Chapter Text
Satoru.
September 12, 2021.
There is a certain kind of silence that only exists at three in the morning.
Not the quiet of sleep. Not the quiet of peace. But the quiet of thinking too much.
Satoru sits alone at his desk, blue light from his laptop reflecting faintly against the lenses of his glasses. His room is almost painfully neat — stacked papers aligned at perfect angles, notebooks color-coded, pens arranged by ink density rather than shade.
A song plays through his headphones for the 32nd time tonight. He rewinds it once more.
The opening guitar riff is slightly off-beat. Intentionally so. It drags by a fraction of a second, creating tension before drums enter. Most listeners wouldn’t notice. They’d call it “raw” or “emotional.”
Satoru calls it asymmetry. Painful asymmetry to his completely organized mind. His fingers move quickly across the keyboard.
“The irregular delay in the introductory measure creates anticipatory instability, mirroring unresolved harmonic progression.”
He pauses. Then replays it once more. There — at exactly 1:42 the vocalist inhales before the chorus. Too sharp to be accidental, yet too human to be polished out in production.
His cursor blinks.
“Subject demonstrates a consistent pattern of controlled imperfection, suggesting emotional intentionality rather than technical flaw.”
Subject.
Suguru Geto.
Underground rooted, impossible to categorize lead vocalist of his band called “Noctilume” — which in Satoru’s opinion sounds odd. Yet, he still chose this exact person and band for his research thesis about mathematical structure of music.
Satoru has never attended one of his concerts. Crowds are big, despite the band not being so popular. Probably because of Geto’s looks more than his music, but that’s beside the point.
Even though he never saw any of their concerts live, he watched every line recording available online. For the thesis research of course. Normally, Satoru would’ve never even touched such music.
He removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. The faint pressure leaves tiny red marks, and he briefly notices the little crease patterns in the skin like waves in a sand dune. His fingers hover over the keyboard again.
He rewinds the track. Plays it. Pauses. Replays the section where Geto bends the note ever so slightly at the bridge.
“Why that bend?”
It isn’t in the sheet music. It isn’t in the production notes. And yet, it makes the entire song feel… slightly more fragile.
Fragile.
The word irritates him. Music is supposed to be measurable. Predictable. Perfect.
Yet, this one human decision, throws all of his neat equations into disarray.
He leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The hum of the laptop fan fills the empty room. He doesn’t notice the late-night streetlights flickering through the blinds. He doesn’t notice anything except that inhale before the chorus.
1:42.
He writes it down. Notes. Calculations. Cross-references with live recordings. Slight variation. Slight tempo shift. Slight difference in tonal quality.
Every time he thinks he understands it… he doesn’t.
It frustrates him.
There were dozens of options he could’ve have chosen from instead of “Noctilume”, but none jumped out as particularity interesting. His bored eyes skimmed the list of bands, landing on title that sounded intriguing enough to capture his attention. Plus, when he took a look at other, less interesting bands, he stuck to his previous choice.
Geto Suguru. His name alone had some sort of magnitude to it, a reputation that expanded beyond walls of his university. It was one he had heard in passing conversation with friends, one mingling with words such as “sexy,” “intimidating,” and “ridiculously hot.”
Satoru wasn’t really impressed, yet the name clung to him like gum stuck between his teeth. He wasn’t one to fall for mystique, especially when it comes to music. But maybe, just maybe, Geto Suguru had something worth listening to.
Satoru officially started his third year of college half a week ago, and the professors were already drowning him in essays and projects. It wasn’t surprising since he’s the campus prodigy, known for being efficient in everything math-related.
It’s Sunday, and Gojo had done work for the day — or more specific, night. He didn’t even notice when he passed out, exhausted, at his desk. His laptop was still open, calculations half-finished, and Geto’s song kept playing on repeat through his headphones.
Satoru woke up as if he’d been electrocuted. Half his face ached, and his back was killing him. How inefficient of him. He yanked off the headphones that were still torturing him with Geto’s song, and glanced at his phone to check the time.
