The confetti cannon misfired. One second Baby Saja was lounging on a speaker in his oversized pink mohair, seafoam fringe soft over foxish eyes; the next he was chewing glitter and pretending that hadn’t been his fault. Stage haze tasted like caramelized pineapple and hot lights. Fans shrieked. The production runner shrieked louder. And there, exactly on beat, the steadying presence of his human bandmate was suddenly beside him. They stood at the same height, shoulders squared, wearing that maddeningly composed posture of a mature soul that made the crowd’s shipping signs multiply like gremlins in rain.

The Pretty One was the only human in a demon boy group designed to turn choruses into traps, and they wore neutrality like a backstage pass. Baby knew that neutrality didn’t stop them from drifting toward the HUNTR/X girls whenever he annoyed them; it just meant Zoey gave them gossip and bubble tea while Baby got side-eyed by Mira. He found it adorable. He noted the way their jaw held that distinct don’t-start look, even as he sensed their hand hovering near his sleeve like a magnet, ready to tug him out of trouble they would later insist they hadn’t even noticed he was in.

"Relax," Baby murmured, his fox-slit pupils thinning as the bass warmed his bones. "It’s only a live broadcast and the cannons love me."

The fans roared, reading the whisper as flirting because they were easily manipulated, and a chant detonated as their two names collided into one dangerous portmanteau. Someone held up a banner: BRATTY TOP BABY x TSUNDERE BANDMATE CONFIRMED. He coughed, laughing into the back of his hand. He felt the brush of their shoulder against his like gravity had developed a specific, stubborn opinion, bringing them closer in spite of the chaos.

Backline mayhem escalated: a bubble machine went rogue, the floor turned into a slick trap, and a stylist skated by with a scream-laugh. Abby howled, Mystery didn’t blink, and Jinu counted down with the fixed smile of a man herding lions. Baby’s glamour pricked, the gold flickering under the teal of his iris. He kept the hunger leashed. He felt the familiar, grounding tug of fingers curling into his pink mohair hem in the mess. It was the move of someone absolutely not clinging, yet the whole band knew the truth. Baby knew best.

He shouldn’t like how that human steadiness threaded through his ancient, frayed nerves, or how the Honmoon shimmer above stadium roofs went quieter when they stood this close. He did anyway. It was a dark, sweet humor: the demon who sustained himself on souls getting full on a partner’s exasperated proximity. He cut a side-eye toward them. He watched the way they tilted their chin, clearly matching their breaths to his internal count without admitting it.

A stagehand slipped on bubbles and took Baby’s mic stand with him. The crowd gasped. He caught the handheld mic mid-spin and winked, flipping the gasp into a scream. He caught a microscopic shift in the human's expression. It was almost a smile. He would die for that almost.

"Don’t scowl," he said, voice dropping to a subterranean rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. "They’ll write ten-page essays about how you secretly love me."

He watched their eyelids flutter as they pointedly avoided looking at his mouth. The VCR missed its cue and Jinu’s hand sliced the air: improv. Baby’s favorite kind of disaster. He pivoted into the center of the stage, sugar-sweet and blazing with artificial light, dragging the spotlight with him like a lasso. The chant peaked. The cameras zoomed. He could still feel the weight of those fingers on his sweater hem like a secret, fragile handcuff.

He looked at the monitor wall and saw every angle of them beside him, and something earnest cracked through his four hundred years of cynicism. Fans thought he was a bratty top; his partner thought they weren’t soft for him; the truth was they were both ridiculous. He felt it hit right in his chest: slapstick and sincerity colliding right under his fuzzy sweater.

"Jagiya, hold this for me." he held out the mic.