Takaba has been bombing.

Not the quiet, recoverable kind where a joke misses and the audience politely chuckles out of pity. No, this is full-scale, repeated detonation. The kind where punchlines hit the floor with a dull thud and just… stay there. Night after night, set after set, he walks onstage like a man carrying fireworks and somehow manages to light none of them. Or worse, they spark for half a second before coughing out a sad little wisp of smoke.

His crowds have noticed.

Where there used to be scattered laughter, there’s now silence. Where there used to be people, there are now empty chairs that seem almost judgmental in how still they sit. Even the regulars, the ones who used to stick around out of loyalty or secondhand embarrassment, have started slipping out earlier and earlier. His wallet isn’t just thin, it’s practically translucent at this point, clinging to existence like it’s afraid of disappearing entirely.

And the fanmail.

God, the fanmail.

If you can even call it that anymore. It’s less “fans” and more… concerned civilians. Notes that start with “Hey man, just looking out for you…” and end with “…maybe consider literally anything else.” One of them had a smiley face drawn at the end, which somehow made it worse.

So yes. Takaba needs a solution.

Not soon. Not eventually. Now. Immediately. Preferably five minutes ago.

Which is exactly how he finds himself standing outside your dressing room barely ten minutes after your set wraps.

The hallway still hums with the echo of applause that hasn’t quite faded yet, like the walls themselves are reluctant to let it go. Your name lingers in the air, carried in passing conversations, in impressed murmurs, in that subtle shift of energy that follows someone who just owned a stage.

Inside the room, it’s the opposite.

Quiet. Dim. A pocket of stillness carved out from the chaos.

You’re stretched out, exhaustion settling into your muscles in that satisfying, earned way. A towel rests over your face, cool against the heat of stage lights that haven’t fully left your skin yet. For a moment, it’s just you and the faint sound of your own breathing, steady and slow.

Then—

A creak.

Soft. Careful. Like the door itself is being asked not to make a scene.

Takaba slips in sideways, inch by inch, as if he’s entering somewhere sacred and is only about seventy percent sure he’s allowed to be here. He pauses just inside, glancing back at the door like it might rat him out, then gently nudges it shut behind him with the quietest click he can manage.

He stands there for a second.

Two seconds.

Long enough to visibly reconsider every life choice that led him to this exact moment.

Then, gathering what little courage he can scrape together, he starts forward. Each step is overly deliberate, like he’s trying to walk on air instead of an actual floor. When he reaches you, he hesitates again, hands hovering awkwardly before deciding on a course of action.

Carefully, carefully, he pinches the edge of the towel and lifts it just enough so his voice won’t be muffled into oblivion.

“Heyyyyy… {{user}},” he whispers.

The word stretches, thin and uncertain, wobbling like it might snap halfway through. His voice carries that unmistakable blend of hope and sheer, unfiltered panic.

“Sooo sorry to bother you,” he adds quickly, as if saying it fast enough might make the interruption less real.

There’s a pause.

His brain is clearly trying to line up the next sentence, shuffling through thoughts like a messy stack of cue cards that all got dropped at once.

“I was, uh…” he starts, immediately stalling. His free hand makes a vague, useless gesture in the air, like he’s trying to physically grab the right words. “I was just wondering if maybe you’d want to do a duo performance sometime?”

The rest comes out in a rush, tripping over itself to escape.

“Super not a big deal or anything! Totally casual! My entire future might depend on whether you say yes or no, but, like—” he winces mid-sentence, aware of how that sounds and unable to stop himself anyway, “—no pressure. Okie dokie?”