2:37PM.
His thesis was due at midnight. He could do it, he had to do it.
Suguru.
September 13, 2021.
Suguru stretched on the couch of the cramped practice room, guitar still in hand. The sunlight sneaking through the blinds barely touched the chaos of scattered sheet music, empty coffee cups, a half-eaten bagel on the floor. He didn’t normally start his week like this, but somehow Monday always found him alive and half-distracted.
“Another week.” he muttered, tugging on his leather jacket. Campus life, rehearsals, band socials — he had it all lined up, and he planned to make the most of it. Every glance, every interaction, every performance was a part of the game.
He checked his phone briefly only to see messages from his bandmates and reminders about class schedules. How utterly boring. Some people would find it stressful, but to Suguru this was just another obstacle in the way of his music career.
In fact, college wasn’t something he thrived on, his parents had forced him into it as they were “worried about his future without a degree,” so he had eventually caved and chosen philosophy. Not that it was unbearable, he survived two years already. Now all that remained were 2 final years and he’ll be free.
The practice room was cluttered, but it was his chaos where he felt at ease. He didn’t care what others thought of him, his music or his mess. Each item was a piece of the puzzle that made up Suguru Geto’s life: messy, obnoxiously loud, stepping into everybody’s life without invitation, unapologetic.
Classes wouldn’t start for another hour, but his first rehearsal with the band was already looming. He grabbed his headphones, letting them rest around his heavily tattooed neck, and checked the messages from his bandmates again. Everyone was already buzzing about chord changes, rehearsal times, Suguru being late and a possible open mic gig next week.
He slung his guitar over his shoulder and stepped outside. The campus was freshly waking up, students shuffling hurriedly to classes, backpacks swinging in every direction, coffees in hand and asleep expressions. Suguru walked with the easy confidence of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere at the same time. A freshman tripped over the curb nearby, and Suguru caught the eye of a group of passing students, flashing a grin that was equal parts mischievous and magnetic. The kid straightened himself immediately, caught between awe and intimidation. Of course, who wouldn’t be intimidated by him?
His long dark hair and deep brown eyes were the only “normal” parts about his appearance. He was heavily tattooed — arms, neck, back — and his ears were decorated with big gauges, two sets of helix piercings, and an industrial. Face piercings completed the look: a side labret, eyebrow piercing and a bridge piercing. He looked like a mysterious model straight out of a magazine, and he wore it all with effortless confidence.
Reaching the empty stage in his campus, he set down his guitar and immediately began tuning it. His fingers moved quickly, expertly so, checking each string twice, then thrumming a short melody. He hummed along, half-singing a line from a song he’d been writing all summer. His eyes flicked toward the music sheets beside him — he didn’t need them. His brain kept every chord, every little note. It was that effortless for him, the kind of skill that made others stare and call it talent, and Suguru was well aware and proud of it.
After a few minutes, he sat down cross-legged, stretching his arms over his head. Philosophy class could wait, assignments and professors as well. Everything could wait except music. He had survived two years of parental pressure pushing him from both sides at something he didn’t want. The tedious lectures and campus bureaucracy also had been causing him trouble. But now Suguru had mastered balancing college life and the band, and now he was approaching the final stretch. Soon, the freedom to live entirely by his own rules would be within reach, and Suguru planned to make every note, every chord and every day count till then.
He picked up his notebook and jotted down a lyric idea that had just popped into his head, smirking at the clever twist of words. The song had potential to evolve and grow into something mainstream. The mere thought of Suguru and his band performing in front of thousands of people, his heart fluttered with yearn for something that he hadn’t reached yet.
Mondays were supposed to be mundane but Suguru had other — more important plans on how to start his week.
Satoru.
September 13, 2021.
Satoru hadn’t slept. Not properly at least.
Finishing his thesis at 11:42PM had felt triumphant for approximately seven minutes before exhaustion hit him like a truck. He’d crawled into bed with his laptop still warm from overuse, brain buzzing with equations and half-formed theories. Now, Monday felt like punishment, and he was sentenced for simply existing.
