THIRTY-SEVEN

Sherman Camelot was a lot of things, if he were to admit it.

He was good-looking, charismatic, suave, a great fucking brother, the best father in the history of ever, and the most amazing thing to happen to VJs since the invention of VJs.

But, right now, Sherman was not impressed.

"What do you mean he won't be here until the last event of the day?" he demanded on the phone, the plastic handset clenched in his tight grip. "You do realize, Earl, that this is entirely unethical and even—"

"Oh come on, Sheryl," the Earl laughingly cut him off, which only managed to annoy the shit out of Sherman. "The man just got here—he's going through some serious jetlag, and he wants to try this 'Chik-Fil-A' that Georgia's so known for."

Sherman stared at the phone for at least two minutes. "You must be kidding me, Earl," he finally forced himself to say, his eyes narrowed to the point he could barely even see.

"Actually—no, I'm not." The Earl chuckled like some douchebag of a grandfather—which is almost what he was. "Be happy, though, that we will get there today at all. I mean, we could go on a road trip to Birmingham—"

"Please. Don't." The dark-skinned man insisted from between clenched teeth. He looked at his makeshift office, which was really just a table in his hotel room strewn with all kinds of papers and statistics. "Okay. Okay, I can handle this. He was missing yesterday, he can keep being elusive today—it's not a big deal." And, by 'not a big deal,' he meant a huge deal was being made.

The Earl could be a real crazy bitch on average.

Speaking of the old bastard: "I knew you could handle it, Sheryl," the Earl said, verbally pleased. "You're the best man for the job, I knew it!"

"If you're trying to butter me up," Sherman deadpanned with a ticking eyebrow. "Then just know that you are failing. And you are failing badly."

"Well of course I'm not 'buttering' you up—what am I, a knife?" Sherman could hear the shared cackles of two terrible men in his ear. "Ha ha—okay, okay. I'm sorry, Sherman."

"Thank you," the VJ replied, straightening his posture to belie his regal nature. He couldn't let his daughter see him have a panic attack by his stance alone—she'd either be devastated or lord it over him for the next five months.

Knowing Rhode, she'd probably lord it like it was Christ. God bless his darling girl.

"Though, tell me, how're the competitions going? What's the dealio, dude?" If Tyki thought Sherman using the slang of the time was bad, then he'd probably vomit violently at the sound of The Earl trying it out. "Who do you think has the most promise, Sherman? Talk to me."

Sherman furrowed his eyebrows, not truly understanding where this turn in the subject came from. "Well, we've gotten rid of a lot of the shit," he said, sifting through the papers on his desk. "And the street team did a bit of a survey last night while the majority of the audience was still loitering."

The Earl sounded intrigued. "Oh," he hummed. "What were the results so far?"

"As expected, Noah's Ark is at the top of everyone's mind," the dark-skinned man explained, smirking as he finally found the file he was searching for. "A good bit of the audience was impressed by the beginning of the competitions, where Noah's Ark destroyed the opposing band, Animal Suit. They're claiming that the Battle should pretty much be over, and that Tyki is at his prime in talent."

"And the Black Order?" the Earl asked next, with a short scolding to the man he was hanging about. "Walker, don't you dare drink that whiskey—it's only ten."

Sherman frowned. Why the hell would anyone take the time to ask about the Black Order? That two bit band was nothing but a pain in the ass so far, and Sherman wasn't afraid to show it. "What about the Black Order?" he replied calmly, fixing his shirt collar idly.

The Earl snorted in amusement. "Let's not play dumb, Sheryl," he said in amusement, causing Sherman to purse his lips tersely. "How is the Black Order doing? Surely there's something in your so-called 'survey' that talks about them, yes?"

If I had the means, the VJ thought with no little amount of spite. I'd kill you where you stood, old man. He bent over the file, running his finger over the scrawled statements by way of his less-than-intelligent street team. He really wanted to fire the life out of them, but that would be pointless at this very moment.

"A good one-fourth of the audience thinks the Black Order shows a lot of promise," Sherman admitted, agitated. He was a fool to think he could use these children for anything. "And that the singer, a Miss Lenalee Lee, is the best singer in the competition after Tyki Mikk and before Tina Spark of Cloud Gospel."

There was a short silence on the other end, and the VJ furrowed his eyebrows in trying to analyze that silence. "…Hello?" he called, frowning.

"Oh!" the Earl chuckled in that obnoxious way he was almost notorious for. "Yes, yes, sorry Sherman. I was just thinking on how interesting this all is, of course. The Black Order…" His voice trailed off into a simple hum, and Sherman was not sure if he should be pleased.

"Why the sudden interest in the Black Order now?" he asked, even though he remembered how he actually wanted the Earl to meet them earlier. But, now it felt like they were taking attention away from Noah's Ark, and this was not the right time to do that, in production terms.

The Earl laughed at him, stroking his nerves once more. "Why not?" he replied. "I love a good band—that's why I'm in this business. As well," this is where the Earl's voice dropped to a whisper, and Sherman pressed the phone to his ear tightly. "I adore a great drama, which the Black Order is full of."

"It's consisted of teenagers," Sherman deadpanned. Teenagers are, well, made of drama. "If they were any younger they'd be called New Edition."

"You are utterly hilarious, Sherman," the old codger cooed. "I love you like the arrogant, bastardly child I never had."

"And I love you like the senile, extravagantly annoying, possibly schizophrenic father I did use to have." Take that, old douchebag.

The Earl chuckled again, and Sherman could hear the loud noise of an Englishman on the rampage. "Walker—Walker, don't touch that bottle! Didn't you just leave rehab?" Walker replied in a thick, muffled voice indecipherable to humans, and the Earl just huffed. "You sly bastard. Sherman!" Sherman cocked an eyebrow, curious at knowing the progress of 'Walker' and the creepy old man babysitting him. "We'll be there later today. Save me a special seat, would you? Bye!" and the line went dead.

Sherman rolled his eyes and placed the phone on its stand surrounded by papers. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed, knowing that he had a short amount of time to himself before he had to go out and face the ignorant masses once more.

"Walker," he muttered, squinting his eyes in thought. "Walker, Walker, Walker."

Allen Walker, the long-haired man remembered, rubbing his clean chin. Allen Walker of the Black Order. Neah Walker, who is with the Earl at this very moment—

Sherman looked down at the many papers on his makeshift desk. "Earl," he muttered, a pleased gleam coming into his golden eyes. "You're a sadistic sucker for soap operas."

He loved a little General Hospital himself, actually.

"Game plan," Lenalee proclaimed, slapping a hurriedly scrawled sheet of notebook paper in the middle of the table in the diner the band and some others currently occupied. "Read it or weep, dudes."

Lavi picked it up gingerly, like it had the capacity to eat his soul or something crazy like that. "Okay," he hummed, squinting his one eye. "'Sing songs by obscure British bands,' and you misspelled 'obscure'. 'Break Kanda's guitar for euphoric effect,' and you misspelled 'euphoric.' 'Incorporate dance routine to impress masses,' and you misspelled 'routine.' What the fuck is this?"

"Okay, Grammar Nazi," Lenalee replied with a frown, but then broke into giggles at the irony of her accusation. "Sorry, sorry, my bad. Okay! But, other than the minor mistakes—"

"Watson, this shit is elementary," the redhead insisted, hitting the paper. "I don't even know how ya made it to high school—Jesus Christ, put down the butter knife and nobody gets hurt, Lenalady!"

"Calling a Jew a 'grammar Nazi,'" Allen commented offhandedly, cutting his fifth pancake into savage pieces. "And the same Jew proclaiming 'Jesus Christ' for blessed safety. How my life has become so very ironic."

Lenalee stared at him, the knife still poised over Lavi's nose. "I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you over how high you were," she replied sweetly. "What'd you say? But with less marijuana."

Allen rolled his eyes, passionately. "Seems like you're never gonna let that go," he said with a grin. He then stabbed into at least seven pieces of pancake and stuffed them into his mouth with the most grace Lenalee had ever seen done with a pancake. "I mean," he continued after wiping his mouth with a napkin. "You'd think I offended you by being high. Which, by the way, is an amazing feeling."

"Dude," Lenalee shook her head. "Komui would know the moment I toked pot, even if I did it here." She frowned, her eyebrows furrowing. "I, I think he has cameras watching me sometimes."

Kanda rolled his eyes, a cup of orange juice in his hands. "That's fucking stupid," he scoffed. "You dead seriously think your retarded brother is watching you? With cameras?"

"Robots," Lavi said somberly, and the band stewed on that for a moment before simultaneously shuddering. "You can do anything when you build Arnolds."

Lenalee did not want to think about that right now. She loved Komui, but sometimes she cursed him to the ends of the earth for his…ugh. "Anyway!" she exclaimed, forcefully pointing at the paper. "Back to business, boys. Is this a great plan, or is this a great plan?"

"C, none of the above," Kanda deadpanned, and Allen snickered. They looked at each other for a short moment, and Kanda coughed heartily with a cruel smirk while the English boy cackled louder, and for the first time in a while Lenalee felt really out of the loop. Which is so surreal considering how she didn't even know Kanda and Allen had a loop.

"Yo," Lavi commented, looking a little terse. "Congrats on your marriage, I'm mad sorry I couldn't make it to your reception," at that, the two almost immediately stopped with whatever they were giggling about, looking appropriately awkward and turning away from each other. "But we do need to talk about what the hell we're gonna do for this shit—there are some really good bands out there, and we need to do something better than what we're doing now. But not a dance routine."

Lenalee snapped her fingers in defeat. "Foiled again," she muttered.

Allen scratched the back of his neck, a blush creeping up his overly pale neck. "Right, sorry," he said, smiling awkwardly. He moved pieces of pancake around with his fork, humming in thought. Then, he looked up with a start, surprising the other members of their group. "Wait; do any of us know what's supposed to happen today at any rate?"

Lenalee cocked an eyebrow. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"Well, you know!" He did some vague gesture with his hands that meant very little to everybody. "What are we supposed to do on stage? What ridiculous thing meant to make us waste time is going to happen today?"

"Like," Lavi added, grinning. "Some sort of Best Band Name contest? Oh, oh, or a Fashionably Acceptable Questionnaire!"

"Or!" Allen continued, clapping his hands together. "How about a Guitar Solo Standoff? Surely that's a reasonable contest for us to try!"

