Legen— Wait for it— Dary

"Leave."

Their voices blended together, hers confident and clear, his rough and sleep-deprived. Both far too calm to be thinking they had any business telling him what to do with his life.

Leave.

Sho wrinkled his nose in distaste, tossing the phone on the bed. As if there was anything worth leaving. Couldn't even be called a friendship. More a pudding-dependency. He ran his fingers through his hair, slumping onto the edge of the bed.

"Make my own way," he mumbled. He lay back on the bed, the ceiling vacant above him. No stars of any kind, just… white space.

Sho licked his lips. "Leave," he said, feeling the way the word rolled thick off his tongue like cold syrup. He grabbed blindly for his phone, holding it up to text Shoko.

—Recording deal for NYC still up for nego?—

They'd offered several weeks ago; he'd ignored them. The best labels recorded in L.A.-- New York City was for stage acts and comedians. Now, though, it was more tempting. A fast way out to the city that never slept. A fast way out period.

"Leave!"

Sho felt laughter bubble up inside. They probably expected him to mope around Tokyo waiting on a summons. Or run home to Kyoto. He'd show them both by being the first to make it big abroad. Sho let the phone thump on his chest. It buzzed almost immediately; Sho grabbed it and rolled over onto his stomach to read her reply.

—They resent it right after Chocolate released. Did you see # of hits? Viral!—

Sho licked his lips again. He should be pleased. Viral was always a good word. He should be pleased. Instead, he felt used. The lyrics were his, but the emotions…

—K.—

—K? That's it?? You went viral and it's "K." Are you drinking?—

Sho scoffed. At least in America he'd be drinking legally. —Take the deal—

He turned off his phone, letting it slide out of his hands onto the bed. He stared at it blankly, trying to force a smile on his face. He was going abroad.

"Watch me leave," he said under his breath, laying his head down on the covers. "Try and catch me."

The words were fire and challenge but he just felt tired. Weird way to leave for America.

"America…" Sho rolled over and stretched up towards the ceiling, watching his empty fingers unfurl. "Ahhh… what the crap am I doing?!" He shoved himself upright and stormed out to the kitchen. He needed to write. He needed to find release. He should go out and destroy the town with a wild party! He ripped off his shirt and threw it on the back of the couch, scrubbing the sides of his head angrily.

Fridge was empty. Sho cursed at it, slamming the door shut. He checked the pantry. Instant noodles and shrimp chips. Grinding his teeth, he poured hot water over a cup of noodles and sat it sloppily on the counter, hissing as some of the steaming water spilled on his finger. "Stupid noodles. Stupid noodly-hair bastard. Stupid curly noodly-hair ass face bastard!" Sho roared, knowing he was being irrational but he didn't care. He threw the noodles in the trash, water and all, grabbed a bag of chips and stormed over to the couch.

New York City— laptop Google search. Laughing faces, nightclubs, green statues, high rises, homeless people. Sho closed his laptop and rubbed his eyes. It was 7 a.m. in the morning and he hadn't slept much the past two nights. He had several hours before his first meeting. Sleep.

Sho woke almost nauseous. He had filled his dreams. Dreams of touches and heat, of whispered need, of pressing and ache that left him empty as if a ghost had caressed him, taunting him with promised echoes of solidity.

He shrugged on his jacket to leave for work and finger-combed his hair without bothering to shower, trying to brush it down to cover the shaven sides. At least he knew what his next song was going to be about.

The days flew by. His lyrics and chords for the new single Dreamer had been enthusiastically received by the NY studio and they'd bumped up his recording dates.

He felt itchy, unsettled.

Thursday. He stood in line for airport security. A camera shutter clicked followed by feminine giggles when he slid off his long leather jacket for the metal detector. He'd purposefully chosen the shirt with the dragon's claw stitched along the edge of a ripped hole, his entire back bare. Seemed appropriate.