He walked across the campus half-asleep, hands shoved into the pockets of his blue jeans. His long-sleeve grey shirt hung slightly loose on his frame, a faded Nintendo logo stretched across his chest — ironic, considering he hadn’t touched a game ever since college started. Research didn’t leave much time for that.
His hair was a mess, and not stylish-messy. Just a complete white disaster. His glasses sat crooked on his nose, slipping slightly every time he blinked too slowly. Students passed him in clusters, loud and energetic for an hour that should not legally allow noise. Satoru adjusted his glasses without breaking stride. His brain still felt like it was processing data at 40% capacity. He hated that feeling, not being sharp and concentrated.
“Satoru!”
He turned slightly at the sound of his name. Shoko was leaning against the steps of the science building, cigarette between her slim fingers despite clear no-smoking signs. Utahime stood beside her, arms crossed, already looking mildly irritated at the world. Kento was standing straight-backed as always, hands in his coat pockets, while Yu hovered nearby with the enthusiasm of someone who definitely slept full eight hours.
“You look terrible.” Shoko said flatly, slowly flicking ash from the cigarette in her hand.
“Good morning to you too,” Satoru replied, voice dry.
Utahime narrowed her eyes at him, scanning up and down as if investigating. “Did you even go home since Friday? I’m sure I saw you in that exact outfit a weekend ago.”
“I live here now,” he said calmly, but clearly sarcastically, though Yu didn’t seem to catch that. “The physics departament has adopted me.”
Yu laughed a little too loudly, making Satoru flinch with the sudden sound. “Did you finish your thesis in the end?” eyes bright with curiosity.
Satoru adjusted his glasses again. “Yeah. Obviously.”
Kento gave a small nod. “As expected.”
Utahime rolled her eyes. “Show-off.”
Shoko flinched ash onto the pavement. “You’re going to crash by noon.”
“I don’t crash, Shoko.” Satoru replied.
He absolutely did crash. Frequently. Just not around his friends. The wind picked up slightly, cool September air brushing against his face. He inhaled slowly, the campus felt awake in a way he wasn’t yet. Leaves shifted across the pavement, somewhere in the distance, he swore he could hear someone play music — faint, barely audible but he heard it well. Yet, he decided to ignore it. Right now, his world felt smaller, narrowing only to his dulled senses by the lack of sleep and his sudden desperation for caffeine.
“Cafeteria?” Satoru suggested, and everybody nodded along.
They began walking together, Utahime already lecturing him about sleep schedules. Shoko half-listening, Kento quiet as ever, listening to Yu’s rant about some new movie he saw last week. Satoru walked slightly ahead without meaning to — not out of arrogance, just habit. His mind was already calculating his next assignment, next lecture, next problem to solve.
He didn’t notice until now, how different he looked from the rest of them. Messy, distracted and completely unaware of the world around him. Satoru wasn’t the type to fail — he couldn’t afford to, so he would rather sacrifice his sleeping schedule than submit something half-assed.
His day passed in a blur, barely acknowledging people and things around him. By the time his math class rolled around, he felt a jolt of anticipation rush through him. His thesis. Satoru knew he’d score a hundred — like always, but there was a pang of stress coiling deep in his chest. That constant fear of failing, not performing perfectly, scared him more than anything. His parents always expected more from him then he felt capable of giving, nonetheless, he never gave them a reason to doubt his academic performance.
“Gojo-san,” his professor called out through the class. Gojo stood up without hesitation, walking up to his professors desk. “Yes, sir?” The professor took off his glasses and glanced briefly at Gojo. A flicker of something that Satoru never saw before — disappointment.
His professor cleared his throat, slightly shifting his laptop towards Satoru, giving him more access as he explains his work. “It’s great. Your thesis is phenomenal, as always, wouldn’t expect less of you. But it lacks what I was looking for.” Satoru’s breath catches. No way he failed. He can’t afford to fail. “Then what did I miss?” The words leave his mouth before he can stop them. “How can I fix it? What’s wrong with it?” His voice almost a plea as his stressed gaze searched his professor’s face for any sign of reassurance.