"I like the idea of a Bass Line Bash, though."

"Really? I was really feeling like I could get into the You Will Never Be Better than Noah's Ark competition." The two burst into high pitched laughter, and then it was Kanda's turn to be disgruntled. Though, Lenalee eyed him suspiciously, about what is the true question.

He bumped his fist on the table, just enough to catch the attention of everyone in the freaking restaurant. The Chinese girl smacked her forehead, like way to be subtle Kanda. You're like a ninja with a blow horn, man. "Knock it off, skeezers," he growled, his cup nearly crushed in his grip. "Now who's not taking this seriously?"

"Hey," Lavi started, quirking a short grin that seemed to tense Kanda more than placate him. "Dude, I've most triumphantly been taking this thing seriously—I mean, bro, I already told the bunks from the Ark that we're going to win." He scratched the back of his head, laughing. "I'd really like to carry that out, buddy."

Lenalee, who had begun to zone out a little and think more of their possible stage performances, blinked in surprise at this random bit of information. "Dude, when'd you hang out with Noah's Ark?" she asked.

"Yesterday," the redhead replied, with a conspicuous glance towards the admittedly dangerous buddy team of Kanda and Allen. "While the Druggie Duo was doing what they do best—hotbox, duh—I got lost on some magical path called 'Covington Highway' and ended up in a Waffle House, which, by the way, Brit, is not a meeting place for the Ku Klux Klan. It's, like, the total opposite."

Allen grimaced. "What are you, an elephant?" he demanded, but Lavi seemed to ignore that and continued on with his story.

"Noah's Ark, but missin' a couple of members, came in behind me—so, it was decided that we would eat together," and then, he sort of swooned before a creepy-looking blush crept onto his cheeks. "And, holy shit, dudes—Lulu Bell talked to me."

"No fuckin' way," Kanda said immediately, scowling in disdain. "There is no fuckin' way you're gonna tell me that Lulu fuckin' Bell of Noah's fuckin' Ark talked to you. You."

"You," Lenalee agreed, shrugging.

"You," Allen also concurred.

Lavi stuck up his middle finger. "You guys can go fuck yerselves," he said cheerfully. "Because it's clear you're just hating on the fact that the most mysterious and beautiful member of Noah's Ark talked to me, so suck it, dweebs!"

"What'd she talk about if she said so much to you then, dude?" the singer asked, a smile on her lips. "I mean, 'cause you'd know, right?"

"You've the memory of a verifiable computer, mate," Allen added with a grin.

The one-eyed man paused, rubbing his slightly stubble-brushed chin. "She told me that women are dudes too," he replied. "And that I shouldn't always be sure that Yuu and Allen would beat the shit outta each other when nobody's around. Now that I think about it, what the fuck is she psychic?"

The other three members stared at him for a long moment, and he didn't even squirm.

Kanda broke the silence with an overly incredulous scoff. "That sounds weird as shit, and everyone knows Lulu Bell wouldn't talk about weird shit," he replied. "I don't believe you, Jew."

"You've ruined my breakfast with your lies," Allen stated with a sigh, dropping his fork on his ridiculously empty plate.

Well, maybe it was women's intuition, but somehow Lenalee didn't feel like Lulu Bell was speaking nonsense.

"You know what I love the most about hanging with you, Tyki?" Rhode began, flicking out her wrist to release the Yoyo trapped in her grip. "The lung cancer. I really love the lung cancer."

"You know what I love the most about hanging with you, Rhode?" Tyki replied drolly, running a cheap razor against his foam covered chin while a cigarette hung from between his lips. "Nothing."

"Tsk!" the teenager clicked her tongue in disdain, the Yoyo jerking back into her metaphorical claws. "You're such a dick sometimes, Tyki. It's hard to believe you're my uncle."

Tyki glanced down at her minutely. "Why the hell are you in here?" he asked slowly. "I'm a grown man shaving in a hotel bathroom—what're you trying to do? Make me look like a pervert?"

"Oh, you don't need my help for that," she commented with the slightest bit of disdain. "I mean, your creeping on Allen? Totes normal, dude."

He furrowed his eyebrows. "My relationship with Allen has nothing to do with you," he weakly argued, offended. "And I already know it's a little weird, Jesus Christ. But haven't you ever wanted something but everyone, even yourself, knows you can't have it?"

"…My own Atari?"

"I, I'm just going to stop spilling my heart to kids."

Rhode huffed, swinging her legs against the edge of the bathtub she sat upon. "Okay, faggot," she seemingly complied; rolling her eyes so hard it was a wonder her head wasn't motorized. "I get it, you're in love with Allen Walker, he's like total jailbait, and you're in, like, rival bands. Are you done cleaning out your vagina or do I need to talk some more about how gay you are?"

Tyki used to have girlfriends, once upon a time. Of course he did, he's young, devastatingly handsome, and a well-to-do kind of guy if not a little shady. Unfortunately, the problem that occurred with women was how the majority of the females in his immediate vicinity (Rhode, Lulu) were either complete bitches or weird and too much like him. When he would date, he would always find himself comparing to his favorite (though this was questionable) ladies, which usually made him a bit crept out and so he would end up having sex and never calling them back once this realization hit.

So, suffice to say, he sometimes blames Rhode for ruining his relationships. Other times he'll blame Lulu, but for now Rhode will do.

"My brother needs to put you in foster care," he finally said, putting the razor on the sink and stumping out his cigarette. He turned the tap on the sink and rinsed his face with cold water, slapping his jaw just to make sure he got all of the cream off his face.

"Then who would take my place as guitarist for the Ark?" Rhode retorted, an eyebrow cocked. "That Japanese dude from Allen's band, Kanda? Or, how about that guy from Third, what was his name? Madison?"

The hell if he knew. "The hell if I know," Tyki replied with a dismissive wave. He hummed in thought, walking out the bathroom. "Talking about Third, though—one of those freaks asked me yesterday if I could make sure the Black Order stayed in the running until the end."

Rhode trotted out after him, looking utterly Hessian in her morbid, tight dark clothing, spiked accessories and carefully teased short hair. He always did like her style in shoes, though—she never once made combat boots look bad. "Why?" she asked, still playing with her Yoyo. "I mean, why the Black Order? That's a really weird question."

"That's what I said," he stated, roving around the common room in search of his glasses. Tyki had astigmatism as an optical defect, where he could see with a bit of blur without the spectacles, but he preferred to have perfect sight in private. "It apparently has something to do with that Japanese bodyguard of Allen's, what'd you say his name was? Andrew?"

"Kanda," Rhode corrected. She fell silent for a moment, still playing with her Yoyo. "I don't get it. Why would he ask about that guy?"

Tyki shrugged, grabbing the acoustic guitar by the door and shouldering it by the strap. "It's prob' some rivalry shit," he replied, pressing his thumb against the D chord while tuning it carefully. "Give me a song, Rhode."

"Piano Man," she said immediately, and snickered at the offended look on his face. "What? You can't play Billy Joel on a guitar? What are you, stupid?"

"Cala," he started blandly. "A boca. Christ." His fingers plucked out a few chords with no true purpose, until it started to sound like Gene Chandler. "Duke, Duke, Duke of Earl," he chanted in song, closing his eyes. He loved this song—it was an amazing piece of work. "Nothing can stop me now—'cause I'm, the Duke of Earl—"

Rhode was now sitting on the hotel-provided table in the common room, with that damned toy spinning at her fingertips slowly. "You can sing old shit like this," she scoffed. "But you can't do Billy Joel? What kind of musician are you?"

"I'm gonna love you, oh, oh," he kept singing, dead set on ignoring the girl as best he could.

"But, for cereal," she swung her legs freely, catching the toy. "There's something off about the Black Order. Like, Allen looks def familiar, but I've never met him until that day they opened for us."

Tyki kept strumming, but found himself unwillingly intrigued by Rhode's opinion. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"You know how you're watching TV, right," Rhode replied offhandedly. "And you see someone and think, dude, he looks kinda like someone I know. Allen looks kinda like someone I know, except I don't know who." She shrugged.

She was so useful it was devastating at times. "Uh…huh," Tyki replied slowly, returning his attention to his guitar. He never felt that familiar feeling when looking at Allen, or at least he never noticed because of the heavy tugs of affection that plagued his heart when he was near the rival band. Sometimes, though, he did look at Allen and wonder what it would be like if the boy were any different, and realized that those weren't the greatest thoughts.

"Sometimes, though," she continued, looking at him oddly. "I get the same feeling about you. Huh—that's weird."

Yet, before Tyki could reply to Rhode, the hotel door burst open, and his brother seemingly swept into the common room with more extravagance than necessary.

"Rhode!" he cried, holding his arms out wide. "You weren't in the room this morning, so I thought you went to breakfast with the twins!"

"I fucking hate the twins," Rhode replied blandly, not resisting the forced embrace from her father. "They're annoying as hell—why would I spend any moment of my day with those dweebs?"

Sherman sighed. "Language, darling," he said, releasing her. He turned and found Tyki sitting on the ground, looking almost too much like a homeless man on the lam. "Tyki. Is it too hard to get ready for today's events? Really?"

"What're today's events, again?" the younger man asked, not looking up from his acoustic guitar.

His brother groaned, clearly annoyed. "Cover songs," he said. "Today is an entire day dedicated to cover songs."

Tyki liked doing covers, sometimes. It varied on the artist and the genre of music, but usually he was good for singing Yazoo in the shower. "Hmm…" he hummed, pausing his music. He looked up at his brother, who was really looking all too smug for his comfort. "You look too happy—is it sabotage day?"

"No, idiot," Sherman scoffed. "Have you heard some of these people? Sabotage would make it almost too easy to get them out."

Once he remembered a few of the singers in the competition he himself took part of, Tyki shuddered violently. "Who the hell told half these losers to start a band?" he asked, holding his precious acoustic guitar close to himself.

"Satan," because that was obviously the most logical answer. Sherman clapped his hands together, shaking his head in displeasure. "Anyway, get that cigarette out your mouth and get to my room—you guys need to practice before you hit the stage, and I'd rather not have your voice crack like its 1974 again."

"Ha ha," Tyki laughed sarcastically. "You and that memory Sherman, wow. Looks like we can't get anything past those crazy brains of yours, hmm?"