The guard gestured stoically at his metal-studded boots when he set off the metal detector for the third time. He stepped aside for a full-body pat-down, raising his arms to the side for the guard to sweep gloved hands lightly over his chest and legs. They took a canteen of whisky from his pocket. Sho suggested they search higher, leering at the guard. The guard stood, his eyes hard, and for a moment Sho panicked inside, realizing the consequences of taunting security. The guard nodded to the side dismissively; Sho pulled his jacket out of the bin, free to leave.

Shoko was meeting him there. He'd rushed leaving; she had a crapload of loose ends to tie up to make space for his sudden departure. Two weeks scheduled to record the new album. A weekend to film the MV for the title song. A month to promo it. If Sho played his cards right it could turn into an international tour easily.

Easily for him, at least. Sho leaned against the pillar, lazily swinging his jacket as he watched passersby from beneath the wide brim of his hat. He'd taken care to hide his face; Shoko wanted him to surprise fans with the news of his international breakthrough. The perverse part of him felt like whipping off the dark glasses and hat, ripping his guitar out of its case and giving them a free show.

Sho hefted the guitar over his shoulder as the attendant called for boarding passes. The passengers around him queued promptly; jostling one another for position in line, suitcases sticking out awkwardly in their eagerness to get to the Western Hemisphere. He watched, his feet frozen to the floor. The scene felt surreal, like it was happening to someone else's future.

Leave.

Sho swayed. He fought a sudden impulse to turn and run -- out, away, back home, back even to the ryokan, take off the disguise and sit down next to his mother and finally learn how to carve a daikon. Bile rose in his throat. The acrid taste made his lips curl.

The line's last stragglers filtered into the plane. The attendant's attention turned to him.

"Make my own way," he growled, swallowing down his nerves as he shoved off the pole toward the on-ramp.

A ripped boarding pass, thirteen Cokes, one sleep aid and seven partially-watched bad movies later Sho greeted JFK Airport feeling hungover without the high of a night out. He took his hat off and splashed water on his face before walking out to meet the man holding his name on a black and white plaque.

He had two days before his first meeting with the producer, mixer, and band. He should sleep, but sleep meant dreams. The city rose around him, angular and gray in the evening light, a mish-mash of foreign words and bland buildings and colorful people. Sho locked eyes with a beautiful redhead in a leather jacket at the stoplight. She smiled at him. He smiled back— for the first time in days.

He'd left it all behind him. He breathed deep, leaning back on the seat, his fingers flexing and unflexing into fists. A sudden rush of adrenaline swept over him as he realized he was free of whatever insanity had possessed him, making him think there was anything about Fuwa Sho that should bend to another person's nonsense.

"I make the rules," he said excitedly to his hotel room as he flung his bags on the bed. He showered in haste, pulling on a clean pair of leather pants and his favorite mottled-print tee. Leather jacket settled comfortably on top. Sho cracked his neck. He looked damn good.

Concierge pointed him to Mission Nightclub. Two hours til it opened. Sho stood outside a bar down the street, leaning against the wall as he watched crowds pass. He caught snatches of their conversation; each heard and understood English phrase like a fist bump confirming he was in the right place. He ducked inside for a pregame round.

"Whisky," he called to the bartender, raising his hand with a green paper bill held between his fingers. Just like in the movies.

The bartender smiled at him, then eyed his bill.

Sho cocked his head, fluttering the bill again.

"That's a five. Shots are 15."

"Shit, haha," Sho said, stuffing the bill in his pocket. "My bad." He pulled out a blueish bill with a 20 on the corners. The bartender swapped him a shot of amber liquid. Sho inspected the expensive little dram, then shrugged and tossed it back. "Three more!" he yelled, digging out a one hundred dollar bill. His first night in America was going to be legendary.

~*~

A/N— SHOTARO VS AMURICA how's this gonna go... authorial liberalities taken with why the barkeep dinna card Sho. Let's just say he took pity on the foreigner who has no clue how much good alcohol costs in that part of NYC.

Poor Kogs. I'm sad for bae. But he doesn't know Sho left yet so he's still— well, what is he? Does he even care Sho left?

CONUNDRUMS. I am in a moooooood! SO MUCH AUTHOR'S NOTE. Haha!

What's next? More Shotaro, or Heels?