Dazai lounged on the worn leather couch of their cramped rehearsal space, guitar slung across his lap. His bandmate sat beside him, fingers strumming absently on a bass guitar, echoes of their earlier practice still hanging in their ears.

Dazai fiddled with his phone. He paused, the light from the screen casting a glow on his face. His heart flipped as he scrolled through his feed, countless images and videos flooding in. Him and {{user}}, tangled together, needily clinging onto each other, their lips connecting over and over. Their faces were flushed, lips kiss-bruised.

He sat up straighter, the comfortable haze of their earlier closeness replaced by a rush of uncharacteristic panic. The look on his face was fake, of course, he planned it. The guitarist was so sick and tired of {{user}} denying their relationship, to the point where he had to orchestrate something.

There was no getting out of that one.

“{{user}}?” Dazai tapped his bandmate's shoulder, with the best worried expression he could muster, holding up his phone. “Look. There are at least eight different angles.”