Chapter Text
Keep it up, you started a war
“It’s finally happening, Nezuko,” Tanjirou groaned, slumping into his ergonomic chair. His eyes, dry and heavy, flickered sluggishly over the still-empty digital audio workstation.
Six hours. Six hours of staring at nothing, stewing in pure creative torture, with not a single bathroom break—not even a sip of water.
He leaned all the way back, the chair bending nearly to a 180-degree angle. “Tell our parents and siblings I love them. I’ll go jump off a cliff now. Preferably somewhere scenic, maybe you have some suggestions?”
Nezuko jabbed him on his side—his ticklish side—and suddenly Tanjirou’s ass was in the air. The chair snapped upright with a loud click, smacking the back of his head and delivering a perfect double whammy.
“What the hell was that?!” he hissed, his hands rubbing his sore waist and skull. Great. At this rate, he would probably lose his last two remaining brain cells.
His sister just rolled her eyes and let out a long, disgusted “ugh.”
“You’re so dramatic,” she said, exasperated. “This is, like, your fifth song in a month. Isn’t that, like, a lot?”
Tanjirou scrunched his face. “Can you not say ‘like’ every three seconds? God… what did I even pay your university for?”
Nezuko jabbed him again, making him yelp an octave higher. “Can you not, like, change the subject?”
“To think we’re only a year apart,” he grumbled. “And no, five isn’t a lot—not by my standards.” He slammed his elbows on the desk, rattling the keyboards. “Last month, I sent Uzui-san twelve songs. Fifteen, the month before that. This is… this is an all-time low, Nezuko!” He glared at the cursor. In the six hours he’d spent dehydrated on his ass, he’d only managed to name and save his current project as New_New Music_01.Draft. “I—I’m having writer’s block. Me!”
Ever the annoying middle child, Nezuko barely paid attention to his personal crisis, too busy swiping through TikToks and bopping to trending sounds. “Just do, like, a remix or something.”
He whined in varying pitches, the most sound he’d made all day. “The studio’s expecting originals, Nezuko! If I do a remix, I might as well admit I’ve got nothing left in me!”
Nezuko swiped on, indifferent to the agonies of a struggling creative. “Then, like, collaborate with someone.” She paused at a video, her expression shifting from ‘I don’t really give a fuck’ to ‘Oh my god, fuck me!’ as she turned her phone toward him, a familiar tune playing from the speakers. “Nii-chan, am I, like, a genius or what?! You should totally work with him!”
He watched, eyes glued to the screen, as a thirst-trap edit of Crimson Tide’s masked lead vocalist, Hollow, looped in fifteen-second intervals. The guy basically just stood there, singing with his guitar, yet fans somehow captured every nuance of his performance: the slow curl of his fingers over the mic stand, the subtle arch of his spine as he leaned into a chord, the tremor in his fingers during a vibrato…
It was the bare minimum any artist could give on stage, but Hollow had never claimed to be the second coming of Prince. And honestly, fans didn’t care.
Because the man was a musical genius with the sexiest voice on this side of the galaxy.
Every morsel he gave was rabidly devoured by fans, Tanjirou included, because—surprise, surprise—Hollow was a full-blown enigma, a figure more cryptic than the Zodiac Killer, more mysterious than alien pyramids. A recluse who had never granted an interview, had never posted a single YouTube or SoundCloud cover.
Had never shown his face or revealed his name.
He had zero digital footprint. Impossibly impressive in this day and age.
Hollow had turned anonymity into an art form, and the more enigmatic he remained, the more obsessed and protective his fans became—Tanjirou included once again. His fans were infamously feral, quick to defend their idol whenever tabloids or invasive assholes tried to uncover even a scrap of his secrets: the color of his hair, the shade of his eyes, hell, even the shape of his ears had sparked debates, with arguments over whether he was as pierced as his bandmates.
They would go to the most absurd lengths just to glimpse pieces of what Hollow refused to give.
Like scaling the band’s hotel balcony from the outside. On the 20th floor.
