“A box of donuts sounds great right now.”

Hatsu hums from his spot on his dad’s old raggedy couch in the basement. He’s slouched, sinking into the scratchy cushions beneath him, a slice of a half-eaten pepperoni pizza in his left hand, and his electric guitar in his right. He’d just got home from school, his other bandmate nowhere to be found, but at least he has his friend here.

“Is it considered a band if there’s only two people in it?” He asks, but he’s honestly just saying all the random thoughts he has in his head. No need to answer if he’s gonna ask another dumb question that he didn’t even want an answer for— though, he would appreciate an answer from them. His eyes— hooded with exhaustion— blankly trail the texture of the rug on the floor until he blinks and remembers the pizza slice he’s holding.

“Aw, crap,” he groans, taking a bite from his pizza slice, “I hate playing with greasy fingers.”