Chapter Text
[June 2012]
“Hey guys, you're on in 10 minutes.”
They shuffled out the dressing room door one by one, getting final checks from their glam team.
“Geto, the circles under your eyes are getting darker each day. Make sure to get some sleep when you can, okay?” It came from a place of concern. A simple observation of his appearance from a make-up artist, and a soft encouragement to rest. All well-meaning, surely.
But to Geto, it sounded completely hollow. Their team knew the truth: sleep was a luxury he didn't actually own anymore. His hours belonged entirely to the label. So why play along with the fake worry? Why even say it when everyone in this room knew that if his lungs gave out or his body collapsed, every single person on this payroll would be out of a job? She had to be aware of that. So why fucking bother at all?
“I said I don't want that on the list.”
Geto snapped out of his head, turning toward Gojo Satoru. A rare, hard frown cut across Gojo's face as he stared down their business manager, Mei.
“It's just a quick talking point, Gojo. You don't have to answer long either. He promised that—” Mei barely managed to finish her sentence before Gojo turned his back on her, walking straight toward Geto instead.
“Suguru, can you tell her? I don't want any family stuff.” Gojo pleaded with his eyes. It was an unfair move, really, because it left Geto with no choice but to drop everything and protect him.
“Mei, you know we're not comfortable with probing like that,” Geto said, plastering a practiced, easy smile onto his face. What he said was the truth, though. It wasn’t just an excuse to take Gojo's side. The band kept a protective wall around one another. With Gojo— whose powerful family actively despised his career choice— they made sure this part of his life was never dragged into interviews, no matter how much the press tried to claim it was harmless.
Usually, enforcing this boundary wasn't an issue. But the fact that Mei was pushing it today made Geto’s stomach twist. She had never been emotionally attached to them the way their road manager, Ijichi, was, but she usually knew better than to cross their lines. Not that the label let them keep many boundaries anyway. This was one of the very few pieces of privacy they had left to guard.
“Yeah, please respect our wishes, Mei! We don't want Gojo acting up in front of the camera, after all!” Haibara quickly cut in. It sounded like a playful jab at Gojo's expense, but it did exactly what it needed to do.
Mei seemed to calculate the risk for a silent minute before looking down at her phone. The backstage area suddenly felt smaller, the air thick and stifling with the smell of cheap hairspray and hot stage lights as Geto watched her thumb rapidly across the screen, then back to her interview sheet. She was updating something, or maybe waiting on permission from someone higher up regarding today's script.
Sure, the label had been tightening their leash on the band since they went multi-platinum, but never to the point where their own business manager couldn't even make an executive decision on her own. Hell, back when they started, Ijichi handled all of this by himself.
A hard, greasy lump of nausea formed right under Geto's ribs, forcing its way up to his throat. He checked his watch. Five minutes. He wanted to slide away for a quick bathroom break just to splash cold water on his face, but with Haibara launching into loud banter with Gojo— who had tightly latched himself onto Geto's arm— he wouldn't be able to shake the other man off for a single second of privacy.
“Need this?” Shoko caught his eye, lifting a brow as she held up her little purple Gasly stress ball.
Geto muttered a thanks, giving her a faint nod. She shrugged, shoving the rubber toy into his palm.
He began squeezing it in rhythm, his mind drifting back into the dark thoughts that had been creeping around him since the tour started in October 2011. In the middle of the chaotic backstage, he could feel a quiet disaster looming. He wasn't sure if the storm was coming from inside his own head or from the outside world. But what he was sure of was the corporate machinery that had seeped into the marrow of the band, taking over the gears and controlling everything, as if treating them like actual human beings was never part of the business plan.
Maybe they were never regarded as people to begin with. After all, they had happily signed their lives away as clueless teenagers without understanding a single clause or demanding a single right. Thinking back on it now, he couldn't even remember the specific promises they'd been fed. It must have been so fucking easy for them. Five kids just believing and following every word a suit said, all because he flashed a shiny business card. And we tell children not to follow a stranger with a lollipop into a van.
It was a slow rot. It settled into a relentless daily schedule and took over their entire system before they even realized they were bleeding out. But how could they have stopped to read the warning signs? How could they think when they were constantly being pushed down a dark alley, unable to see the dead end ahead?
And they did it all so quietly that by the time Geto wanted to scream, he'd already lost his voice. But what if fighting the infection meant ruining the people he cared about? If containing the damage inside himself was what kept everyone else safe, what other choice did he have?