Sherman was not impressed. "While you're being a smartass, Little Brother," he replied calmly. "I know every single embarrassing thing you've done since the day you were born. Remember when you really liked Sesame Street, and you tried to be Kermit—"

Oh God, he did know too much. "Okay, we can stop now," Tyki said with a smile, holding his guitar closer to himself. "I mean, fuck you Sheryl. Fuck you."

"Indeed." The older brother tossed some wayward strands of his long hair over his shoulder. "Now, get up, get rid of that wrapped cancer, and get some voice exercises in. Rhode, you too—in fact, you're coming with me."

"Daaaad," Rhode whined particularly hard. "I already know the measures to all the songs on the new albuuum. Tyki's the asshole who doesn't play an instrument—he should have to practice alone, the bunk."

Fuck you too Rhode, Tyki's eyebrow twitched. He loved his family so much it hurt.

Oh god it hurt.

"Sweetheart, no," Sherman clicked his tongue in a final sort of tone. "You all need to talk, and decide which songs you want to play. What if everyone decides they want to cover a song by the Zombies? Do you know all the chords to 'Time of the Season,' Rhode?"

"Eww," she replied, and Tyki wholeheartedly agreed. "Nobody should know the chords to that, it's, like, a crime against bestiality."

"Humanity, kid," Tyki corrected.

Rhode glanced at him. "The amount of animals that die after listening to the Zombies is mega wrong," she said simply. "We can cover our ears or turn it off. Dogs commit suicide."

"This is a stupid fucking conversation—"

"Shut up Tyki," his brother reprimanded. "And, lovely logic, darling, but we really must be going. You have ten minutes to look like a functional member of society, Tyki. I'll be back."

The VJ, with a hand gripping his daughter's shoulder gently but sternly, led the two out of the room and left Tyki on the floor with his hollow acoustic for company.

"…" He strummed the guitar once. "This competition…"

It was starting to get on his nerves.

"I can't fucking wait until this is over," Kanda whispered out loud, not really meaning for anyone to hear his disdain, but he was okay with the way Allen nodded in agreement. "A day full of cover songs? You gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me, dork."

Lenalee sighed, rubbing her arm sheepishly. "I wish I was, dude," she replied with a weak smile. "I mean, come on, I kinda wanted a Bass Line Bash—somethin' original or something."

"I know what you mean," Lavi said, tapping the top of his head with his own drumsticks. Fucking retard, who does that? "And they're sayin' that we need a goddamn setlist of covers—like, four or five or what-the-fuck-ever they want. We are so fuckin' screwed, kids."

Yeah, Kanda shrugged. They pretty much were.

After the untimely and pretty hilarious breakfast where Allen ate enough to supply a maritime war for twenty years, the band set off to find an information booth or some shit like it, only to discover that the challenge for the entire day was a setlist of cover songs from each remaining band—of which generally numbered to twenty or twenty-five. Kanda didn't really care for the details, other than that they were number 14, and Third was number 10.

As it was, they only got by yesterday because of the goddamned musically-inclined Panamanian's creepy as fuck stalking and the fact that the brat was still weak as hell when it came to rejecting the guy.

Just punch him in the face, Kanda thought off subject for a moment, sneering at any jerk that passed. Come the fuck on, kid—one punch, he's gone forever. I know I sure as hell wouldn't want to be with some dweeb that punched me.

His abdominal muscles ached for a second, and he remembered this very morning where Allen hauled out on his stomach.

He hits hard as shit, Kanda mused with a grimace, rubbing his chin. Fuck. He hits really hard for a kid that skinny. His eyes unwillingly moved to his bandmate's backside, and he immediately looked up at Lenalee's shoulders for rectification. Maybe he's not that skinny—Jesus fucking Christ what the fuck am I thinking?

"—Kanda?" the Chinese singer was calling his name, and he suddenly snapped to attention. "Dude, what do you think?"

Kanda hadn't heard a damn thing said in the past ten minutes. "What?" he asked gruffly. "I wasn't listening to shit that you guys said. What am I supposed to think about, again?"

"It's okay," Allen started with a grin, and Kanda knew that he walked right into that one. "We can't expect you to overwork that tiny hamster in your skull." He sighed, crossing his arms like the faggot he probably was. "Personally, I believe it deserves a raise. You?"

"I hate you," Kanda replied calmly. "So fucking much."

Lavi laughed, twirling the drumstick in between his fingers. "Guys, guys," he attempted to calm everyone down. "Let's hit up a roach later in celebration for your engagement—right now, fuckin' business, bros." He stuck the stick between his left ear and headband. "We need to decide some songs, and we need to decide them quick."

"The competition starts at eleven," Lenalee explained, gesticulating nervously. "And right now, it's nine. Dude, we're so screwed—oh my gooood—"

"Calm the fuck down, Lenalee," Kanda grunted, rubbing his temples. Jesus Christ, this was going to get very annoying very fast. "We got two hours—maybe even more, 'cause we're definitely not the first ones to compete."

"Every few millennia," Allen said with a grin. "Even a moron will make a good point. Now to wait another three thousand years—" Here, he winked in the most sensual way possible just to piss Kanda off, even though that's not a difficult thing to do. "—and to decide five songs we've practiced before."

Lenalee sighed again. "That's one of the problemos," she said. "We practice so many original songs that I can't really think of shit we do by other people."

Kanda furrowed his eyebrows, thinking hard about the amount of covers songs they've done in the short lifetime they've been a band.

"Kajagoogoo," he spoke, suddenly itching for a stick of gum. He needed to chew something, badly. "We played the shit earlier in the year, remember?"

"Yeah, but that was, like, in January," the singer replied, threading her fingers through her hair. Her eyes lit up. "Hey, isn't that the song we first played for Allen? Sweet! We're definitely doing that one, it's, like, memorial or something."

Allen looked at Kanda, who caught his eyes with an equal expression of 'What the fuck.' "Uh, yeah, sure." He just let it happen, because fighting with Lenalee was never truly worth it.

Oh god the boobs, he shivered in disgust.

Lavi snapped his fingers excitedly. "Yo, remember that shit you guys did back when me and Yuu graduated?" he asked, grinning widely. "Gold? By Spandau Ballet? We could most definitely rock that shit, dudes!"

Allen's eyes widened. "You are most certainly correct!" he said with a smirk. "And it's still fresh in our minds! How about 'Saints Goes Marching'? A tad childish but, come on now, they never said we couldn't!"

"They probably do have official rules somewhere," Lavi pointed out. At everyone's offended look, he held up his hands in an innocent measure. "But who the fuck cares we should do it anyway!"

"Excellent!" Lenalee cried. Kanda just smirked, and Allen nodded his head in approval.

Until the British freak paused. "Wait," he started cautiously. "We have another issue. While, yes, it's lovely we've found three songs so far…I don't exactly know the sheets to Kajagoogoo."

That's when it dawned on everyone that nobody truly knew any song.

"Yuu and I don't know shit about Gold, other than it's an ace song," Lavi whispered, dragging his hand along his face like he was trying to remove the skin. "Holy shit."

"Then the only fucking song we really know how to play together," Kanda continued, holding back a feral snarl in all his annoyance. "is fucking Saints. Wow, we call ourselves a goddamn band and all we know is Saints?" Geez, they sounded like the biggest losers this side of the Hudson, for Christ's sake.

Lenalee, with her hands on her hips, scoffed so passionately that everyone had to look at her for a moment. "Saints is a kickass song, first of all," she began, pacing the area. "And we have two hours to cram the shit out of those other two songs into our heads." She paused, looking thoughtful. "If we need to, we can even cut out whoever can't play something when it's time for that song. Like, cut out Al for Kajagoogoo—"

"Cut me and Yuu out for Gold!" Lavi cried, pumping both his fists in the air with his drumsticks gripped tightly. "Oh, we have got this shit down, dude!"

Allen patted his bicep, shaking his head sadly. "Unfortunately, even if we did pull that off," he countered gently. "We still only know three songs."

"Fuck this," Kanda found himself groaning, "I don't even care anymore, losers. We have three songs? Great, we will do those three fucking songs, 'cause we don't know shit else."

"What about that song we did that one time?" Lavi asked like everybody knew what the fuck he was talking about.

Even Lenalee had to give him a deadpan look. "Oh, you mean that song we did that one time we played a song on that day, right?" she asked sarcastically.

The redhead smacked his forehead, realizing the error of his ways. "Fuck you guys," he huffed. "I meant that song we did with the One, the Only, the Most Excellent Lady Herself—"

"Anita?" Kanda demanded, feeling a sort of ache in his stomach at the memory. "No."

"But, Yuu," Lavi tried.

"No, faggot," Kanda snarled. "We are not doing that shit, and what did I tell you about using my goddamn first name?"

Lavi smiled. "That it was only okay at night between the sheets, baby," he replied.

Kanda decided then that it was time for the Jew to die. He obviously had outlived his usefulness—if there was anything of the sort in the beginning.

"Before Lavi is murdered in cold blood," Allen spoke up, displaying some pretty sick psychic powers. "We would not truly be able to do it. I've a hunch that playing one song one time, entirely on accident mind you, is not a sign of near mastery. Also, it wouldn't be the same without Andy on tambourine."

Kanda shuddered. "Don't call me that," he grumbled.

"That was a crazy night," Lenalee sighed, wistful. She paced the ground afterward, arms crossed under her ample chest impatiently. "So, we have three songs, and only one of them we know as a group. I'm cool with Operation Just Do Those Songs and Hope for the Best—you dudes?"

"Totally," said Lavi.

"Wicked," agreed Allen.

"What the fuck ever," groused Kanda.

With two hours (or more) to spare, the band knew they really had no time, and set out to practice. Where and with what instrument, in the case of Allen?

They looked at each other and felt that anywhere was okay—and the British teenager decided it was time to cash in a favor from his favorite (as questionable as this was) twins.

"Catch you in a minute or so," Allen said, separating from the group. "I need to get me a synth."

Jasdero and David seemed all-too surprised when they opened the door.

"A-Walk!" David exclaimed, a grin brightening his tanned face. "A pleasure findin' ya here!"

"What does it?" Jasdero asked amiably, gesturing excitedly for the boy to come into their hotel suite. "Ya came to cop a glance at our practice? Or jus' for some good ol' fashioned Mikk lovin'? 'Cause Tyki's in the next room over—"

Allen cut him off ungracefully. "None o' that," he said with a grimace, walking cautiously into the suite. It looked generally normal at first glance, but life in America has taught him that nothing is as safe as it seems. Not even kittens. "I came to borrow your synth, Jasdero and David. As I asked a good night or so ago?"

