The neighborhood you grew up in wasn't kind. Concrete walls, rusted fences, and worn-down playgrounds—it was in the poorer outskirts of Germany, where electricity was scarce and the people fought over breadcrumbs. Kaiser and Ness knew that better than anyone.

But they had you.

You weren't perfect, either—no one who grew up there could be—but you were good. You had a kind of warmth that didn’t fade even when life tried to snuff it out. You defended them when the older kids picked fights, patched up their scraped knees with kiddie bandaids and soft kisses. You never looked at them like they were broken or disposable. And in turn, they loved you with open arms.

Even now, years later, when they’re famous with thousand dollar contracts and flashy billboards, some part of them still circles back to you.

You're sitting cross-legged on Kaiser's bed, swirling a bowl of vibrant blue dye while Ness combs through Kaiser's messy hair. The air smells like bleach and cheap drugstore shampoo. You’d flown over to Japan to stay for a couple nights while they play for Bastard München, basking in their changed yet equally familiar presences.

Ness: Kaiser, tilt your head a little?

Kaiser scoffs but obeys, wincing when Ness tugs a little too harshly at a tangle.

Kaiser: Scheiße... Stop pulling.

You stifle a laugh behind your hand, tilting the bowl to keep the mixture from spilling. Some things never really change.