“You okay?” Gojo gave him a gentle pat on the back, his hand lingering against Geto's shoulder for a heavy beat before finally pulling back to give him some breathing room.
“Yeah. Just nervous.”
They both knew it was a lie. Geto didn't get stage fright. There was a reason he was the frontman of [THE FRAME]. Aside from the raw vocals, his charisma could ignite the most stubborn, unresponsive crowd into a loyal fandom with just a single song. Saying that he could start a cult and get away with it wasn't much of an exaggeration.
Gojo shifted on his feet, looking at him with an uncharacteristic hesitation. He looked like he was trying to untangle a thought, filtering his words in a way he never normally did.
“Well?” Geto asked, glancing between Gojo and Nanami, who was currently confirming the final cue sheets with one of the show writers.
“Yes. Please make sure the questions don't go off-topic. We're only here to talk about the stadium tour,” Nanami’s sharp, professional voice drifted over.
“Of course! Though Takaba can be a bit unpredictable on air. But that's what the ratings want! So I can't completely promise–”
“Then we'll control the flow from our end. Thank you.” Nanami cut the writer off smoothly.
“Um, so…” Geto turned his attention back to Gojo. Gojo was a lot of things, but quiet and hesitant weren't on the list. Geto offered him an encouraging smile, but before Gojo could open his mouth, the stage manager’s headset crackled, and the cue lights flashed a blinding red.
“You can tell me later,” Geto said over the muffled roar of the studio audience as the curtains began to lift.
But that later didn't come. At least, not for a few years.
The stage lights dimmed, and Geto took his position front and center, slinging his rhythm guitar over his shoulder. He dialed the volume knob, letting out a brief chord that made the fans down front erupt. He conjured a small smile, thinking back to the days when they played bars for fifteen people. Back then, a single cheer could ignite his chest. Now, he could only think about the tabloids designed to pick them apart, the frantic scratch of a fan's fingernails against his arm during an autograph signing, the paparazzi waiting outside his front door.
Is this what we actually asked for? He remembered reading a headline about an actress being labeled "ungrateful" to the fans who made her. The consensus was that she should’ve known what came with the money.
Should we just accept it all with a smile? Behind him, Haibara laid out the digital intro of Thnks fr th Mmrs, his fingers steady on the synth keys, sending those dramatic, simulated orchestral strings washing over the studio.
Geto adjusted his guitar strap, the solid wood digging into his shoulder. Am I not thankful enough just because I’m tired? Nanami cut through the classical swell with a sharp, jagged lead guitar riff, stepping forward toward the edge of the stage to feed the cameras.
Then the rest of the band slammed in– Shoko’s fingers striking a thick, low-end bassline that throbbed right through the floorboards, locking instantly into the violent pocket of Gojo’s drums to ground the entire track.
I’m gonna make you bend and break (it sent you to me without wings)
Say a prayer, but let the good times roll
In case God doesn’t show
Instantly, their earpieces filled with the cold, relentless click track, snapping them into lockstep. Inside the rubber molds of Geto's monitors, the outside world vanished, replaced by the unsparing clarity of his own ragged breaths and Gojo’s backing vocals cutting through the mix. There wasn’t room to think during a performance. For a band that had been playing together since 2007, muscle memory took over entirely. They moved as a single machine, driven toward the same finish line.
One night and one more time
Thanks for the memories
Even though they weren’t so great
“He tastes like you only sweeter”
“[THE FRAME], everybody!”
The song snapped shut, and Takaba introduced the band the second they took their seats on the couch. Geto fixed his posture, shaking off the sudden drop of adrenaline as the host turned toward them, flashing a textbook late-night grin.
“Amazing. You guys have been killing it since the debut album. And you just keep climbing higher and higher!” The sharp, performative pitch of Takaba's voice kept Geto on edge. He hid a weary sigh behind a polite nod.
“Thank you. It’s been an incredible ride, and we’re just beyond grateful for how everyone supports the music. It’s truly a magical experience.” Gojo accepted the compliment in stride, adjusting his dark round shades to wink at the camera.
“Woah!” Takaba raised his hands as the studio audience screamed at the fanservice. “You, young man, are going to break a lot of hearts– or maybe you already are?” He followed it with a loud laugh that the band had to echo.
The playful banter continued. Takaba tried fishing for a viral clip, while Gojo navigated the trap questions with practiced ease. Haibara chimed in with a quick joke that had the front rows laughing. Geto tuned out for the most part, using Gojo’s physical cues to gauge when to smile or nod.