David and Jasdero shared a look. "Right!" the older twin said, nodding. "I rememba' that night. You nearly wet your skivvies when I jumped off that balcony!"

"Don't remind me," Allen said darkly. He shook his head, his hair getting into his eyes subsequently. "Any roads, how does it? Might I use it for today?"

The twins laughed, and David clapped his shoulder joyfully. "Notta issue, A-Walk," he said with a smile.

"We've about three," Jasdero explained, laughing. "Won't do us much harm t' lend one out to our fav'rite little Londonite." His face sobered almost instantly after that statement, and he leaned in close to Allen's face. "But, ye gotta bring it back before midnight."

"Elsewise," David continued. "It'll turn into a mango."

"What the dirty fuck," Allen said, and then clapped a hand over his mouth in shock. "I have no idea what has come over me—I am so very so—"

The twins were laughing rambunctiously, like he just told some hilariously funny joke instead of cursed like some sort of rough-and-tumble thug—like Kanda.

It is time, he thought dully. To limit my exposure to him. It is not affecting me well.

"What the dirty fuck, ah? Sounds wicked!" David cackled.

Jasdero ruffled his hair. "You can doubly borrow the synth now if you're speakin' sailor 'cause o' it!" he exclaimed.

"David, Jasdero—okay, this is weary," Allen complained. "Can't I just call you, I don't know, Jasdavi or something of the sort?"

The two older teenagers, once calm, shared a look contemplatively. "Why not?" David replied, shrugging.

"I think that's what Rhode calls us anyway," Jasdero said.

"Lovely," Allen said. "So, Jasdavi—how about that synth soon, ah?"

"Alright," Jasdero sighed, grinning. "But rememba', A-Walk—"

"—you break it," David said, throwing an arm across the younger boy's shoulders. "You're ours, mate."

"Creepy psychic twin powers aside," Allen replied, shrugging the arm off his being. "I understand completely."

"Wotcher!" David nuzzled the top of his head, and Allen was a bit tickled by it. "We'll leave you to it, then—or, at least, once Jazzy gets it."

Jasdero threw his hands in the air, exasperated. "What the dirty fuck," he said, and then the twins burst into fits of laughter again.

Allen smacked his forehead.

Fuck you, Kanda.

"Wait, how'd you get a synth?" Lavi asked, squinting his one eye suspiciously.

Allen, sporting a near permanent flush of embarrassment, weakly smiled.

"I've connections," he said.

"And, now, band number ten—Third!"

Kanda froze, the chords to Kajagoogoo almost instantly forgotten while his thumb rested on the taut D string. Lavi made a sort of half-choked sound in the back of his throat that led the guitarist to think the freak was excited or something.

"We gotta check them out," Lavi said.

Lenalee looked nervous. "I dunno, dude…" she trailed off, crossing her arms.

"Lenalady, dude, bro, sista—come on," he insisted. "We need to check out Third—I've never seen the entire band in concert before, and that is, like, one of my biggest dreams I mean seriously."

Allen looked surprised. "Not cereally?" he asked blandly.

"Fuck the Froot Loops, this shit is real," Lavi explained. "Let's just see their set, go back to practicing, and then go up when they call us. It is my Christmas dream, Lenalady. Christmas."

The British brat opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it with an audible snap. "I give up," he bemoaned, raking his wrinkled red fingers through his white hair.

"Oh," Lenalee sighed. "Okay." She smiled a little, in a secret sort of way. "I kinda want to see them up close too."

"What? You want Madarao to take off his shirt?" Allen asked rhetorically. "Well, well, Lenalee—so you've moved your hawking eyes to another crush—ow! Bloody hell, you needed to kick me? Couldn't a simple punch do?"

"I know my kicks hurt more," the Chinese girl said simply. She turned to Kanda, smiling widely. "What do you think, Kanda?"

Kanda wanted to say, 'I think you guys are a bunch of crazy motherfuckers and that we need to practice for fucking serious you crappy bunch of slackers, also I'd rather punch myself in the face than willing watch Madarao mock me onstage,' but the hope in her eyes made him say, "Sure, why the hell not?" which apparently translates to 'HELL YEAH OH MY GOD PARTY' to his idiotic bandmates.

"Yes! Party time!" Lavi crowed, hopping out of the back of the van. They had to get a little ghetto with the practice, and kept the trap kit in the van for convenience's sake.

"Well then," Allen sighed, picking up the synthesizer. He slid it smoothly into a junction in the van, and pivoted on his heel towards the other members. "Let's get a move on, shall we? I'd say they're still setting up right about now."

Kanda made a big, exaggerated show of slowly placing Mugen in its case and then putting that case in the van, but then Lenalee huffed like he was preventing something.

"Ugh," he groaned, placing Mugen safely in the van. He shut the doors and locked them with a practiced ease. "Okay, hosers—let's go."

He felt like he was going to seriously regret this.

"Hey," a raspy, accented voice reverberated throughout the field, and Kanda looked up with a fixed scowl. Madarao and that goddamn troupe of assholes stood on the stage, quickly setting up any necessary equipment and getting in place with a practiced ease. "I'm Madarao, this is'a Third, and we're happy t' be here."

The crowds screamed and thrashed around Kanda, voicing their approval very loudly but it was still annoying as fuck. He furrowed his eyebrows, shoving some wayward dickbag away from his bicep. He still had no idea what the fuck these guys were doing here, seeing as how they were already a fairly well-known band with a deal and all that useless shit.

"Firstly, we're gonna start with one'na our favorite songs by one'na our favorite bands—you'll know it." Madarao paused. "At least, we hope you do." With that, he brought his mouth away from the microphone and turned to the rest of the band to grumble out instructions. Nobody knew if the guy had the capacity to yell or raise his voice to any decibel expressing emotion when it didn't come to music.

Kiredori, Madarao's younger brother that could seriously pass for his sister, shouldered his red and black American Fender and pressed his fingers tightly to the neck. With a shake of his head to get wayward hair out the way of his eyes, he thumbed a sequence of chords that someone would have to be mentally fucking retarded to not know—and even then, they need to be living under a rock too.

"Is," Allen started loudly over the rest of the audience. "Is he playing Smoke on the Water?"

The Japanese man groaned. "Yes," he ground out, narrowing his eyes. "Yes he is."

"Why do you sound like you're in pain?"

"Because I fucking hate Deep Purple," Kanda answered honestly. "And they are doing this shit to spite me. They are trying to spite me so fucking hard, man."

Allen looked like he wanted to ask another question, but ended up shutting his mouth with a sigh. Kanda cocked an eyebrow—what the fuck was up with this kid? If you've got something to say, then say it—what's the use in keeping it quiet?

"We all came out to Montereux," Madarao's voice was a grainy melody that permeated human skin and implanted itself in the mind. Like many singers from the whole Metal scene, his singing voice fluctuated and jumped by way of a lack of screaming. Kanda remembered, though, a time when he wasn't nearly as good as he is now, and crossed his arms in an effort to forget once more. "On the Lake Geneva shoreline. To make records with a mobile—we didn't have much time…"

"Fuck this," Kanda spoke, rubbing his neck. "I'll be back in a minute."

Lenalee looked scandalized. "W-wait, where the hell do you think you're goin', dude?" she demanded, a hand on his forearm to stop him.

He looked at her with a cocked eyebrow. "I need t' take a piss," he replied half-truthfully. He actually was going to go camp out in his van until this was over, but using the restroom also didn't seem too out of the way by this point.

"For serious?"

"Dead serious."

Lenalee looked into his eyes for a long while. Kanda tried not to fidget, but she was making it really difficult. It always felt like the girl knew more than she let on—especially since she only knew the minimum amount of details about the older man.

Or at least, he thought that was all she knew.

"All right," Lenalee finally conceded with a sigh. "But come back before their set ends—we need to be ready to motor, dude."

"Got it," Kanda replied, nodding. "I'll be back mega quick, I promise, kid."

She laughed a little and gave him a small salute. "I'm counting on you, Sergeant Kanda."

"Sure, Lieutenant Lee." He rolled his eyes, but ended up smirking anyway. Stuffing as much of his hands as he could into his jean pockets, the guitarist barreled through the crowds in a way that would make John Cusack proud—not that he'd want to make that asshole proud, or anything.

He was almost through the crowd when a hand grabbed his shoulder, and he held back a snarl meant to kill.

"Yo," motherfucking Lavi spoke into his ear, grinning widely. "'Sup, Yuu my boy?"

"…" Kanda put his hand over the fingers gripping his shoulder, still looking forward. "We've known each other for about, what, five fuckin' years?" he asked between grinding his teeth.

He couldn't really hear Lavi's reply, because they were still in an ocean of unnecessarily loud humans. "Right," he said, and pretty much crushed the Jew's hand within his own grip. "And you still don't fuckin' know not to touch me? What the fuck, airhead?"

Lavi retracted his hand almost immediately, hissing in pain. Kanda continued his walk through the crowds, shoving people whenever necessary and accidentally stepping on some weird Hispanic-looking kid.

"H-hey, wait up!" the one-eyed dweeb called loudly, and the sound of complaining and body shoving followed closely. "Come the fuck ooon, Yuu—I'm actually really sorry 'bout this, man! We're still Besties, right?"

Kanda finally reached a spot where the people began to thin into smaller groups and then a couple of loiterers. "Fuck yes," he sighed in relief, wiping his forehead. Fucking body heat, messing with people at all the wrong moments.

Lavi hopped next to him, still shaking his injured hand. "Dude," he whined. "What do you do, crush bricks with your bare hands for fun or some shit like it?"

"Yes." The Japanese man sneered, crossing his arms. "Now what the fuck do you want? I got things t' do, asshole."

"Are you seriously chickening out?" the redhead asked, scratching underneath his headband with his healthy hand. "I mean, dude. Do you even know the details, for real? I think you should talk to Madarao a little more, dude."

Kanda took a good eleven seconds to just look at the guy in front of him. The freakin' epitome of a Smarmy Bastard, he honestly didn't know how anyone could trust those—okay, that—laughingly green eye and that goddamn permanently smug expression. How did he hang out with this guy for so long without murdering him in cold blood, or without punching his other eye forever shut?