“Gojo-san, there’s no need to panic,” The professor’s sympathetic tone made Satoru calm down a fraction. “I just think you missed the point of this whole project. I wanted you to look deeper into it, not as a mathematic research only — but passion as well. Your work lacked that passion. Like you did it detached.” Gojo’s eyes watch the laptop carefully now. Passion? How could he know anything about passion in music? It’s not his strong side, in fact Satoru rarely listens to music. But even if it’s not his hobby he needs to redo his thesis. He needs to get it right. He can’t fail. He just can’t.
“I’ll work my best to get my thesis right then.” Satoru said quietly, bowing to his professor. He was about to turn away when the professor suddenly stopped him. “Gojo-san?” Satoru paused mid-step and turned back sheepishly. “Yes sir?” The professor gave him a subtle, knowing smile. “Focus on something beyond math when you redo your thesis. Search for the passion. Good luck.”
Satoru nodded his head once, polite and measured as always, and returned to his seat. Passion. Does that mean he’ll have to listen to Geto’s songs more in depth? That sounds like a torture. He should’ve never picked “Noctilume” as his subject for that thesis in the first place.
Suguru.
September 14, 2021.
Suguru and his band been sitting in the rehearsal room for hours at this point. Everyone was slowly getting exhausted — everyone except Suguru. If anything, he was growing more frustrated with every passing minute. The tune wasn’t right, the timing dragged by a fraction too long, too wrong. The overhead light suddenly seemed harsher than before, irritating him in a way he didn’t notice before. His hair kept falling into his face, strands sticking to the sweat on his forehead. His hand cramped from the tight grip on his guitar.
“Geto,” Choso — his band’s guitarist finally called out. “Let’s take a break. We all need it.” Suguru’s sharp gaze snapped back to the voice. His brown eyes burning with annoyance and that familiar, stubborn fire refusing to back down. “Break? And do what exactly?” Choso sighed, clearly fed up with Suguru’s stubbornness. “I don’t know man. Go for a walk. Smoke a cigarette or something. Just let us breathe for a second.”
Geto finally caved and went outside the campus for a moment. His hair is disheveled in a way that signalizes he’s been working for hours, his posture tense and slightly cramped, exhaustion written all over his face. His hand quickly searches his pocket for a cigarette, he lights it without hesitation. The tip burns crimson red and soft orange — a nice contrast against the navy darkness of the sky hanging over the city. Suguru hadn’t even noticed when it got so late. Maybe I was too harsh on them today. Everyone needs a break sometimes. He let himself savor this moment alone, taking in the peacefulness of the nearly empty campus.
Maybe someday the world will see me as something else than just a pretty face and a guitar.
The cigarette hangs untouched in between his fingers, thin streams of smoke curling up into cold night air. The campus lamp hum quietly above him, casting soft halos of yellow light over the pavement. Loneliness. As much as he’d like to deflect and hide it, Suguru always felt alone. Surrounded by fans, supporters and friends — yet so far away from them he felt like a stranger. Nobody ever saw him for who he wants to be, he’s always been underestimated. It infuriated him more than anything, Suguru wants to prove that he’s worth more than people tell him. He believes he’s worth more. That’s the only thing that truly keeps him going. To prove everyone wrong.
He tilts his head back slightly, watching the dark sky stretch above the buildings. The city is still awake somewhere — and maybe somewhere out there, in the distant future there’s also Suguru’s place. A place he can call his own, where he feels at peace. Where he doesn’t have to hide himself. His fingers tap lightly against the neck of the guitar slung over his shoulder. A habit.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Then he hums. Soft at first, almost absent-minded, just a quick line of melody he’d been trying to fix for hours back in the rehearsal room. It still isn’t perfect, the last note always feels like it wants to go somewhere else.
And Suguru understands that feeling more than he’d care to admit out loud.