Tanjirou, admittedly, wasn’t much better. He had exploited—borderline harassed—every single contact he had in the music industry, both local and international, for a chance to meet the elusive artist and offer his services as a writer and producer. But the responses had always been the same.
No.
At first, the rejection bruised his pride. And while he hated to boast, his name should have at least gotten him a Zoom meeting with the band. He was Kamado Tanjirou: Billboard’s favorite boy wonder, pop song extraordinaire, the mind behind multiple number-one hits, the guy Taylor Swift randomly followed on Instagram one autumn day.
Sure, his style wasn’t what Crimson Tide usually went for. But if there was one thing artists loved about Tanjirou, it was his tireless dedication to unearthing their sound. He would stop at nothing, going above and beyond, until the artist was in the studio, recording a song crafted entirely for them.
In sheer desperation, Tanjirou had even offered to write for Crimson Tide for free. But the band’s manager—known only as II (yes, like the Roman numerals)—sent him one final, scathing message:
Stop asking. He doesn’t want you.
For some cosmic reason, Tanjirou instinctively knew the ‘he’ was Hollow, and it made him… well, hollow.
That was a year ago, and he had yet to muster the courage to reach out again, no matter how much he wanted to. However, if he were being honest, the rejection wasn’t entirely unfair.
Tanjirou could never write a damn good love song, no matter the genre. Hollow, on the other hand, was the world’s biggest yearner.
The man could wax poetic about how his love had been sucked out of him by a vacuum cleaner, and somehow it would come out as the most heartbreakingly tender track ever to exist.
Because that was Hollow’s thing: one subject, one obsession, continuously and faithfully, for the past six years since his debut—his ex.
That damn ex.
The internet had built a lore around it, piecing together Hollow’s history one lyric at a time, until everyone agreed faster than politicians could ratify a law: his ex was Most Wanted. One would think the person had committed genocide, given the level of hate they received online. A new song dropped? Bam. #HollowOutTheEx would trend worldwide, sparking a witch hunt for the poor soul who had their favorite singer pining, aching, and yearning even years later.
To Tanjirou, that was his limit. He could hate the tabloids, the obsessive fans, the attention-seeking antis. But he could never hate the person who had broken Hollow’s heart.
It was… relatable. Too relatable. There were a few songs he couldn’t even listen to all the way through without feeling the sting of memory, reminding him too much of how things had been with Gi—
Tanjirou slapped himself across the cheek, sharp enough to make Nezuko flinch.
“Dude,” she drawled, “the fuck?”
Shaking his head and pinching his cheek, Tanjirou pushed her phone away. “There was a mosquito.”
“Huh.” Nezuko leaned back on the low sofa, her pink eyes suddenly attentive. “So, like, you’ll do it?”
Tanjirou dragged a hand across his face. “If only I could. It would be the pinnacle of my career to hear Hollow sing one of my songs.”
Nezuko’s face contorted in disgust. “Please don’t have him sing ‘Espresso.’”
He stared at her as if she’d sprouted a third boob. “Do you honestly think I would write their downfall?” He swiveled in his chair, eyes pinned to the ceiling like it held all the answers. “If only I could write a decent song for that godawful ex…”
“Well,” Nezuko stretched the word like a challenge, clearly scheming to give him a headache. “You do have that one unreleased song for like, forever.” Her eyes flicked up cautiously. “The one you created with… you know…”
Ah.
Yeah.
That.
“It’s honestly, like, the kind of song he would sing,” Nezuko pressed. “It’s just so Hollow-coded, y’know?”
Gave you away to the wind
I hope it was worth it in the end
Shaggy black hair tied in a messy low ponytail. Long, slender fingers strumming a guitar.
Breathtaking blue eyes, an ocean gathering at the edge, on the verge of spilling.
I gave it all to see you shine again
“Nope.”
Nope. Nah. Nada. No. Just no.
Tanjirou shot to his feet, chair clattering back, nearly toppling his ridiculously expensive Apple Studio Display. He stretched his stiff limbs, popping joints for a distraction. “I can create something new, something better.”
Nezuko pursed her lips. “I love you, bro, but, like, that was your best work yet.”