"Who the fuck are you?" he simply asked.

Lavi blinked. "Uh, I'm Lavi Ja—"

"No, asswipe," Kanda stepped up to the drummer, baring his teeth dangerously. "I mean, who the fuck are you to tell me what the fuck I should do? Who the fuck are you to act like you know every little thing about me? Because, seriously, I forget your fucking first name once a day, loser."

"You forget everyone's first name once a day—"

"That isn't the point!" Kanda raged, lashing his hand out and grabbing the asshole's neck. He forcibly brought the younger man closer, close enough where they could touch fucking noses. "You don't know shit about me, Cyclops. You think you know every fuckin' thing, but guess what? You don't. We're friends, but we'll never be best friends."

Lavi garbled a little, tugging weakly at his wrist. "Y-Yuu," he gasped, furrowing his eyebrows.

Kanda let him go, disgusted. "Don't use my fuckin' first name," he said, and he pivoted on his heel towards what seemed to be a building with a bathroom. Now he really had to take a piss, from sheer anger.

He stalked to the building, glaring nastily at anyone who even thought about looking at him, let alone tried to talk to him.

Opening the doors, he took a small moment to savor the cool air inside. It was, in fact, a bathroom specified for parks, and Kanda felt a little less angry at everything.

He sauntered to a urinal stiffly and unzipped his jeans just enough to allow him to shove his boxers low on his hips.

Closing his eyes, he tilted his head back. "Fuck," he breathed, feeling better already.

Zip.

His dark blue eyes snapped open at the sound of another zipper, and he turned to his side with a scowl.

Lavi grinned at him, his eye twinkling and his neck splattered with purple bruises. "Hey, dude," he said with his dick in his hand like this was completely normal. "Great day for'a piss, huh?"

"What," Kanda started slowly, narrowing his eyes. "the fuck are you doing here?"

The drummer tried for his most innocent look, and then failed terribly. "Who, me?" he asked cheerfully. "Like I said, just takin' a piss, enjoying the view." He pointedly looked down at Kanda's own dick with a smirk, which was seriously not cool in at least every country in the world.

Except Italy, probably. Fucking Romans.

"When I am done," Kanda replied. "I am going to kick your fucking ass until your grandpa barely recognizes you, Cyclops."

"Ha ha, yeah, like that time in seventh grade, right?" Lavi asked, chuckling. "Except, I remember it differently. Not that ya couldn't beat the shit outta me now, dude—those muscles are bulk bad, bro. It's just funny that you always say that, but we've only fought once. Well, twice, if you count today's domestic abuse." He laughed, his shoulders shaking.

What the fuck— "What the fuck are you on, dude?" Kanda demanded.

Lavi just smiled. "Your name is Yuu Kanda, no middle name," he replied. "Born on June 6th, 1966, in Tribeca, New York. You know enough Japanese to curse the shit outta some koozbane, but you're not as fluent as people think you are."

"Wha—"

"You play guitar pretty great, but you know you could do better," he continued. "Your favorite song is Bohemian Rhapsody, even though you don't want people to know, 'cause that is a little embarassin' bro." Then, the redhead paused, running his tongue over his likely dry lips. "You lived in New York for thirteen years, and moved to Virginia after a year of the foster care system. You failed sixth grade and Tiedoll nearly killed you for it. You have a tattoo on your left pectoral that you got four years ago. You judge Chinese food and never eat more than what makes you full, and you clearly work out a lot."

Kanda stared at him, his mouth hung open in shock.

Lavi wasn't done, either. "You've got a crush on Al, you respect Lenalee more than anyone else, and you call your great-uncle in New York once every two months," he said with a quirky smile. "Tokusa used to be a mega good friend, same with Madarao. You don't really like the idea of being in a band, but you do it because Lenalee's into it. You do have a best friend, and his name is Karma. But, that's all I know."

By this time, the two were both well done with urinating, but with Lavi's speech and Kanda's intense disbelief, they were pretty much just standing there with their dicks in their hands like a badly planned circle jerk.

"…" Kanda cleared his throat, looking away in embarrassment. "How the fuck, dude?" he asked, admittedly really curious on how the living hell anyone could know that much.

Lavi laughed, patting his shoulder. "You might not think I'm your best friend," he said with a grin. "But you'll always be mine. I don't know everything about you, and I probably never will. But, I know enough to make sure you're doin' okay." He laughed. "And you are really fuckin' predictable, dude. Besides, you didn't even deny it when I said you had a crush on Al, you fuckin' loser."

The Japanese man felt his face heat up in what could've been a blush, but then he looked at the hand on his shoulder. "What the fuck man—you didn't even wash your hands, you dork!" he exclaimed, smacking the appendage away from his body. "Oh grodie, cock germs."

"What, wittle ittle Yuu's afraid of a little dick bacteria?" Lavi mocked, smirking evilly. He pressed his hand to the other man's facial cheek, cackling at the snarl and generally bad reaction he got in return. "C'mon man, 's not like you've got a vagina or something!"

Kanda took about five steps back in rapid subsequence, hurriedly putting his dick back in his boxers and pulling up his pants. "That is fucking disgusting, and I am going vomit now," he announced, faking a gag. He looked down at his hands. "But I gotta wash my hands mad rad bad."

Lavi had done the same with returning his cock to its proper place, and wriggled his fingers. "If I put my hand over Brit's mouth, would it be kinda like a blowjob?" he asked with a leer.

"What? No, shut up." Kanda shoved his shoulder on the way to the sink, deciding it was only far to spread the dick germs to the jerk that started it.

After another five minutes of being hygienic and Lavi just being a general annoyance with bad jokes, the duo walked back outside into that Southern heat.

"Wait," Kanda stated, stopping on the way to the crowds. Lavi also paused and turned to him with a curious look. The dark-haired man rubbed the back of his neck, scowling. "I, I really do forget every hoser's first name…but I still know your last name."

Lavi looked bewildered for a minute, until the expression bloomed into a wide smile. "That's a lot more than most people," he replied.

Yeah, Kanda thought, looking away. It is. He was pretty aware that he was a total dick for no valid reason, and it never really bothered him until moments like these.

"I'm not try'na be gay," Lavi said, raking his fingers through his thick red hair. "Or anything like that, but I really do care for you, man."

"…Thanks."

"No prob'." He clapped his hands together, grinning. "Now, Third might be on their last song, so we gotta get back pronto, dude."

"Yeah, like cereally," Kanda took off at a fast paced trot, only to almost slam into some asshole standing in front of the two young men. "Ach—what the fu—"

"Ah, sorry lad," a thickly accented voice replied with a start, and Kanda cursed his luck. Another fucking Englishman? What the fuuuuck.

"Yeah, yeah," he replied gruffly, catching a good look at the man he bumped into. A tall, handsome white dude with a sort of mid-length wavy brown hair smiled back at him, his teeth way too perfect for the whole European stereotype. "Are you ever gonna get out of the way?"

That's when he opened his eyes, and Kanda felt like he was getting some sort of Déjà vu. There was something about the color and the clarity, like he knew someone with eyes so off-blue they were gray. And that horribly intelligent gleam was also crazy familiar, what the fuck.

"But, of course, lad," he replied with a smirk. "Just tryin'a catch a ganda' at th' events. You boys in'na band ye'selves?"

"Yeah," Lavi answered this time, also, gazing curiously into the man's eyes. "We're goin' up some bands after this." He scratched his head, just as confused as Kanda. "This might be'a weird question, but who are you?"

The man looked a little sad for a moment, but then shook it off with a smile. "You'll find out, I bet," he replied, shrugging. He stepped out of the way, winking. "Have a good morning, lads—I'll be rootin' fer ya, whoever you are ye'selves."

"Uh, yeah. Thanks."

Unwilling to continuously bask in the creepiness that was that guy, Kanda shoved Lavi forward into the crowd. Then began the familiar task of plowing through humans for the sake of being a dick, and that was enough to distract Kanda from the weird British guy or the earlier events of the day.

Lenalee lit up in happiness when they made it back, and Allen flashed a smile at the two. "You guys made it just in time," the Chinese girl said loudly, grinning widely. "Third's about to do their last cover of the set, and I bet it's gonna be awesome!"

"Sure," Kanda replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes. Allen pinched his arm roughly for no clear reason, so he reeled back in preparation to yell at him, but then the kid grinned.

"Welcome back, idiot," he said loudly, as is necessary in this goddamn noise. "I was a bit frightened you were scared, and that you wouldn't come back."

Kanda punched his shoulder lightly. "Fuck you, asshole," he replied in a near shout.

Finally, he looked up at the stage at Third, with Madarao readjusting his microphone idly.

"Now we're on our last song," he said lowly, looking up at the audience. "An' I'm real glad it'sa day of cover songs—'cause this song is so fuckin' perfect for someone I know, we couldn'ta fuckin' wrote it." He waited for the wave of laughter to die down, and continued, "So, this guy knows who he is. I want him to listen to me sing, and I want him to get his head out his ass with th' seriousness."

"I love that saying!" Lenalee cried.

Madarao turned and looked at Tokusa, nodding once.

Tokusa grinned and cracked his fingers.

And then he played the synthesizer with more precision than he'd ever shown before.

Kanda blinked. The notes were really familiar in a recent sort of way, instead of the usual seventies mishap kind of way.

Kiredori leaned back and thumbed the same chords as the synthesizer, the sharp sound of the guitar crawling against the thick, prominent melody of the keyboard. Goushi beat the bass drum after a few seconds of the initial instrumental, tapping the tom seconds later and leaving Madarao to bring it all together.

"I get up," he crowed into the microphone. "And nothin' gets me dooown—you got it tough? Huh, I've seen the toughest soul around.
And I know—buddy, just how you feel,
But you gotta ro-o-o-oll with th' punches,
To get to what's real!"

"Oh can't you see me standin' here," the audience shouted along to the popular Van Halen song, with the lyrics still fresh in everyone's mind as the song was released only a year ago. Kanda stared ahead, almost disbelieving in his expression. "I got my back against the record machiiine!"

"I ain't the worst that you've seen," Madarao continued, his amber eyes roving over the audience. "Oh, can't you see what I mean? Yeah, might as well jump—"

"JUMP!" the rest of the band shouted. The Mongolian man nodded. "Might as well jump—go 'head and jump—JUMP! Go 'head and jump!
Aah-ooh, hey you! Who said that?
Buddy, how you been?" He looked at the audience very pointedly, and Kanda was a little glad that he couldn't be found amongst the masses. "You say you don't kno-o-o-oow,
You won't know, until you be-gin!"