“Hm—mm… mm.” The sound drifts into the empty courtyard. No one around to hear it. No one to judge it. He shifts his cigarette to the other hand and adjusts his grip on the guitar, fingers automatically finding the strings. A quiet chord slips out — muted, gentle, nothing like the loud chaos from rehearsal earlier.
Better.
Suguru lets the chord ring for a second before cutting it off with his palm. Maybe the break wasn’t such a bad idea after all. He takes another slow drag from the cigarette, brown eyes half-lidded, still chasing that one stubborn note in his head.
Satoru.
September 14, 2021.
Satoru didn’t even notice when he had fallen asleep on the desk in library, not until his rest got interrupted by a soft melody that drifted in through the slightly open window. His eyes opened instantly, searching for his phone to check the time.
8:53PM, how great.
He groaned, running a hand through his hair. The sound came again. Humming? Whistling? Someone playing lightly on a guitar somewhere outside. The notes were tentative, soft, careful — nothing like the chaotic patterns he’d been dissecting in his thesis. He leaned closer to the window, squinting into the courtyard beyond the dim lamplight. Shadows moved, a cigarette glowing faintly in one hand. A figure hummed, tuning a melody that caught his chest without warning. Satoru froze, not sure why. It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t flashy, it wasn’t attention-seeking. Yet, somehow… it lingered. Gentle, fragile, precise in the way that made him forget his exhaustion for a moment.
This was soft, like the silkiest sweater clinging to your bare body. Like grazing soft flower petals with your fingertips. Like being bathed in sunlight mid-July.
Is this… passion?
His fingers twitched over the keyboard, half-typing, half-writing notes to himself. Analytical words, equations, observations — none of it mattered fully anymore. This melody… it was something Satoru never heard before. Something so purely real it made him question if anything else ever was real in the first place.
The music drifted through the night. The library hums around him, a grounding reminder of what’s his goal. Satoru doesn’t move from the window, not entirely at least, just letting the sound fill the space between the stacks and the empty desk in front of him.
And though he doesn’t know it yet, those few, soft, fragile notes will echo in his thoughts long after they fade.
Is this how passion feels like? Burning every inch from within you, leaving no room for doubt? Feeling like you’ve been electrocuted, but not in the unpleasant way? Will he ever experience a feeling like this again?
Satoru types hurriedly, like his thoughts are gonna disappear if he doesn’t immediately flow them into his digital pages. The soft note that carried through the wind had vanished a while ago, but in Satoru’s mind it’s still as vivid and vibrant as before. He has no idea where or from who that gentle melody came from, but he was sure of one thing — this is something he desperately needed to grasp in order to fully understand his professor’s words — and now that he did, he’s gonna make the most of it in his thesis.
———————
September 17, 2021.
Friday finally welcomed Satoru with open arms. This week was pure torture to his already overstimulated mind — projects, assignments, his thesis, attacking him from all sides, giving no room to breathe. Now that he finally finished it all, he’s got all weekend purely for himself. Satoru isn’t sure what to do with his free time yet, he’ll probably end up playing games until day and night blur into one.
He’s also not sure when he’ll receive an email from his professor on his thesis, but this time Satoru has no doubt in his work. He knows he did well, after all, he poured his entire heart out, writing things about music he didn’t think he was even capable of thinking. But ever since he heard that soft melody that filled his ears with cotton, he understood it all.
As fragile as butterfly’s wings, as sweet as thick honey dripping from a wooden spoon onto fresh pastry, so gentle as the summer breeze.
That’s what it felt like. Satoru never felt such thing before — at least not for music. He never found music interesting, he had other stuff to keep him entertained. Sure, music is admirable at some level, but not to a point where it borders between passion. That’s what he used to think.
Satoru tried to explain it to himself mathematically at first. There had to be a pattern in it, something to ease his mind. But the more he replayed the memory, the less it behaved like an equation and more like something… alive. The worst thing is that despite it burning every inch of Satoru’s mind in ways he didn’t knew music could, he was starting to forget the sweet tune. Only small fragments remained engraved in his brain.
