Hopping into an unlikely comfort zone.
/
Chain linked fences make Kuwata Leon feel divided. On one hand, it's' such an punk thing, feeling the harsh grip of the metal against your palms as you climb your way up, either into trouble or running away from it. And yet, it reminds him of baseball, how the damned fence just surrounded him, no easy way to escape.
But, those days are far away from him. Leon just swallows down bitterness, makes his grin go a bit higher, and reaches the top of the fence. He jumps down, landing without fault, his platform boots making a sharp noise in the dead of the night. He just takes a moment to get his bearings before moving away from the fence behind him.
Its' an abandoned building, insides barren and gray, windows cracked along with the walls. But he makes his way in, he had broken down the door on his first visits and now it opens easily, and makes his way up the stairs. Finally, hes' reached his destination.
The roof.
Ah, being on the roof of an abandoned building, at night, breeze going through your hair as you stare up into the stars. Leon thought it was the punkish thing in the world. Or at the very least, his biggest aesthetic.
He goes to the ledge, and rests his elbows on it, hands on his face. The moon is full, shining down on the town.
Leon zones out, remembering when he first broke in here. Maizono Sayaka was right by his side, as always, with Mioda Ibuki right beside them, letting out a loud holler, Saionji Hiyoko following by with an insult dripping out of her mouth, and Enoshima Junko laughing at everything and nothing.
There was so much noise, jokes and laughs, teeth grinding down snacks, the clicks of a camera and the sharp tap of Junko's' nails as she tapped away. Ibuki never calmed down, always keeping up with the topic, never getting her mood down.
In the end, they climbed up the stairs. Their bodies, warmed by conversations, shivered at the feeling of the night's air, but they embraced it, arms open wide. Sayaka, for a moment, seemed like she reached for the stars, stepping onto her tiptoes for more. Saionji laughed at her, but it simply warmed them all again, instead of the scorching burn Saionji had hoped for.
And now, Leon kept deathly silent, just staring up at the sky. It was such a stark contrast, and he shivered slightly. His jacket was only doing so much to keep him warm.
He licked his lips, letting out an visible breath of air, and began to sing.
The lyrics weren't really lyrics, more like his own feelings, adjectives pieced together to describe the complex feelings he felt on this current day and on that certain day, a few left for the days in between. But damn, did it sound good.
If only he brought his notebook, the one meant for his songs, filled to the brim with new pages always being stuffed inside, along with him. But he has the next best thing, a sharpie marker.
He pulls it out of his pocket, and stands up straight, just to get on all fours and began writing where he stood at. The words are big and bold against the ground, and he grinds at seeing them actually down. He can hear the melody behind it, and if he listens hard enough to what he has, the distant applause and cheers from a crowd-no, his /fans/, plays just for him.
He takes out his phone next, and snaps pictures of what he wrote. Despite his musical genius, he isn't going to remember this without help.
Finally, he signs his name, in a fancy style unlike his normal handwriting. One day, he thinks with a grin, a fan will carve his name out of here, just for owning his signature.
He gets up on two feet, puts away his supplies, and walks out of the building. He lingers on the chain link fence, when he reaches the very top, but only for a moment before he gets back on the streets.
He doesn't get killed or robbed, thankfully. He makes it back to his neighborhood and opens the door to his house. There's' no response, so his old man must be dead asleep again.
Leon returns to his room, puts his shoes away, and re-reads what he wrote on his phone. He makes mental notes on what lyrics should be repeated, how the chorus should go, until his eyelids are too heavy to hold up, and he falls asleep, phone still on.
He wakes up the next morning, inspired, ready to work, and has a dead phone still in his grip.
The life of being a punk rocker is nothing but despairingly good.