"Oh can't you see me standin' here," Lenalee and Lavi were singing along as loudly as possible, and even Allen looked like he wanted to tap his feet to the music. "I got my back against the record machiiine!"

"I ain't the worst that you've seen," Madarao repeated. He looked in Kanda's general area, and the Japanese man got a little uncomfortable. "Why can't you see what I mean? Yeah, might as well jump—"

Kanda looked at him, and he heard the screams of the people surrounding him, celebrating music as it should be—as a welcomed force that sweeps through one's soul, one's senses, and one's world. He glanced at the gleeful faces of his bandmates, their bodies vibrating if not outright in motion with the sound pouring from the speakers. This audience, as stifling and uncomfortable as it was, was a reminder of what being in a band was about—that it was more than just the fame, or the money, or even the escape.

You know, a certain asshole once told him some time ago. You don't really need an instrument to make music. But, it helps when you do—so you can share what you feel with the rest of us unfortunate jerks.

So, maybe, his head was in his ass.

Yeah, Kanda knew he was stubborn to a ridiculous fault, and acerbic to a painful degree. He knew his weaknesses and his strengths, his pros and his cons.

However, he didn't know what could make a person like him, let alone love him. He had no idea why Tiedoll cared so much, why Zu was so glad when he called, or why Chaoji held him on such a high pedestal. Tokusa was so civil when they spoke it was like nothing changed in the years of no contact. Madarao, while a dick about it, still cared enough to want him back, even if for another's sake. Lenalee adored him, Lavi cared almost too much, and Allen seemed a lot less standoffish when they talk—and he had no idea why.

He was Yuu Kanda, a nineteen-year-old asshole, in his honest opinion.

But, he was also human.

"Lenalee!" he yelled into the singer's ear, causing her to topple over a bit in surprise. He caught her arm, and she looked up at him dazedly. "Lenalee, about the whole last song shit—"

"You know, I'm thinkin' that was too subtle," Tokusa said with a grin, taking a sort of perverse pleasure in the annoyance that filtered through the front man's normally emotionless eyes. "Yeah, I'm not sure if he got it, Mada'. We should do anotha' song describin' the situation perfectly."

Madarao thumped his head against the wall of the building they stood next to, obviously trying to drown out the pianist's voice. "Shuddup, 'Kusa," he groaned.

"Hey, I'm just sayin'."

"Seriously," Kiredori spoke up, not looking away from his Slinky. Who the fuck plays with Slinkies in this day and age anyway? Creepy little fuckers, that's who. "Shuddup, Tokusa. You get on my fuckin' nerves, man."

Tokusa seriously had an issue with his best friend's little brother-that-could-totally-be-his-little-sister-too. If there was a definition for Brat with a Need for a Major Attitude Adjustment, the description would simply be 'Kiredori,' and would have synonyms with 'Gender Confusion' or 'Identity Crisis.'

"I will kick yer little insecure ass, ya dick," the light-haired man replied with a smile. "And besides, I totally fergot that I wasn't even talkin' t' ya. Wow, what'ta surprise!"

"So insane," Goushi agreed, reading what seemed to be a magazine for teenage girls.

Well, he was Goushi. He was nearly seven feet and probably weighed slightly less than a steel beam. If he wanted to read Seventeen Magazine, then who was Tokusa to stop him?

Of course, this didn't mean he couldn't make fun of him about it. "Yo, Goushi, whaddaya readin'?" he asked, trotting up to the large man. Goushi grunted in response, which Tokusa took to mean he was still in the table of contents. He looked up at the cover, resting his chin on the drummer's thick belly. "'Five Ways to Catch a Man?' Sweet, man—lemme check that out."

"Huh? No." The drummer shook his head, sneering. "Fuckin' moron. It's not even detailed right."

"Are you even gay?" Kiredori asked Goushi, who looked at him with a peculiar 'Are you kidding me' expression.

"Hell no," Goushi replied, huffing. "But its mad interestin' t' see what girls do t' get ya. Like, seriously, it says here t' cut ya jeans—who the fuck wants to cut their jeans?"

Tokusa looked around at the people milling around, of which half had ripped stonewashes and the sort. "Yeah, 'cause that's totally unnatural," he replied, rolling his eyes. He halfheartedly tried to wrap his arms around Goushi, knowing damn well he was too slight to pull that off. "What else does'it say?"

"Girls look like clowns 'cause apparently that's attractive or something," Goushi threw the magazine to the side, where it hit the ground in a billow of red dust. "That's stupid as shit. Let's get some food or somethin' assholes."

Madarao turned to look at him, almost offended. "I need'ta see the Black Ordah play," he replied, crossing his arms. "I won't miss it."

"Madarao, they're numba' fourteen," Tokusa reasoned, releasing Goushi. "We were numba' ten. There're gonna be, like, three bands before them while ya standin' here. C'mon, losa'—we're getting' food."

Kiredori slid his right hand through the Slinky, turning it from inexplicably entertaining household toy to nearly fashionable jewelry. Curse the teenager's fashion intuition. "Come oooon Madarao," he whined in that fucking falsetto that was proof that even puberty couldn't stand him, so it ditched him halfway through. "I'm hungry, and this shit's so borin'."

The singer seemed conflicted, so he did what he always did and looked at Goushi.

"Should I?" he asked.

Goushi shrugged. "Why not? Get food, ignore these shitty bands until we get back to our favorite shitty band, everyone wins," he replied.

Tokusa pumped a fist in the air victoriously. Thank god for Goushi and Madarao's odd agreement relationship thing. Without it, many days they would be playing crappy songs on stage and probably would not be nearly as far as they are today.

"…All right," Madarao ceded, rubbing the back of his neck. "Where're we goin', then?"

"…" Tokusa and Kiredori shared a quick look. If they didn't know immediately, then the man might start to resist again. "We'll find a place." The pianist insisted. "I'll drive, just get in th' van."

"Oh, I'm a slick dick—I left m' wallet." Kiredori batted his eyelashes at Tokusa, who was seconds away from sneering. "'Kusa, could'ja possible pay f' me?"

"You little bi—"

Madarao shook his head. "I'll pay ya back," he said calmly, trying to hold off the spilling of blood. "Just, just do it, man."

Tokusa scrunched his face in disgust, stuffing some more fries into his mouth. "Fug-juu, Key'a'doowee," he mumbled through all the food in his mouth.

After twenty minutes of searching, they found themselves in some magical restaurant called 'Waffle House' that specialized in, well, waffles. But Tokusa didn't actually trust waffles, so it didn't really matter if he got a burger.

"—why're we back in this restaurant, eh? Bloody house o' waffles, bunch'a commies I'm dealin' with!" some guy with a thick English accent sounded from the entrance.

Tokusa looked up and glanced over at the door, a fry hanging from between his lips. Three people, all utterly familiar as members of Noah's Ark, walked down the aisle to find a seat. With a small amount of glee, the light-haired man realized the closest empty table was behind Goushi and Madarao's bench, and so he waited for them to take their seat.

"I'm tired'a all this breakfast food," the dark-haired synthesizer player of the band whined, his accent causing all sorts of dirty thoughts to fill Tokusa's mind. He had a thing for cute accents, what could he say? "I demand we go to'a, uh, uh. A MacDonald's!"

"First of all, McDonald's is gross," the young guitarist of the band retorted, snippy. "And nobody's forcing you to eat a fucking pancake. That's right David, you can think for yourself."

"Bugger off, Rhode," the other, blond pianist huffed. "If Davie wants t' go t' MacDonald's, then I say we go to'a bloody MacDonald's."

"Don'cha love th' stress," Tokusa whispered into Kiredori's ear. "Tha' they put on th' Mac? So unnecessary, but so hot, man."

Kiredori looked at him weirdly. "I'm seventeen," he whispered back. "And you're, like, twenty. It'sa little weird t' talk about shit that makes you hot. Creep."

Tokusa made some choking motions with his hands. "You're dead, ya little punk," he hissed. God he hated this kid.

"Shut up Jasdero. Anyway!" Rhode, the tiny yet dangerous-looking guitarist of Noah's Ark, snapped, crossing her arms. "We need to make this quick—Tyki will kill us if we miss the Black Order."

This got Madarao's attention very clearly, and even Goushi paused his roving of the plastic menu in his hands.

David groaned. "What do ya mean, Tyki? Ol' Man Earl is on our arses to keep an eye on the Order," he huffed, and Tokusa watched him rub his temples like he was three times his age. "Tyki's jus' the fangirl slash officer that makes it happen."

"Why is that, ya think?" Jasdero questioned, twirling a lock of his long blond hair in his fingers.

"Well, Jazzy, when a grown man loves a teenage boy—"

"Budge up wit' that, twit!" Jasdero pouted. "I mean, why's the Earl so fixed on the Black Order? Surely he's not gonna offer 'em a deal."

Rhode sighed exaggeratedly. "I don't know about that one," she said. Then, lowering her voice to a mere whisper, she leaned in conspiringly, and Third nearly leaned in with her. "My dad told me some mad interesting stuff, though."

The table was digging into Tokusa's stomach with how intensely he was listening in, and Kiredori's ears were twitching with anticipation.

"Apparently the third judge is the Musician," Rhode explained to her bandmates, seemingly unmindful of the band behind their booth eavesdropping.

David blinked. "Who's that?" he asked, taking the words right out of Tokusa's mouth—albeit with a better accent.

"You don't remember the Musician?" the guitarist demanded, offended. "Dude, he was, like, super hot only five years ago. He's still hot—he was just a special guest in this tour for HIV last month, it was all over the news!"

Jasdero shook his head incredulously. "Wait, wait, wait, you can't possibly mean the Musician, Musician!"

"Neah Walker, dude."

Madarao choked a little, and Goushi patted his back immediately.

David leaned forward, amazed. "Neah bloody Walker is here?" he demanded. "That, that's fuckin' amazin'! He's fuckin' amazin'! Bloody hell, that man's me idol if I ever had one!"

Mine too, Tokusa thought, also incredibly excited at the thought of meeting the Musician. The Musician was infamous for being somewhat of a social recluse, or at least he started this strain of antisocialism five years ago. Getting an interview or coverage with the guy was easy as shit before then, but then something changed—he just stopped showing up in the musical media. He canceled tours, he refused concerts; the whole nine yards. It was really weird, actually.