Appalled didn’t even begin to cover it. “‘Blinding Lights’ was the most-streamed song of 2020, you bitch.”
“Eh, it was mid.”
He lunged at her, tackling her onto the couch and yanking at her ribbons. Nezuko retaliated with a bare foot kick to his chest. They wrestled just like when they were kids, so childish that he didn’t notice the tightening in his chest until she left to shoot content for her influencer work.
When was the last time he had fun?
When did songwriting, his only passion in life, become such a chore?
He didn’t linger to unpack that last question.
He couldn’t be reminded of blue eyes again.
“Tanjirou, I think it’s time you go to a songwriting camp.”
The redhead raised his head so dizzyingly fast that the room spun around him. Was he about to faint?
“Uzui-san, please, anything but that!” He might as well have tattooed the words burned out across his forehead. It wasn’t that he opposed the idea of a songwriting camp—far from it. Tanjirou thought it was brilliant for creatives to gather in one place and collaborate. But…
It’s the place where writers go when they have nothing left to give alone.
And the moment he relied on others, he was afraid he might never write independently again.
“You think I can’t do this without you? I can, and I will!”
Second day in a row? Really? It’s been years. Why was he suddenly thinking so much about him?
Uzui Tengen, CEO and President of Hashira Music Publishing, reclined in his seat, golden studs, golden rings, golden everything gleamed under the sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows that perfectly framed Tokyo Tower. It was all too flashy for nine in the morning.
“I get that you like working alone, and believe me, you’ve done amazing work by yourself,” Uzui said. But…
“But.” There it was. “I can see you’re struggling to deliver your personal quota for the month.” Uzui rolled his eyes. Why did people keep doing this to him lately? “It’s perfectly normal to get into a slump. I’m surprised it even took you this long.”
Which was why it was all the more frustrating. Tanjirou made it this far without writer’s block. He had been writing songs straight out of uni, seven days a week, for the past six years. Weekdays in, weekends out. Why would he—
Yeah. Okay. He was tired as hell.
“Glad you seem to realize I’m making sense, you stubborn kid,” Uzui snorted. “And because I’m the best boss ever, I’ve already booked your tickets for Santorini next week.”
“You WHAT?!” Tanjirou slammed his hands on the table—Uzui’s pristine glass table. Horrifyingly, he thought he heard a faint crack somewhere. Muttering apologies, he sank back into his chair, hands carding through his short burgundy hair. He wanted to rip it out at the roots.
“Uzui-san, you can’t just force me out of the country on such short notice! I have deadlines, clients to meet, artists to suck up to at one too many housewarming parties,” he groaned. “Do you realize it’s awards season in a few months? I can’t just slack off! We need singers in booths now if we want to—”
Uzui, a man pushing forty and nicknamed The Hulk for his bulging frame, stuffed his fingers in his ears, ignoring Tanjirou like a child refusing vegetables.
“I can’t hear anything, blah, blah, blah, Santorini, camp, flight next week, blah, blah.”
It was too late to regret working for Hashira, but god, did he hate it when his own boss acted like a brat. That should be Tanjirou’s job.
“Are you seriously going to act like this until I give in to this plan of yours?” Tanjirou hissed.
Uzui creaked one eye open. Seeing the deep scowl on Tanjirou, he began chanting the mantra of his long-time wellness coach. “Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu…”
“Oh my god!” Tanjirou threw his hands into the air. Pushing off his seat, he paced before Uzui’s windows, running through the pros and cons of going to the camp.
Pros: he gets his groove back, churns out a whole new roster of songs that every artist would beg for, and—why not?—wins a Grammy by next year.
Cons: he remains trapped in a creative limbo, writes absolutely nothing, misses his chance at bagging a trophy again, and ends up releasing a remix album.
Worse, a remix of a remix. Like an ultra-slow mix of a track already slowed to death from its original BPM.
Goddamn it.
“Fine. I’ll do it,” Tanjirou finally caved in through gritted teeth, the cons far too terrifying for his overachieving, type-A personality to risk.
