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“It’s like catching your parents having sex,” Ritsuka groans, head in his hands, while Hiiragi cackles unabashedly from across the table. Meanwhile Shizusumi remains as expressionless as ever, intent on polishing off his second—or was it third?—burger of the evening.
“Pft, don’t be such a drama queen! They’re not even that old, are they?”
“Uh, they were born in the twentieth century. That’s practically ancient,” says Ritsuka, giving Hiiragi a withering look. “Anyway, whatever. I just really didn’t need to know that Haruki-san could make noises like that.”
Naturally, Hiiragi declines to offer any sympathy. “Ohoho, is someone jealous? Don’t tell me—are things with you and Mafuyu not going well?”
Not for the first time Ritsuka has an overwhelming urge to beat the smirk off his temporary bandmate’s face, but a warning look from Shizusumi stays his hand. Instead, he redirects his energy into crushing his drink can flat—but this only has the net effect of spurring Hiiragi on.
“Well, I guess that’s the reaction one would expect from a virgin,” he goads, conveniently forgetting that up until last month he, too, was a virgin. Uenoyama doesn’t need to know that.
In fact, if anyone had asked him (which they hadn’t, of course), there were many things Uenoyama Ritsuka would have preferred not to have known. Chief among them being what the older members of his band got up to outside of practice.
It was one thing to acknowledge that Haruki-san and Kaji-san were dating, and presumably doing all the things that typically entailed. And he grudgingly supposes he’s happy for them, when he’s not fretting over the likelihood of them all breaking up—or even worse, disbanding. After all, it’s not like he’s really in a position to talk.
But Kaji-san’s reputation for promiscuity aside, it’s another thing entirely to be confronted with the evidence. His mind involuntarily flashes back to that unfortunate evening, when he’d been greeted in quick succession by their drummer, half-dressed, and their very obviously rumpled bassist, clearly about to start a different kind of rhythm practice. He’d charitably put that aside and had tried not to let his eyes drift to the bed behind them as they’d talked, but it was hard with the minuscule living quarters and lack of proper furniture—and the more he’d tried to ignore it, the more conscious of it he’d become.
God, they’d probably gone and done it in that bed right after he’d left. Hell, they’d probably already done it there several times already. Now that he thinks about it—not that he wants to, mind you—they’d probably been at it in Haruki’s apartment too.
He makes a mental note to give the couch a wide berth the next time he visits.
“Urgh,” he says unintelligibly, trying to put all thoughts of sex and his bandmates out of his mind. He lets his head drop to the table, not even flinching when it lands with a dull thud.
Blissfully unaware of his inner turmoil, Hiiragi crows.
The universe has it out for him, he decides several weeks later, half-wishing that whatever cosmic forces were at play would just show him mercy and swallow him whole.
As with all the embarrassing moments in his brief but eventful life that he’s ever tried to forget, the scene replays in his mind incessantly: Mafuyu’s husky voice in his ear; the weight and warmth of him as he’d straddled his lap; the buzz in his own veins as he lifted the hem of Mafuyu’s school shirt and his fingers had touched bare skin.
And although he’d thought he wanted this—had been waiting to rid himself of his virginity even before Mafuyu had entered his life—the soft-edged vagaries of his fantasies were no match for the real thing. It had all looked so easy, in the brief glimpses of videos and magazines he’d sneaked between classes. There was no painful clash of teeth, no awkward bumping of limbs, no worrying about where to put his hands—or the sudden sense of panic that he wasn’t prepared for what they were about to do.
The guys in the videos never stopped midway, either.
God, I’m so uncool.
His embarrassment was only compounded by how easily accepting Mafuyu had been; how he’d casually brushed it off and said they’d wait until he was ready. And his shame at being the barrier in their relationship—that this time he was the one holding things back—was only eclipsed by the display of his own relative inexperience.
It turns out that nothing is a faster turn-off than self-comparisons to your boyfriend’s dead ex.
He sighs in frustration and rolls over to stare aimlessly at the ceiling. Who can he even ask about this, anyway? Consulting Hiiragi is most definitely out of the question—not least because he doesn’t need to know about the sex lives of any more of his bandmates. And apart from them it’s not like he knows any guys who are seeing other guys—
Oh. Wait.