His music was still fucking incredible, though—he kept cranking out the singles for this period of time, even though his distinctive music kind of transformed from a mod-culture, pop sound to this sort of heavily instrumental anguished melody with lyrics that weren't exactly happy.

And, yet, somehow, his music was better this way.

Tokusa fell in love with the Musician's angst, with his sobbing melodic soprano and his striking piano compositions unburdened by the electricity of today. Neah Walker was especially notorious for his refusal of using a synthesizer, even though most musicians of his generation and prior, even, accepted the electronic keyboard and utilized it nicely, including the Beatles.

"But," Jasdero continued. "What does that have to do with th' Black Order?"

Third tensed ever further, wary of her next words.

"Well, I don't really know," Rhode admitted. "My dad said something about soap operas and how much he loves drama, but you know how my dad gets when he starts talking about stupid shit."

"Oh god," David groaned.

"It never ends," Jasdero whined.

"I know right? At least he's not your dad—he's not even good at being a dad, I mean on Family Matters—"

And so the three teenagers fell into a state of easy chatter, but a taut string was still pulled around the progressive metal band of Third, each member undeniably tense and curious of the information they just learned.

"What's up with th' Black Ordah," Madarao whispered, bringing a cup of water to his lips.

Tokusa rubbed his hairless chin. "I dunno," he replied. "But, I'm mad curious on what the 'drama' between the Black Ordah and the Musician is." Extremely curious, in fact.

"I don't get it," Kiredori furrowed his eyebrows. "What does th' Black Ordah have t' do with th' Musician?"

"Great fuckin' question," Goushi grunted. "And we'll prob' never get an answer, so can we please ordah some fuckin' food?"

Just like that, the string snapped, and everyone felt like they could relax again.

Or, at least, physically. Tokusa didn't know about the others, but there was something really odd about this entire event—this "battle of the bands."

There is, he thought. A disaster waiting to happen.

Sometimes, he was psychic.

It was leaning on dusk when it was finally time for the Black Order to play, the clock striking five-ish six according to Lavi, and the air cooling with the Southern night. The sky began to bleed into a soft purple, and Allen Walker had an itching feeling at the back of his head.

"Brat, pay attention," Kanda ordered, smacking the back of his head. Maybe the itch was a premonition of the action? "Stop checkin' out the sunset like you do me, and set your shit up."

Allen blinked repeatedly, shaking his head. "Oh right—wait, did you just—"

Kanda smirked, gathering his loose hair into a ponytail.

Allen rolled his eyes, a smile on his lips. It was only a matter of time until Kanda began playing the game as well, as the English teen was starting to feel like he was seriously seducing the older bloke, instead of pseudo-seduction. Or, something like it.

"—and don't forget the thirteen second wait after Kanda starts," Lenalee was speaking quickly, trying to get all their bases covered in the short five to ten minute set up time. Lavi nodded at the appropriate times, but it was clear from his languid scratching of his stomach that he probably wasn't listening. "And when we play Gold, remember to keep it simple unless you for seriously serious know what to do!"

"Mm hmm," Lavi hummed, wandering towards Allen with a grin. "Hey babes—you ready?" He eyed the distressed-looking dark grey synthesizer on the stand, and the British boy laughed.

"I'm generally always ready," Allen replied with a wink. "But, I do need to connect a few more cables—so, if you will?" He waved one pale hand at the redhead, the other holding a few amplifier cords and probably a microphone.

Lavi took a step back, his hands in the air. "Go on, sweetheart, I ain't stoppin' you," he said, snickering.

Allen rolled his eyes and turned around, separating the wires appropriately before bending over to plug them in correctly. Almost immediately he felt the heavy gaze on his backside, and held back a weary sigh. "Lavi, don't you have a drum set to tinker with?" he asked, clicking his tongue.

"I don't know if we have the same drumming in mind—"

"Lavi!" Lenalee shouted. "Quite being a creep for ten seconds and get to the trap!"

"Indeed, Lavi," Allen mimicked sarcastically, looking over his shoulder at the sheepish redhead. He winked. "We can work out your definition of drumming later—right now, beat the drums."

"Later, I'm beatin' off," Lavi announced immediately, smiling cruelly at the grimace that overtook the white-haired teenager's face. "C'mon, make a sexier face. What am I supposed to imagine then while I jerk?"

"This." Allen held up his middle finger. And then thought about it. "Rotate on it, if you will."

Lavi laughed uproariously, his hands on his hips as he tilted his head back. "You are amazing," he said, wiping his eye. "I love you so much."

"Lovely. Now, please, carry on—we have work to do."

Shortly after that, Lavi trotted to his drum set, and Lenalee harped at him a few more times before Sherman sauntered onto the stage. Once the man made his presence known, the band members all straightened and gathered around him in some way.

"Good evening, Black Order," Sherman greeted with as much disdain as he could stuff into his voice without becoming a calzone. "You know the rules, correct? No excessive profanity, minimum three songs, maximum six." He eyed the group, keeping his gaze on Allen a little longer than necessary. "I wish you the best." He surely didn't sound like it.

The man pivoted on his heel and stalked towards the microphone, giving the pretty obvious cue that maybe they should scurry into place at this point.

Allen squared his shoulders, ready to resign his life behind the synthesizer, and then Lenalee grabbed his arm.

"Wait guys," she said. "Let's just get this one thing clear. If we don't rock this stage, we don't stop rocking for life or something." She held out her hand, palm facing up. "Let's have fun with this, and do the best we can."

Lavi placed his hand over the girl's dainty palm, confident in his stance. "Don't bag us, Girlie," he scoffed. "We're the Black Order—"

"Our standard is excellence, or so I thought," Allen stated, giving a sort of half-smile that felt weird on his lips. His stomach rumbled nervously, but he placed his red hand atop Lavi's regardless.

Kanda rolled his eyes. "This is the gayest shit—" he grumbled, but Lenalee forced his hand into the group.

"Let's kill this audience," Lavi whispered, and those were the words to bring them together. It was a certain tug at his heart, Allen felt—the feeling of being included in such an evolved group of people with a common interest.

It was a…queer experience, if nothing else.

"All the way from Hampton, Virginia," Sherman was speaking into the microphone, his amplified voice reverberating against the stage deeply. "We have the young, ace, mixed mutt group, the Black Order!"

I thought this was a concert competition, Allen thought with a quirked eyebrow. Not a kennel. Well, regardless, it couldn't be changed. Sherman Camelot had something against their ragtag group for some likely stupid reason, but what could they do? File a complaint?

Lenalee stepped to the side of Sherman, holding out her hand expectantly. The long-haired VJ stared at her like she was stupid, but the girl coughed very loudly from the back of her throat.

He gave her the microphone, if not with extreme reluctance.

"Thanks!" Lenalee exclaimed, and then she tapped against the corded metal of the tip. "Testing, uno, dos, tres, bop, bop." She looked around the audience, hands on her hips. Bringing the microphone to her lips, she shouted, "Can you hear me?"

The crowds screamed their affirmation, and Lenalee shrugged.

"Hey," she said. "Just makin' sure, dudes."

Sometimes Allen had no idea how the Chinese girl could be so amicable to people she'd never met. And, not 'detached friendly' like himself when introduced to a new person, but more 'genuine friendly,' like she was actually trying to form a relationship with these people.

"Anyway," Lenalee continued, fixing her shirt and adjusting her bangles. "Uh, if you weren't here yesterday, then you need a mad good excuse, 'cause you missed out on some excellence, and you also missed out on my super radical singing. Well, you'll be able to hear it again, but, it's the thought, okay?" She huffed, and the audience cheered anyway like she said something of importance. "Well, we're the Black Order, from Hampton, like Mr. Camelot already said. I'm Lenalee Lee, the wonderful vocals."

She pointed at Kanda, grinning. "That's Mr. Grumpyface McAsshole, also known as Yuu Kanda," she explained. "He plays guitar, and lemme tell you—his riffs can get insane."

Next, her finger was jabbed behind her shoulder. "This ginger in the back behind the trap is Lavi—we're not allowed to tell his last name," she said exasperatedly. "For some reason, he wants to be the most mysterious member."

"Well fuck him," Kanda growled. "I didn't want my first name told, Jesus Christ."

"Mr. Grumpyface is grumpy again," Lenalee sighed, and the people below laughed. She shook her head. "Anyway, we're moving on." She pointed at Allen himself, and the Englishman was prepared for another odd description for himself. "This is the coolest looking member of the band, Allen Walker. He's also sweet on a synth, and British. How fancy is that? I mean, dude, he speaks like he's hosting a game show—except all the time."

Allen smacked his forehead. "Good Lord," he whispered.

Once the amusement of the audience died down to a low level, Lenalee plowed on, but hopefully to the point of this entire affair. "Okay, enough with intros," she said sternly. "It's time to start with what you've come here for." She turned around. "Kanda, make it happen at the count of three."

"One!" Lavi shouted, blatantly itching to start drumming.

"Two," Allen said loudly, arms crossed calmly.

"Three!" Lenalee shouted, and Kanda picked a long, languid series of chords almost instantly. Lavi tapped the rim of the cymbal on the ticking seconds of ten, and thumped his foot against the bass drum pedal steadily once the guitarist strung out a certain part of the consistent melody.

Lenalee tapped her foot against the stage, nodding carefully to the music.

"Hmmm," she began humming, closing her eyes. "Tongue-tied, I'm short of breath, don't even try…
Mmm, try a little harder…"

So far, Lavi thought at the end of their harried rendition of Saints, wiping his forehead. So good.

Of course, that was putting it lightly. While they did have a pretty intense practice for a group that was generally unprepared, nobody could hold it against them that they were, in fact, nervous, and that they were still kind of unprepared.

Personally, Lavi almost missed his count on Saints, and thank god that he didn't in the end.

Although, the audience's reaction to the novelty song had been priceless if not absolutely hilarious.

They were all, "Are these Koozbanes serious? Like, this isn't a joke?" and Lavi was very much so, "Ha ha, nope, dudes—we're surprised it's serious, too."

But, anyway.