Uzui blinked slowly, turning to face him. A sinister smile spread across his face.
Uh oh… hold on, what was that—
“Perfect! I’ll email you our flight itinerary.”
Tanjirou’s brain short-circuited.
“What do you mean by ‘our’?”
I was hopin' you could come through
Tanjirou left the office with deeper eye bags than the ones he’d arrived with.
Not only had Uzui neglected to mention that he would be accompanying Tanjirou, but every other tenured writer at the company was coming too. For two weeks, he, his colleagues, and their flamboyant boss would be trapped together in a luxury villa in Santorini, Greece—fueled by booze, ego, weed, and even more booze.
Leave it to Uzui to turn a business trip into a frat party.
He paused beside his car, hand already on the handle, when his bamboozled mind pleaded for relief in the form of a lager. No—two lagers. Definitely two.
A Kirin wouldn’t kill him tonight. Overthinking about the camp? That might.
With a heavy sigh, he dropped his messenger bag onto the passenger seat of his Lexus, taking only his wallet and phone as he dragged his feet toward the nearest izakaya. Lo and behold, it was closed at six in the evening on a Friday night. Just why?
Head falling back in a deep, exasperated sigh, he noticed an electric blue neon sign flicker to life on the second floor. The words ‘open’ and ‘bar’ were enough for his brain to nudge him forward, and he climbed the narrow staircase beside the building.
Rubbing his eyes, the interior didn’t fully register until his sight adjusted—and when it did, his jaw dropped.
Did he just enter a different dimension?
The bar was all brick and iron, pipes left deliberately bare to mimic the look of an old warehouse. Every piece of furniture and decoration was a mix of wood, leather, and metal, carefully arranged to look cohesive in what could have been a chaotic combination of textures. At the far end sat a small stage, its equipment limited to a set of mic stands, amps, and a couple of speakers.
Yet it was the transparent ceiling above that captured his awe, the night sky visible and open for viewing. The glass roof spanned the entire bar, crisscrossed with exposed wooden beams hugged by pothos and ivy. The plants cascaded from above, adding a lush, cozy feel to what should otherwise have been a dreary, steel box.
Immersed in the space, all he could think was: one, holy shit; and two, this place was amazing.
“Welcome!”
Tanjirou pivoted toward the voice. Behind the bar stood a stunning woman with green-and-pink hair, hands busy wiping down glasses. He walked toward her slowly, still stealing glances at the ceiling above, mesmerized.
“That reaction never gets old,” the woman chuckled. “First time here, I take it?”
“What is here?” Tanjirou asked, a bit stupidly.
“Aren’t you just a cutie?” She set down the cocktail glasses she’d been cleaning, one perfectly manicured hand resting on her cocked hip. “This is Wisteria & Iron. My fiancé and I opened it just a few weeks ago!”
“Wow,” Tanjirou said, simply dumbfounded to have found this oasis in the middle of a space-starved city like Tokyo. She and her fiancé must be balls-to-the-wall stacked. “You have a beautiful place here, Miss…?”
“Oh, stop that! Call me Mitsuri!” She wiped a hand on her waist apron before extending it with a bright smile. “It’s nice to meet you…?”
Tanjirou took her hand, shaking it with a grin. “Tanjirou. Pleasure’s all mine!”
Mitsuri studied him, head tilted to the side. “That’s an uncommon name.” Then, as if she had seen proof of the paranormal, her eyes went wide, nearly bugging out of their sockets. She leaned over the bartop to get a closer look. “Are you… by any chance… the Kamado Tanjirou?”
He scratched the back of his neck, awkwardly. “Uhm… I’m not sure why you’re asking it like that, but—yes. That’s my full name!”
As a songwriter, Tanjirou understood that the spotlight would never shine as brightly on him. He didn’t mind anymore—he was content to work in the background, collect his royalties, and craft the next potential hit.
But there was a time when he dreamed bigger, when he took chances to sing his songs in front of an audience, to bring it to life just how he intended it to be. It didn’t matter if it was just a room full of people or a small group of three. He just wanted one shot—his three minutes on stage.