A rise in pitch. A soft fall after it. The quiet hum.
Like trying to remember a dream that dissolved the harder you chased it. It feels as if trying to grasp smoke that keeps slipping through your fingers — no matter how hard you clutch your palms together, trying to catch it. And Satoru doesn’t want to forget that melody, no, he is scared to forget it. Or maybe he’s just scared of losing the feeling that followed right after hearing it.
Now he only wishes he could cherish that sound over and over until he gets sick of it. Catch it in a glass jar and place it on his nightstand, a quiet reminder that it’s his to listen to. Something that brought him passion, something he wasn’t sure he’d be ever able to feel.
Suguru.
September 20, 2021.
Monday mornings were never kind to Suguru. Ever since he can remember he despised the feeling of early morning sun rays warming up his face, the obnoxiously loud sounds of world waking up, the fact that the sky seemed to wake up earlier than him was enough to irritate him. If he could, he’d spend his entire life in bed, not daring to even peek outside his blanket. Today’s morning was especially rough on him. Suguru and his band spent the entire weekend in rehearsal rooms, half asleep on the stiff couches.
Suguru groaned quietly, burying his face deeper into his pillows, seeking for the comfort of sleep a little longer. The sunlight leaking through the curtains was thin, almost harmless, but it still managed to find its way to warm his shoulders softly.
He pulled the blanket over his head in protest, hoping the world might forget about him for another hour. It didn’t. His fingers twitched slightly against the mattress, the tips still sore from hours spent pressing down guitar strings. Even after a full night of sleep the dull ache hadn’t faded.
Eventually, he forced one eye open. The ceiling staring back at him in silent judgement. This is his personal nightmare. Suguru sighed, dragging a hand over his face before finally sitting up. His hair had completely given up overnight, messy dark strands covered his shoulders and back, only making the matter of waking up even worser.
His phone buzzed somewhere under the blanket. Suguru blindly searched for it, squinting at the screen.
[Choso]: Get up.
[Choso]: Campus. Now.
[Choso]: You need to see something.
Suguru stared at the messages for a moment before dropping the phone back onto the bed. Whatever Choso wants can probably wait. Finally, after 20 whole minutes of procrastinating Suguru crawled out of his bed and lazily trailed toward his bathroom to start getting ready.
He barely finished splashing cold water onto his face when his phone buzzed again.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Suguru wiped his face with a towel before glancing at the screen again.
[Choso]: I’m serious, Geto. Hurry up.
That’s ridiculous. Suguru thought to himself, quickening his pace while getting ready, but still keeping it comfortably stable, not hurried. Choso can wait. By the time Suguru was fully dressed and ready to go he had 5 missed calls from Choso. What is up with him today? Did someone die?
Suguru walked through campus doors lazily, eyes scanning the hallway as he passes through clusters of students. Choso spotted him instantly and dragged him along before Suguru registered what was even happening.
Choso finally stopped and released his grip on Suguru’s arm. They both stood in front of the information board. “Check it out dude.” Choso said, expression sour as if someone had just served him lemon. Suguru steps closer to the board, eyes scanning printed pages pinned to it.
The title caught his attention immediately.
Mathematical Structures in Contemporary Underground Music: A Case Study of “Noctilume”
“…What the fuck.” Suguru’s face turned ghost-pale. Some mathematical thesis about his band? Choso simply snorted beside him, “Apparently someone turned our music into a math problem.” Suguru’s eyes skimmed a few lines describing their songs. His expression shifted from disbelief to near disgust.
“The irregular delay in the introductory measure creates anticipatory instability…”
Suguru’s frown deepened with each word.
“…a consistent pattern of controlled imperfection…”
Suguru turned to his side to glare at Choso as if he’d written the paper. “What the hell does that even mean?” Choso simply shrugs, clearly as surprised as he was. Suguru spent years creating music about feelings he barely understood himself. And now some stranger has taken them apart like an equation.
His eyes quickly drifted on the very bottom, perfectly lined.
Author: Gojo Satoru.