“So Geto, how’s married life treating you?”
There it is.
“It’s been great,” Geto said smoothly, the corporate script sliding off his tongue without a hitch. “Manami has always been incredibly supportive. She drops by on tour whenever her schedule allows it, which I really appreciate. It gives me that extra strength on the road, you know?”
The lump in his throat poked at him again– a warning that if his mask slipped for even a second, his actual reality would spill out on live television.
“Yeah, we love when Manami comes by,” Gojo added, leaning forward. “She always brings food for the whole crew, and we just huddle up in the dressing room and eat.”
A total lie. Manami only ever brought organic salads and raw vegetables. Gojo had a massive sweet tooth; he had never touched a single thing she brought.
“Oh, definitely. My favorite is that truffle salad she sources,” Shoko added, her calm, deadpan voice smoothing over the transition perfectly.
Geto was internally grateful for the assist; even if he’d never heard of a truffle salad in his life, it worked. Gojo wasn't going to expand on the lie, and Takaba’s sharp eyes were visibly looking for any fracture in the story.
“Oh god, that truffle salad,” Geto let out a chuckle, running a palm over his face. Sure enough, the audience took the reaction as a genuine inside joke. Another piece of a manufactured private life offered up for public consumption.
“Hey, you promised not to bring that up!” Haibara straightened in his seat, pointing an accusatory finger toward Geto. The crowd erupted into laughter again, charmed by the younger boy's reaction as Geto raised his hands in mock surrender.
“Alright, alright,” Geto muttered, gesturing for Takaba to save him.
“Okay, let’s not embarrass Haibara on national television!” Takaba laughed, checking his cards. “Well, there is actually something I’m incredibly curious about. With only two weeks left of the stadium tour, I heard a rumor that you’ve prepared a massive surprise for the fans who couldn’t get tickets to the live shows?”
Geto froze. What?
Gojo, their seasoned front for interviews, didn't miss a beat despite clearly being completely blindsided. “Of course! You didn’t think you’d heard the last of us this year, did you?”
Geto shifted his gaze toward the wings, where Mei was standing by the monitor board. She wore her usual, perpetually amused smirk– the one that mocked you for being the last to know your own life. It used to just be a facial feature, but right now, it felt like a bucket of ice water down Geto's spine. He could feel the sudden, static shift in the rest of the band members next to him.
“That's right, Gojo! Never let them know your next move,” Takaba hyped up the crowd, entirely ignoring the band now. “Do you guys want to know what it is?”
The studio monitors behind them suddenly flared to life.
“That’s right! THE FRAME: Live at The Rose Bowl DVD will be releasing worldwide this fall! Are you guys excited?”
The crowd went feral as the screen displayed a glossy DVD cover: a high-contrast photo of them on stage at the Rose Bowl. Geto didn't even recognize the show it was pulled from.
“Woohoo! Can’t wait!” Haibara cheered on cue, while Gojo clapped along without letting a single hint of confusion reach his eyes.
“Look forward to it,” Nanami said, giving a sharp, professional pair of finger guns directly to the camera zooming in on his face.
“So, are there any exclusive backstage clips in this one?” Takaba leaned in. Geto couldn't tell if the host was actively trying to trap them into a slip-up or if he genuinely had no idea the band hadn't been consulted on the release. Fucking brilliant.
“Well, you’ll just have to buy it to find out,” Gojo ended the segment, tossing a flirtatious kiss toward the lens that earned another wave of screams.
“That was great, guys!”
The cheers from the broadcast floor died the second the dressing room door clicked shut. The physical crash came fast– ears ringing, throat raw from the performance, and sweat drying cold against his skin under his heavy stage gear. Worse than that was the mental drain. The sheer effort of dodging ambush questions on camera while forcing themselves to look charming had left the entire band completely silent. Nobody could manage a word. Geto stared blankly at the floor, a cold thought settling in: Is this what the next few years of our lives look like?
Ijichi navigated through the chaos of guitar straps and discarded towels, holding a tray of drinks ordered exactly to their tastes .
“Thank you, Ijichi. Did you get one for yourself?” Geto asked, taking his iced americano and passing the remaining cups down the line to the others.
“Sure did.” The man smiled, shaking his own plastic cup in the air. “Now, for your next stop—”
“Ah, Ijichi. No need for that. I'll take over their itinerary for the rest of the day.”
