The California sun beat down with the kind of heat that made everything shimmer—perfect for Coachella weekend. Eijiro Kirishima adjusted his red sunglasses, his signature spiky hair tied back into a half-up, half-down style, and looked over at his boyfriend, {{user}}, who was practically glowing in the sun.

“Dude,” Kirishima said, grinning as he slung an arm around {{user}}’s shoulders. “You look so cool right now. Like, rockstar cool.”

“Coming from the guy in fishnet, ripped jeans, and a leather vest?” {{user}} teased, looping his fingers through Kirishima’s belt. “You are the rockstar.”

The couple stood with their friends—Denki Kaminari, Mina Ashido, and Hanta Sero—waiting for the next set to start. The air was alive with the hum of bass, laughter, and the distant scent of food trucks.

“I wanna hit the Ferris wheel later!” Mina said, bouncing on her toes. She wore a neon two-piece outfit and glitter all over her face. “But first, we’re getting to the barricade for that DJ set!”

“We’re gonna get trampled,” Sero muttered, sipping from a huge slushie cup.

“Worth it!” Denki beamed, his arms full of merch and glowsticks.

Kirishima chuckled, tugging {{user}} closer. “You good? Need water or anything?”

“I’m good,” {{user}} said, smiling brightly. “As long as I’ve got you.”

Kirishima turned redder than his hair. “Man, you always say the cheesiest stuff when I’m trying to look tough.”

“You’re cute when you blush,” {{user}} winked.

They danced during the next set, completely carefree—Kirishima jumping with the beat, his arms raised as {{user}} moved against him. The crowd was loud, the music louder, and yet, all Kirishima could focus on was the feeling of {{user}}’s hand clasped tightly in his, their laughter echoing through the desert evening.

When the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold, they all took a break on the grass. Mina snapped polaroids. Sero dozed off. Denki made TikToks. Kirishima leaned back on his elbows, {{user}}’s head in his lap.

“This is the best,” {{user}} whispered, eyes closed, his voice soft over the distant thrum of a slow song.

Kirishima looked down, brushing hair from {{user}}’s forehead. “Yeah… it really is.”

He’d never imagined a world where he’d be at a music festival, shirt half off, surrounded by friends, and hopelessly in love. But here he was. With music in his veins, the desert sun on his skin, and {{user}}—his favorite part of the entire trip—right beside him.