It never came. Yet it didn’t hurt as much as he feared it would.
Because someone did listen. For three years instead of just three minutes.
“You’re my favorite sound, Tanjirou.”
That’s it. Tequila was going down his throat tonight.
Mitsuri still stared at him as if a unicorn had just strolled by. Tanjirou waved his hands in front of her. “Mitsuri-san, uh… is it okay if I order?” He glanced around—the bar was empty of customers except for him. “Do you have an event today? Should I leave?”
“No!”
Tanjirou flinched at her panicked shriek. Okay? That was absolutely not normal.
“A-alright, I’ll stay!” Tanjirou stammered nervously.
That finally snapped the bar owner back to her bubbly demeanor. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to scare you!” Mitsuri slid a laminated menu across the countertop. “I’ve just heard so much about you from a friend, and seeing you in person is just… It’s like I’m seeing Beyoncé!”
He choked mid-inhale, coughing loudly into his hand, sounding absolutely awful. Mitsuri quickly brought him a glass of water, which he downed in seconds.
“With all due respect, that’s blasphemy,” Tanjirou chuckled wetly, still wheezing slightly.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Mitsuri said, propping an elbow on the countertop, chin resting on her hand, a soft smile on her glossy pink lips. “My friend worships you. To him, you might as well be God. He’d think I was the one being disrespectful just for comparing you to Beyoncé.”
Well, wasn’t that scary? Why would anyone be that obsessed with a songwriter of all people? That’s like insisting on eating only the buns of a burger rather than the actual good stuff in the middle.
“Your friend is weird,” Tanjirou said, perching on the barstool with the menu in hand, “but tell him thank you. It’s nice to be seen for a change.”
Mitsuri hummed, the twinkle in her eyes shining brighter than the stars above. “Tell him yourself. I’ll point him your way when he comes tonight.”
For the second time that night, he felt like he was choking on air. “Wait a minute,” he leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “he’s not… a stalker or anything, right?”
The bar owner giggled, a lilting sound that was both endearing and a little dangerous.
“Oh, honey,” Mitsuri cooed, “he’s got it much worse.”
After two shots and a Kirin lager as a chaser, Tanjirou was finally buzzed enough to relax in his seat and not stare at the entrance every five seconds, waiting for Mitsuri’s friend to show up. After some convincing, he finally believed her when she told him that he was just an avid follower of Tanjirou’s—one who’d been around since his early songwriting days.
It was touching. Tooth-rottingly sweet, even. No one ever cared about who made a song—only the one who sang it. Tanjirou already owed the guy a drink just for even having the idea to look into songwriting credits in the first place.
An hour after opening, the bar began to swell with people. It wasn’t crowded enough to be suffocating, but every so often, a shoulder would bump into his back, an arm would brush against his, and a dozen “Sorry!”s could be heard as people scrambled to find a spot near the stage, where the performance of the night was about to start.
Tanjirou stayed at the bar, finding Mitsuri’s endless chatter a surprisingly perfect match for his own. Even as the number of customers thickened and orders piled up, she kept Tanjirou company with lively conversation and a suspicious number of free drinks.
He only began to question her motives by the third refill of his tequila shot.
“Mitsuri-san,” he slurred, each syllable coming out slow and positively tipsy. “Are you trying to get me drunk?” he brought the shot to eye level, squinting at the amber liquid like it might confess. “Because if this is some elaborate M.O. to lure me into a dark van and sell me to a human trafficking ring, you should really tell me now.”
Mitsuri doubled over, clutching her stomach as a hacking laugh tore out of her. “How did you even get there?” She held out her braids, like two smiling emojis on each side of her head. “Do I look like a pimp to you?”
“That’s what pimps always say first.” Tanjirou lifted his brows, hauling his drooping eyelids upward. “Whatever. At least let me black out before you and your friend officially kidnap me.”
“Ah, I bet he’d love that, having you all to himself.” Mitsuri’s grin was downright terrifying.
Tanjirou threw his head back and chugged his shot, placing far too much trust in a stranger he’d just met that night.
