to him, on the second left, is the one who just spoke. He’s the tallest of the four, with short, fluffy blonde hair that complements his confident stance. His posture is the most confident out of everyone, and his clothes are neatly put together—unlike the first boy, the brands are old, but clearly expensive. There’s a sharpness to him, despite that his facial expression makes him look super nice.
The one next to the blonde, either has a resting bitch face… or just really hates meeting new people… His hair glows a pretty silver His eyes are an ocean-like blue, quite the colour every other kid wanted growing up—and that always made the blue-eyed kid feel better about themself. His clothes are also quite well put together—though less of ‘im rich’ kinda way and more of an ‘im better than you' kinda way
And the last boy on the right, was the shortest of the lot but still a tiny bit taller than Mao himself, his hair was WAY past the type of red that would get you called a ranga—if he went to Mao’s high school he would get eaten alive… other than that he looks quite nice with his posture all tense and unsure, like he’s trying to come off friendly but can’t quite pull it off. His eyes are a striking purple, bright enough that they almost make the other purple-eyed kids look dull in comparison.
The second Mao is faced with the ‘dead’ teenagers yet again, he tries to calm himself down. He opens his mouth, ready to say something calm, maybe even reasonable.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Yeah, he didn’t manage to calm himself down very well.
“OH MY GOD!” The silver-haired one practically jumps out of his skin, startled by Mao’s outburst.
The black-haired and blonde boys, on the other hand, just seem impressed by how loud Mao can scream.
“...Please stop screaming,” the redhead mutters, quickly covering his ears.
Mao slams his mouth shut, more out of concern for bothering the neighbours than any sympathy for the redhead’s ears. He takes a shaky breath before snapping, “Who are you, and what are you doing in my mum’s studio?”
“Your mum’s studio? This is our studio!” The black-haired boy steps closer, only to be chased backward when Mao brandishes the cross he’s still clutching.
“I mean, the piano is new but… MY COUCH!” The black-haired boy leaps onto the couch, flopping down like he’s about to pass out. For a second, it looks like he actually does , but then he pushes himself up on his hands, frowning. “Guys, what happened to the couch?”
The four boys glance around, realization dawning on their faces. They huddle together in a small circle, whispering loudly enough for Mao to hear every word. It’s obvious they think they’re being sneaky.
“Guys… what is going on?” the silver-haired one whispers, his voice tense. “How did she get all her stuff in here so fast?!”
“Maybe…” the redhead boy starts cautiously, “he’s a witch. There’s chairs floating on the ceiling!” He points up at the decorative chairs hanging upside down from wires.
“Okay, there’s no such thing as ‘witches,’” the blonde retorts.
“You sure?” The black-haired boy raises an eyebrow. “Because I used to think there was no such thing as ghosts!”
“That’s fair,” the blonde concedes in defeat.
“So we’re going with ‘witch’?” the silver-haired boy asks, perking up.
“YES. Burn him!” The redhead groans, clearly fed up.
“No!? We’re not ‘going with witch,’ idiot!” The blonde mocks the other boys' tone, and then he shoots Mao an exasperated glance, as if apologizing for his friends. “He’s not a witch… he’s just scared.”
Mao, still clutching the cross in front of him like a shield, feels his confusion growing with every passing second.
“Let someone with a gentler touch handle this,” the blonde-haired boy announces, placing a hand dramatically on his chest as if declaring himself superior.
He steps forward confidently, before speaking in a tone so exaggeratedly slow and deliberate that it sounds like he’s trying to communicate with someone who doesn’t speak the same language. “Why… are… you… in… our… studio?” he asks bluntly, each word punctuated as if Mao were an idiot who didn't know what words mean.
Scratch that if Mao thought he was confused before, now he's communicating with aliens.
Shaking his head to regain his thought process, Mao instinctively shoves the cross forward, aiming to push the boy back.
But instead of resistance, the cross cleanly goes through the blonde-haired boy’s chest. Mao stumbles forward, his brain screeching to a halt as he processes what just happened. The boy doesn’t even flinch—he just stands there, looking mildly annoyed, as if a breeze had passed through him. Mao quickly steps back before releasing that only left him with a million more questions.
“Oh my god… How did you do that” Mao asks in such a tone that makes him think, maybe he is an idiot who doesn't understand what words mean.
“Alright, clearly you’re not understanding,” the silver-haired boy says, glancing back at the other three, who nod like they’re in on some big secret. “Clearly, he doesn’t get it, right?”
“Okay, look. We’re… ghosts. Just four dead dudes,” he says with that same patronizing tone, “who are super happy to be home! So, thank you for the flowers—they really brighten up the room!” Weirdly, he sounds completely genuine. Maybe this guy really does like flowers.
“We’re actually in a band!” the redhead pipes up, his voice excited.
“Yeah!” the silver-haired boy cuts in again, “ Knights! ”
The black-haired one jolts upright like he just woke up mid-conversation. “Tell your friends!”
“Yeah, I know…” Mao mumbles without thinking.
“What, you a fan or something?!” the redhead asks, his tone practically buzzing.
“No,” Mao replies bluntly, his tone so flat it might as well be an insult.
“Oh…” The redhead shuts up immediately, shoulders sinking like someone let all the air out of him.
“Then what do you mean, ‘you know’ ?” the silver-haired one asks, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.
Mao sighs, sliding his phone out of his pocket. “I Goog—” He cuts himself off with a nervous laugh. “Nope, nope. Stop talking to them, Mao. You just lost your mind. There’s no such thing as ghosts.” He shakes his head, laughing like he’s trying to convince himself.
“Who ya’ calling?” The blonde leans way too close, peeking over Mao’s shoulder like it’s his business.
“I’m showing you this…” Mao mutters, gripping his phone.
He hesitates, then decides against throwing it—because, honestly, he doesn’t trust ghosts who he phases through one, to catch the phone—and holds it up instead, aiming the screen toward the silver-haired one.
“It's 2020 just so you know…” Mao whispers under his breath
“Twenty f- No, Sena that's not real right?” The read-head looks up the silver who seems to be a slower reader than the rest.
“That can't be real”, the blackhead one starts, “After the ambulance ride all we did was go to that dark room where Sena cried…”
“HEY, I think we were all pretty upset..”
“But that was just for like an hour” The blonde looks over to Sena before looking back at Mao.
“Look, I'm just telling you what I know, you died in 1995, its 2020, do the math…” Mao starts harshly clearly over these guys' bullshit.
“So… This is the future?” the redhead asks, slightly lightening the mood.
Sena looks dumbfounded “So, it has been twenty-five years?! Sorry no, no, no… I HAVE BEEN CRYING FOR TWENTY-FIVE YEARS?” He gasps “How is that possible?” He looks up at Mao as if he has all the answers for him.
“Well, you're a very emotional-”
Suddenly the garage door is opened with a loud swing, “ILL KILL YO- uohh? Hah? Sally?” There stands the three boys who Mao has forgotten he texted. Though by all the baseball bats and crowbars they had it seemed like they stopped by Subaru garage first.
In sync, all four ghost boys turn around facing the three boys who now look dumbfounded at Mao.
“You mean… You mean to tell us, YOU HAD US WORRYING OUR ASSES OFF, AND YOU ARENT DEAD?” Subaru yells walking—more like stomping, over towards Mao. As expected when he reaches the four boys, he just phases through them.
Mao sighs... he's in for it now...