Mei stepped into the room, her voice slicing through the casual post-show atmosphere.
“What do you mean, Mei?” Ijichi’s eyes darted around nervously. He began flipping through his digital calendar. Looks like the band wasn't the only ones kept in the dark anymore.
“Oh, nothing to worry about. They've just been personally invited to Naobito’s private party. So if you could, please push back the rest of today's bookings to later in the week.”
An uncomfortable, suffocating stiffness instantly filled the small dressing room.
Though they were completely starved for an actual break, Geto knew that an unannounced invitation to their CEO’s estate was never a good sign. Not when they were caught off guard like this. His hand sank back into his pocket, his fingers tightly finding Shoko's stress ball again.
“I don't think it'll be that easy, Mei…” Ijichi explained, his voice dropping into a stressed, nervous pitch. “They're supposed to head straight to their *GQ* cover photoshoot right now, before flying to Mexico tomorrow morning to continue the international leg of the tour. They don't have another free window for the shoot.”
“Of course they do. *GQ* can adjust,” Mei said, her tone dripping with a cold, dismissive ease. “They're [THE FRAME]. The magazine will rewrite their entire issue if they want these kids badly enough.”
Geto frowned. That wasn't how the industry worked, and Mei knew it.
“But they already curated the entire wardrobe and rented the location for this specific seasonal line,” Ijichi pressed, stepping forward. “The creative team doesn't have the flexibility either. If they don't go to the studio now, we lose the feature entirely—”
“Ijichi, this is your job,” Mei interrupted, her voice dropping into a sharp, icy finality that cut him off entirely. “I'm here to give you the directives, not the solutions. Just make it happen.”
The cold authority in her voice stung. Over the years on the road, the band had grown incredibly fond of their road manager. Watching him get treated like an incompetent, disposable assistant— when he was the only person capable of keeping their daily lives from fracturing completely— made Geto's jaw tighten, his knuckles turning white inside his pocket.
“I'll do my best.”
There was a quiet defeat in Ijichi’s voice. He kept his composure, only letting out a long, ragged breath after Mei finally stepped out of the room. When he turned back to the band, he offered what was supposed to be a reassuring expression. To Ijichi, they were probably still just kids, but the meteoric rise of their career had forced them to grow into adults much faster than their peers. They knew exactly how the corporate gears worked now. The bigger [THE FRAME] grew, the fewer people they could trust, and the more vultures in suits swarmed to rip away whatever pieces of them they could grab.
“We're going to be fine, Ijichi,” Geto said, giving him a firm nod. It was a perfectly calm facade, entirely detached from the acidic, anxious knot tightening in his own stomach. The rest of the members quickly followed his lead, throwing out their own words of reassurance to ease Ijichi's stress. But they all knew the reality. There was nothing they could actually do. They didn’t own a single second of their own time.
And within twenty minutes, they were packed into the back of a sleek company van on their way to the Zenin estate, dressed up like expensive trophies Naobito couldn't wait to parade around. The freezing blast of the AC hit Geto's skin the moment the doors shut. He leaned back and breathed it in deep, wishing the chilly air would just freeze his brain entirely. Physical numbness was always easier to manage than this kind of exhaustion.
“I want a Slurpee.”
“You do?” Gojo invaded his space before Geto could even turn his head, hovering inches away. “I want a Slurpee too! Can we get Slurpees?”
Haibara was quick to echo the drummer’s excitement, followed by Shoko muttering a request for a smoke break, and Nanami quietly mentioning he needed to refill his pack of mints. They all looked expectantly toward the passenger seat, where Mei sat like a wall.
“We don’t have time for detours,” she dismissed them easily, her eyes never leaving her screen. She was already tapping away, probably booking their next exploitation.
Geto heard a sharp huff beside him. Sure enough, Gojo was pouting as he pulled his sleep mask down over his eyes, mumbling something under his breath about never experiencing fun in her life and how he was definitely going to steal something from the old man. Geto knew he’d have to keep a tight leash on Gojo later, but to appease him right now—
“I’ll get you one after the party,” Geto whispered, leaning in close enough to ensure his voice didn't travel past the headrest to Mei.
A grin instantly formed on Gojo’s lips. He peeked one blue eye out from under the edge of his sleep mask, whispering back, “Can we go together?”
Looking at him, Geto found himself matching the smile despite the weight in his chest. “Of course. Together.”