So much for not thinking of sex, Kaji-san and Haruki-san in the same sentence.
Seriously, he thinks, fuck the universe.
Haruki would be lying if he said Uenoyama Ritsuka was the last person he expected to turn up on his doorstep unannounced, given the boy’s recent history. But he’d thought the near-miss at Akihiko’s place had taught them all a lesson—no matter how many times Akihiko grumbled at his newfound insistence that the curtains were closed and the lights were off before they got down to business.
So when his doorbell rings and he’s confronted with a particularly sullen-looking Uenoyama, bashfully mumbling something about needing advice, he doesn’t hesitate to usher the boy in. It’s his duty after all, as the eldest band member, and he’s secretly touched that their notoriously headstrong guitarist trusts him enough to take him into his confidence.
“So, what did you want to talk about,” he asks, rummaging through his fridge for something non-alcoholic he can offer.
There’s a long silence before Uenoyama reluctantly grinds out, “…it’s about Mafuyu.” And that’s not really a surprise, either—there’s very little that frustrates their prodigy to the extent of his boyfriend, notwithstanding the leader of the band he’s currently playing support for.
“Mafuyu? I thought both of you were getting better at talking things through nowadays.” He holds up the results of his refrigerator scavenge. “Juice or tea?”
It’s probably for the best that Uenoyama only reveals the next part after they’re both seated at the dinner table, even despite the fact he’s currently choking on his beer. Any earlier and chances are he’d have lobbed the can at the boy’s head, or at least yelled him out of the apartment. He really doesn’t need any more noise complaints from the neighbours.
“What do you mean, how do you have se—” he splutters, instigating another coughing fit. “Wait, is this a joke? Did Akihiko put you up to this? Is this…”
One look at Uenoyama’s face, beet-red to his ears and refusing to meet his eyes, tells him all he needs to know.
“Kaji-san said to ask you,” Uenoyama mutters, looking equally mortified by their conversation, though at this point there’s little comfort to be found in their mutual distress.
Haruki’s going to murder his boyfriend, he really is. The indie press will have a field day, their band will go down in history for reasons other than their music, and he’ll wind up in prison playing bitch to some low-ranking member of the local yakuza clan. He rests his head in his hands.
“No. Absolutely not. No way am I giving sex tips to a minor—”
“Please, Haruki-san. I don’t know who else to ask.”
The quiet desperation in Uenoyama’s voice is impossible to ignore. Haruki involuntarily recalls his own adolescence: his initial panic at realising he wasn’t only interested in girls; the conflicting advice from online forums; and later, his few horrible, drunken attempts at experimentation in the bathrooms of shady university bars. While it’s far too late for regret, he would’ve preferred to have access to more reliable sources of information—or at the very least, not have to figure it out alone.
But surely he can’t be Uenoyama’s only option.
“Doesn’t Mafuyu have experience,” he asks, a little desperate.
His last-ditch attempt at evading the conversation is met with open frustration. “That’s part of the problem,” Uenoyama says miserably, scuffing his foot against the floorboards. “I don’t want it to be a disappointment, especially compared to… ngh.”
Suddenly it all falls into place—these are the same reservations that Haruki himself had harboured after the first few weeks of dating Akihiko, when the prospect of further intimacy was fast becoming a foregone conclusion. Though Akihiko’s ex was still very much alive—to say nothing of his countless other lovers—the spectre of him was no less foreboding, and admitting to his insecurities, let alone his inexperience, was a hurdle in itself.
So in a roundabout kind of way, of course it made sense that Akihiko had sent Uenoyama in his direction.
Being the right person for the task doesn’t make it any easier, however. But he supposes if he owes anyone a favour it’s Mafuyu, so he chugs down the rest of his beer and hopes there’s at least some good karma to be had for playing guidance counsellor in the relationship issues of teenage boys.
“Alright! Fine! Listen up,” he says, slamming his hands on the table for emphasis, “I’m only going to say things once, and then we are never going to speak of this again.”
Uenoyama silently nods his agreement, and Haruki sends a brief glance heavenwards for strength.
“I’m just gonna check—you know the basics of… how it works? Between men?”
