"So, what exactly did you want to talk to me about?"

Crap, Mahiru thought. He never actually saw a specific question brew up in his mind, nor could he figure out the reason behind his reckless actions of playing parkour to get over the railings which separated him from Sloth's tent. He impulsively leapt past the barrier, unnoticed by his friends or anyone else in the crowd, too busy doing things which Mahiru had come to classify as, 'band-nerd-things'. His naming sense probably wasn't the best out there, but straightforwardness was the best take on anything and everything. So that's what he did.

"Uh, well," he knocked himself back to Earth, finding himself walking alongside the pale vocalist, the latter's slouched but slender stature strangely reminiscent of a cat. Nothing like the dynamic performer he had proven himself to be. "You were really good!" he said a little too loudly, drawing a few heads to turn to his general direction. He didn't really mind. Atleast it wasn't because he was taking to a doll.

Red irises sitting atop prominent eye bags left the floor to focus on him, a confused expression, then they went back to the tiled ground. Kuro simply sighed in exasperation— or shortness of breath, added Mahiru, as he seemed about ready to collapse into a bed— and pulled his right hand from its respective pocket on his jeans, absentmindedly pulling the neckline of his oversized sweatshirt over his nose. The brunette noticed, in the short interval, a change in Kuro's expression, although he couldn't quite place it correctly in his mind, and he seemed to sink lower into his clothes.

"You're embarrassed," Mahiru bit a smile back, feeling mysteriously and quite comfortably triumphant. Talking to new people was kind of an easy task for him, in all honesty, and he didn't really pay any heed to the difference in status or wealth, which unmistakably had gotten him in trouble a few times with his teachers. It wasn't as if he was a delinquent spouting foul language; he just, more often than not, failed to put a filter over his words. Honesty, if phrased to extract difficulty from the context. If things went down, he could just apologize or leave, rather than stow himself away from human communication and interaction, never to confirm anything ever again.

Sloth's vocalist expelled a long draught of breath, muttering something along the lines of 'jesus christ' in the middle of it, before dropping his hold on his sweatshirt, neck twisting to the left to face the brunette as directly as the connection of his spine and his skull allowed him.
"You sure are a reticent kind."
Mahiru looked confused.
"I was being sarcastic."

The shorter male didn't even know what 'reticent' meant, but he decided to let it slip off his mind as he sharply exhaled through his nose, a short puff of air, and as Kuro thrust his hand back into his pocket, Mahiru found himself mirroring the action but with both hands and into his jacket pockets. The vocalist looked down again.

"So? What is it? Not to be self-aggrandizing, but do you want an autograph or something?"

"Just use 'narcissistic' or something. Who uses 'self-aggrandizing' outside of a book? Besides, songs don't usually contain those kinds of words— I mean, I don't know, I guess? I don't really listen to music."

"You are garrulous." Kuro replied, seeming to enjoy aggravating a strange teenager from the audience who ran straight to the interior of the venue where event marshalls were visible, with their large, rectangular nametags hanging over their necks. Now he guessed he knew how the absent Hyde felt when he blasted out curses in German. He didn't usually bother to waste energy on blabbering, but this was a pretty amusing game— not that he meant to use the term in a way that made him seem like an asshole of sorts. The brunette stared at him, his eyes narrowed, maybe trying to think of a suitable response. He gave up moments later, his shoulders slumping and his eyes darting the other way.

As the grocery section came into view, Mahiru heard himself speak, breaking the silence that had become stale.
"No," he said. "It's not an autograph I want. I don't really know what came over me when I jumped over the railing. I just, you know, acted on impulse?"
"Mhm."
"So, yeah, I'm really happy to have met and spoken to you? Yeah. And I'm not really a fan of music— not to mention live bands— ah, no offense— but I felt... drawn to your performance when you started singing."

Kuro stopped abruptly, the faint sounds of the live show now drowned out by the speakers in the grocery blasting songs from another staff member's playlist. His eyes scanned the area from the outside, his neck craned to allow him to peek over the people lining up at the cashier, his figure now arching backwards rather than in a concave form, and Mahiru saw he was actually fairly tall. He kept speaking.

"So, I don't know. I just probably wanted to speak to you like this? And not to be rude or anything, but do you always have three-sixty-degree personality turns when you perform?"

Kuro held him under a scrutinizing gaze for what felt like a minute, before sliding his phone out of his back pocket, his sweatshirt riding up ever-so-briefly along with the action, exposing a small portion of his side. This wasn't in any way relevant, but Mahiru noted for the eighth time that day how very pale he was. Instincts kicking in, he unconsciously inquired about his health, inclusive of his sleeping habits and diet. This elicted an odd stare from Kuro, his tired eyes seeming suddenly very much like a child's, and very tranquil, as if he was looking at a distant yesterday rather than a physical manifestation of someone.

His typing paused only for a short moment, before his thumbs moved over the screen rapidly, having his phone sleep after hitting send.

"Haven't been admitted to the hospital in forever, so my health is perfectly fine," he seemed to be searching for a name, then, realizing it hadn't been given out yet, raised an eyebrow at Mahiru curiously. The latter understood, to which he held out a hand and introduced himself.

"Shirota Mahiru. I'm 16. Simplicity is my policy. Nice to meet you!" he grinned, one that could only be considered fitting on the faces of those who are not weighed down by the burden of self-protectiveness and hard-earned skills of restraint. Albeit a wee hesitant, Kuro shook his outstretched hand with a questioning expression etched across his features. As if realizing he had just disappeared from the live show crowd, Mahiru stiffened, then looked behind his shoulder, towards the direction of the venue.

"Damn, I totally forgot about Ryuusei and the rest—" his head turned back to the vocalist, and he slipped his palm away from Kuro's fingers. "Um, really nice meeting you! Definitely going to attend your next shows. Thanks!" he pivoted his foot, but before he could break into a sprint, he heard that same soothing voice which had caused him to forget himself in song, call out from behind him in a slightly louder volume than he had been using throughout the course of their conversation.

"Sleepy ash," he said. "Social media."

Mahiru twisted his body slightly to nod, before proceeding to catch more attention from the other shoppers.

A little later, the crimson-eyed vocalist felt an arm around his shoulder.
"Bro, did you just hit on th—" his sentence went unfinished as Kuro shoved the wallet with surprising strength right into their rhythm guitarist's open mouth, which earned a muffled, choked protest from him.

Giving contact information to strangers, Kuro thought as he ducked under his bandmate's arm, hasn't happened in forever. Austerely incorrect move.

i have successfully written another chapter. HA. also, no, it's just friendship™ at this point. don't listen to mob characters. and please read "the setlist" chapter because there's a few important stuff there (like my attempt at a dramatic opening), including the details of the STRIKE organization thing. hope you enjoyed this week's chapter~