By this point, Lavi mused with a stretch of his abdominal muscles, they had completed three songs with little mishap, much to everyone's surprise. Allen played his part in Gold perfectly, Lenalee's voice was flawless, and Kanda's riffs were really fucking sweet, as per usual. Lavi was sure his drumming was the most triumphant, but he wasn't prone to getting his hopes up for a reason.

He placed his hands on his knees, ready to stand up—at least, he was ready until Kanda threw a glare at him to melt a fucking window. Okay, he thought with a frown. I guess I will stay seated?

Lenalee and Kanda shared a significant look, one that irked Lavi with its familiarity and closeness. It was an expression of two people sharing a common world, one that made outsiders seem more detached than usual.

Lavi kind of disliked the entire 'outsider' feeling in general. He probably got it from his Grandpa, and maybe even from his urge to know everything.

"Okay," Lenalee spoke into the microphone, causing Allen to look at Lavi with an expression of sheer confusion etched upon his handsome face. The redhead was, for once, unable to tell what the hell was going on either. "Sooo, I'm sure you loved our New Orleans cover, right?"

The audience had mixed feelings if the murmurs and spiking shouts were anything to go by.

Lenalee laughed anyway.

"Right." She looked to the side at Kanda once more. "Okay, so now we have a special treat just for you guys. Our guitarist, Kanda—he's pretty boss at the whole guitar schtick, if you wouldn't believe it." The girl cleared her throat, clearly a little nervous. "Now, for our fourth song—we'll be playing Stairway to Heaven, by Led Zeppelin. I hope you like it."

Lavi blinked. And then he blinked again. And then three more times in rapid subsequence. He turned to Allen, who shrugged as though he were also completely unaware of this turn in events.

She placed the microphone on the stand and secured it, but not before looking at Kanda and nodding.

Kanda strummed a couple of notes on Mugen, the tempo slow and almost unnatural, considering the man's usual tearing of the song's original speed.

Lavi stared at the Japanese man, transfixed on the precise movements of his right arm, and the slow dragging of his fingers along the neck of the admittedly gorgeous Fender Stratocaster, the silver of the neck flashing in the light.

"There's a lady who's sure," Lenalee whispered into the microphone, her voice a low melody that almost washed over all who listened. "All that glitters, is gold—and she's buying a stairway to heaven."

Kanda scowled, roughly picking two more chords to accentuate the lyrics, and then continued with his careful symphony.

"When she gets there she knows," the young woman continued to sing quietly. "If the stores are all closed, with a word—she can get what she came for. Ooh, ooh, ooh," she hummed into the mic, leaning forward. "Ooh, ooh…and she's buying a stairway to heaven."

Lavi, in all of his observations, could only come to one conclusion.

This was the one of the most beautiful things he felt he could hear.

As the song progressed, Kanda's tempo steadily rose, and so did Lenalee's voice.

"Ooh, it makes me wonder," she sang lowly. "Ooh, it makes me wonder…
There's a feeling I get, when I look to the west
And my spirit is crying, for leaving…

In my thoughts, I have seen,
Rings of smoke, through the trees—
And the voices of those who stand looking…"

The drummer followed the quirks of the song, utterly intrigued at the procession of the classic rock cover. Kanda still quickened his pace, and Lenalee was singing at nearly her normal tone—which could only mean one thing.

Allen, he thought, looking at the entranced boy adjacent to himself. I hope you are watching this—because you are about to see something amazing. He just knew it would be.

"Dear lady, can you hear the wind blow?" Lenalee sang from the bottom of her stomach, creating a sound so intense it was near deafening. "And did you know—your stairway lies on the whispering wind?"

And she took a step back from the microphone, turning to face Kanda.

And there he was, with his hair in a severe ponytail at the back of his neck and his face contoured in a near permanent scowl that oddly reminded the viewer of his beautifully cut features. Kanda shouldered Mugen a little higher, sat up a little straighter, and frowned a little deeper.

And then he played the guitar.

Lavi, in all of his days, had never been so amazed as prior to this. Yuu Kanda was great, fantastic even at the instrument, but like earlier, the man only applied himself so much.

He saw, and heard, on this day—Kanda was holding back. A lot.

His hand was a near blur as he ripped through the infamous solo of Stairway to Heaven, a corner of his mouth tucked neatly between his canines. The sound tore through the speakers everywhere, infiltrating their ears and reverberating their bones.

A string snapped sharply, but Kanda continued on, squaring his shoulders with an air of confidence that would fool the smartest man.

"And as we wind on down the road!" Lenalee returned to the microphone, gripping the stand tightly. "Our shadows taller than our souls! There walks a lady we all know—
Who shines white light and wants to show,
How everything still turns to gold!
And if you listen very hard,
The truth will come to you at last!
When all are one and one is all
To be a rock and not to rooooll!" She dragged the last syllable out, just as Kanda slowed his furious playing to a tempo reminiscent of the beginning.

Lenalee took a deep breath. "And she's buying," she whispered once more. "A stairway…to heaven."

She placed the stand back in its place and Kanda wiped sweat from his forehead. "Thank you," she said quickly into the microphone, and the reaction of the audience was incredible, but not completely unexpected.

The applause and cries of enthrallment came from all sides, including the stage as Lavi and Allen clapped harder than they probably ever clapped. At least, this was the hardest Lavi had ever clapped for something.

Lenalee turned to the far right side, where the judges occupied their adorable little table and judged them for a living. "How did we do?" she asked, a little breathless.

Fou was still blinking. "That was amazing," she admitted, shaking her head. "Because, let's get real—when you guys did that Saints shit, I was getting kind of iffy. But, Christ, that last one was, uh,"

"Incrediblé?" Galmar offered.

"Yeah, we'll go with that." But the small woman rolled her eyes anyway. "I'm giving you a nine, no issue, kids. I don't even like Led Zeppelin and I'm still thinkin' it's bangin'."

"It's possible to not like Led Zeppelin?" Lavi asked aloud, and Allen shook his head, embarrassed. "I mean, dude. It's, like, Led Zeppelin."

"As we know, mate," Allen replied, and Lavi grinned.

Galmar was not as quick to answer positively. "While I did enjoy your interprétation of Stairway to Heaven, I can't help but wonder why the entire band only played on, oh, one song," he said in such a pompous tone that Lavi wanted his country to get invade again. "I'll give you a, hmm, seven."

"Nine, seven," Lavi said, frowning. "I guess it could be worst."

And then, his ESP set in.

"Personally, I give the band a ten," a thickly accented voice boomed from the side, and everyone in the area turned towards the alleged source with a shock. "Did I scare ye? Sorry 'bout that."

The man that he and Kanda had run into earlier that day trotted onstage, hurriedly attempting to flatten his curly brown hair. "Sorry I'm late," he said, grinning toothily. "Me plane landed a bit late if that makes any sense, and I jus' had t' try this whole Chik-fil-A hodge that everybody and their mum raves about." He laughed. "It's worth it, in any case."

Lenalee stared at the man, and Kanda was simply offended.

"Who are you?" the girl asked slowly.

The British man blinked. "Well, I guess I must look terribly different then," he mused aloud, rubbing his chin. He stuck his other hand out, smiling widely. "I'm th' third judge, lass—Neah Walker, also known as the Musician, at yer service."

Wait. What.

Lavi's eye almost bulged out of it's socket, because it was official that his life just got insane.

He was on the same stage as the Musician? He was being judged by the Musician?

He talked all freely and shit to the fucking Musician?

"Holy shit," he said, covering his mouth in shock. "Dude, it's—it's, Allen, are you seeing this?" He turned to the side, determined to see if Allen were actually seeing these events as they occurred.

When he saw the younger teenager, however—it kind of slipped his mind.

"Allen?" he asked, but the boy was stiff. Allen was backed up as far against the wall as possible, his red hand clenched over his mouth, and his eyes wider than should be natural.

"Um." Lavi coughed.

Allen seemed to hyperventilate.

Neah Walker noticed them, or rather, noticed Allen having a panic attack.

"Is the boy alright?" he asked, frowning. He stepped closer to the teenager, but Allen just breathed less efficiently than before. "Do we need t' call an ambulance?"

"No need," Sherman commented, stepping up from the stairs with a wide smile on his face. "You can check on him yourself—after all, he is your nephew."

Neah stared at Sherman. "Nephew?" He looked back at Allen, who was beginning to tremble. "W-wait, this, this is Allen?"

Then, in near slow motion, Allen's eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he fell over atop the synthesizer, knocking over the keyboard with a loud clatter and falling motionless to the ground.

Lavi could not blink for the life of him.

"What the fuck."

And Kanda could not have phrased the moment better.

OH MY GOD THIS CHAPTER IS FINALLY DONE

Like no seriously this was super difficult to find time to do. Like, extremely difficult. Luckily it is 16 thousand plus words. Please note that none of the chapters will be this length ever again, and to be honest the later chapters will be lucky if they break 11 thousand or 10 thousand.

CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT LA LA LA KANDA IS NOT AS BIG OF A DICK AS YOU THOUGHT, AND LAVI IS MORE INSECURE THAN MOST PEOPLE ASSUME

So, anyway, life. College is such a bitch and I am experiencing so many roommate problems. I am not antisocial, but it is pretty easy for me to hate the shit out of most people. Living with people this amplifies that ability. Right now it is the first day of SPRING BREAK so I decided to not go to bed until I finished this chapter. DEDICATION FOR A DAY~

By the way, all the little interactions are going to make so much sense later, so yeah. :D You all should know there is a certain method to my madness, right?

Also, complaint time. DGM is mad dead—why? While I may hate the shit out of the manga right now, I thought the fandom would still be okay. Guess not :( so sad. I'd also be happier because whenever I go to the DGM section there is like tons more Poker Pair…but they all have fem!Allen, which is pretty grodie to me bro :o

The songs used are "Jump" by Van Halen, "Duke of Earl" by Gene Chandler, "Stairway to Heaven" by Led Zeppelin, "Too Shy" by Kajagoogoo, and probably something else it is 5:30 in the morning and I haven't been to sleep in 32 hours due to midterms

I want to thank every. Single. One. Of. You. Especially the ones who know that I will update at some point, and do not get angry at me for trying my hardest. Thank you all so much for still sticking with this crazy fic, and I am working hard to get the next chapter out in two weeks. I wrote it on my arm, that is how dedicated I am to it, okay? But, really, thanks I seriously appreciate all of you

(Also, check out the antagonist poll on my profile if you haven't already—I'm an imminently curious creature, okay?)