Another nod.
Well, thank god for that.
“And you’re sure you both want this? There’s no need to rush if you don’t feel ready for—”
“Haruki-san!”
“Okay, okay,” he holds up his hands placatingly, “just making sure! Alright. I, um, guess that’s a good start.”
He clears his throat as he collects his thoughts, trying—for both of their sakes—to project an air of calm detachment.
“Well, first off,” he begins after a moment, “it’s not a competition. It’s different with every person, so stop worrying about how you compare.”
Uenoyama looks sceptical but doesn’t interrupt.
“It’s not an audition, either,” he continues, somewhat emboldened. “As in, how it goes shouldn’t make or break your relationship, okay? You don’t have to put that kind of pressure on yourself—it’s not a solo performance, so there’s no need to try so hard to be cool.”
There’s a certain futility in telling this to Uenoyama Ritsuka, he realises, given the boy’s uncompromising perfectionist streak—and outsized ego to match. That doesn’t change the fact it’s still sound advice; and so out of a misplaced sense of responsibility he tries for a better analogy, one that will make their resident prodigy stop and take note.
If there’s one thing the boy gets, it’s music.
“Think of it like… like a jam session,” he eventually decides. “You’re trying things out, figuring out what works and what doesn’t, and it might take a couple of goes until you get it.
“Remember how I said music is about communication? Well, this is no different. You can’t connect with someone if you’re afraid to be vulnerable—” Uenoyama twitches, “—so be prepared to share. Remember to listen. Be present. God forbid, you might even try to have fun.”
Uenoyama seems to be pondering this, which he takes as a good sign, and the sermon now over he lets out a long sigh. Has he covered the key points? Did he get the message across? Has he done the right thing?
All things considered he thinks it went as well as could be expected, but when he looks back up at Uenoyama there’s a dissatisfied scowl playing across the boy’s face. Ingrate.
“Uh… okay,” says Uenoyama at last. “But… you haven’t said anything about, like, how to make sure it’s—”
Oh no. No no no. Haruki’s spent, he’s done, and he’s not capping off the best advice he’s possibly ever offered with an in-depth discussion on positions and body parts.
He pulls back his chair with deliberate vigour, feeling vicious satisfaction when Uenoyama winces at the sound of it scraping against the cheap laminate. Ignoring his protests, he none-too-gently propels him in the direction of the front door.
“I just told you, communicate,” he grinds out. “For god’s sake… Look up ‘prostate’, take it slow, and don’t skimp on lube!” He shoves Uenoyama’s jacket at him and prepares to slam the door.
“Now go. Good luck, and I don’t want to hear anything more about it.”
Some weeks later, Haruki’s once again putting the finishing touches on dinner—for two this time, now that Akihiko’s finally out of the doghouse. He won’t lie: he’s missed the companionable banter and the privilege of having a sounding board, even if he stands by his decision, as much as it ended up punishing them both.
Speaking of sounding board…
“Hey,” he calls out over his shoulder, “can you recall if I’ve done anything for Mafuyu lately? Like, helped him with something? A favour?”
Akihiko looks equally as confused, enough to make him pause in his task of setting the table. “What do you mean? He didn’t specify?”
“You know him. Didn’t elaborate—just came up to me after practice to say thanks, as if I was somehow just meant to know.”
Haruki thinks back to the cryptic smile Mafuyu had given him in the studio corridor—quietly self-satisfied; smug, even—as if letting him in on some undisclosed secret, until Uenoyama had called him over and put an end to the unexpected camaraderie.
Both boys seemed to be having a good run lately, released from the strange tension that had been building up between them over the last few months. Even Uecchi was in high spirits, more relaxed than he’d ever seen him—
The penny drops.
“No way,” Haruki gasps in disbelief. “Oh no.” He sinks into a chair and puts his head in his hands, feeling his face burn at the horror scenario he’s had a hand in making.
Akihiko, to his credit, cottons on almost immediately. He lets out an impressed whistle, even as he pats Haruki on the back in an attempt at consolation.
“Looks like our Ue-sama is all grown up.”
“It’s like finding out your little brother’s having sex,” Haruki wails.
Akihiko throws his head back and laughs.