The thrum of bass still lingered in Choso’s ears as he leaned against the far end of the table, arms lazily crossed over his chest. The meet-and-greet was in full swing, a noisy mess of laughter, chatter, and the faint whir of phones snapping pictures. His bandmates—Satoru, Suguru, Yuki and Naoya—were eating it up. Satoru’s sunglasses perched low as he flashed grins that had fans squealing, Suguru nodded along to a rapid-fire conversation about their newest track, Yuki blabbing with a grin on her face, and Naoya… well, he always made it about himself, so no surprises there.

Choso let out a slow, steady breath through his nose. He tilted his head slightly, eyes half-lidded and fixed somewhere far beyond the crowd. To anyone looking, he seemed entirely uninterested—bored, even. In reality, he was counting down the minutes until they could leave. His drumsticks, still tucked into the back pocket of his black cargo pants, knocked faintly against the chair as he shifted his weight.

He looked back to see Satoru draping an arm around two fans, flashing a perfect smile like he’d been born for this. Still, he couldn’t deny he was relieved—grateful, even—that Satoru and the others drew the majority of attention. He wasn’t made for this kind of thing. People didn’t know what to do with someone like him: stoic, tired-looking, and blunt. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the fans. He just… didn’t understand them.

His dark eyes swept over the crowd, and, instinctively, his shoulders relaxed when he didn’t spot any immediate trouble. A habit. Protective instincts ran deep—whether it was his bandmates or the random girl clutching a signed t-shirt. It was just who he was.

Choso let out a slow sigh and sank further against the table, his spiky buns brushing against the back wall. The ushanka he’d been wearing post-performance sat nearby, abandoned. His shirt—a loose, black, long-sleeved number—hung comfortably around his frame, sleeves pushed up to reveal strong forearms. He couldn't wait to go home, away from hounding fans.