“Okay, that’s enough, I still have to drive and—”
“Tanjirou, is that you?”
Both he and Mitsuri whipped their heads to the right. The moment Tanjirou’s alcohol-addled brain registered who it was, Tanjirou sobered up instantly.
“Geto?” He straightened in his seat. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Tanjirou muttered hesitantly. From the corner of his eye, he caught Mitsuri’s worried glance.
Geto scoffed, a dismissive sound since Tanjirou now knew better. “Well, it wouldn’t be if you bothered to answer any of my calls or messages.” The bassist forced his way closer to Tanjirou’s seat, shouldering someone rather forcefully without a second thought.
“Hey! Don’t be rude.” Tanjirou apologized to the person shoved aside on Geto’s behalf, an old reflex he’d picked up from his year-long relationship with him. “And I don’t have to answer to anything. We’re broken up.”
“And you call me rude.” Geto sidled up to him, that obnoxious cologne irritating his sensitive nose, his leg pressing far too close for comfort. “Isn’t this a sign, though? Us meeting after some time makes you wanna think it’s fate.”
Ew. Him and his cheesy pick-up lines may have worked on him once, but never again.
But from what he knew of Geto, this guy was a persistent son of a bitch, and it seemed he hadn’t changed since they last saw each other. A ‘no’ was never a no as long as he had a say about it.
Not tonight, though. Tanjirou's self-worth wasn’t going to take a beating this time around.
So he did what he’d learned from Geto—he lied.
“Sorry, but no.” He took some satisfaction in how Geto’s face fell at the word he hated the most. “I came here to meet someone else.” Tanjirou glanced behind his ex’s shoulder, spotting a pretty brunette glaring daggers at him. “Your side chick’s waiting for you, by the way. Nice to see you’re still experimenting with being straight.”
Beside Tanjirou, Mitsuri was a second too late to cover her mouth, stifling a laugh.
Geto, on the other hand, was right on time in defending his bruised ego in the only way he seemed to know how.
“Still keeping tabs on me?” Geto smirked, though the crazed edge in his eyes gave him away. “And here I thought you’d moved on.”
“I did just say I was meeting someone.” Tanjirou tapped his glass, a silent request for some liquid courage to get him through this conversation. “Not your brightest thought, was it?”
For all his prodigious skill with percussion and rhythm, Geto was hopelessly incompetent in every other area that mattered to human decency. The man loomed over Tanjirou, hand planted on the back of his barstool, caging him in. The scent of vodka, gin, and everything else that he would puke in the next hour lingered heavily on his breath.
He wished Nezuko were here to read this guy to filth.
“The difference between you and me, Tanjirou, is you’re a very bad liar,” Geto murmured. “You have no one waiting for you tonight.” A hand grazed his lower back, at the slice of skin peeking beneath his cropped top. “Don’t be pathetic.”
It wasn’t the first time he had heard Geto say that to him. In any other instance, he might’ve just shrugged it off. To hear them now—spoken in front of Mitsuri, in front of everyone else—was a raw reminder of how little Geto truly respected him, despite all the ‘I love yous’ they had shared.
When he heard the familiar bell of the main entrance, Tanjirou’s gears shifted into full fight mode.
“I do love disappointing you, Geto. My date’s finally here.” Tanjirou spun his seat to the other side, hopping down from the stool to saunter toward the person—a man, a very tall man—who had just stepped into the bar.
“Hey, you,” Tanjirou purred, praying his lame attempt at flirting wouldn’t be taken as harassment. “What took you so long?”
When the man raised his head, his dozen ear piercings glinting under the warm Edison bulbs, Tanjirou should’ve known that with his rotten luck that day, nothing, absolutely nothing, would go right for him ever again.
Because out of every possible person who could walk through that door at that precise moment, why did it have to be another ex?
The ex.
His first love. His mentor. His muse.
The man who haunted his heart so fucking badly, he dated someone like Geto just because he looked like him.
Tomioka Giyuu.
Tanjirou gulped.
If this was really fate, it could go suck a dick.