VIVIDWords | AkiToya (Project Sekai)

Ignite {15}

A microphone's feedback was never a noise Shinonome Akito enjoyed.

From fourteen to twenty-one, it felt grating against his ears, like it was trying to carve itself into him. So much of that squeal, though, occurred around him; amateurs turning on a bit too many microphones— twelve was the most he had seen at once— or whatever triggered it happened frequently backstage.

Standing there, lyrics and names rummaging throughout his mind, the high-pitched squeal was present once again. A sound akin to a fork on a plate, or repetitive typing he had come to despise. A tune that both would and should, physically, be cold metal.

"Akito," an almost too familiar voice called out. It was uncharacteristically firm, shaking the ginger out of his thoughts.
"Yeah?" He replied, turning to look at the split-dyed beside him.

Toya looked out-of-place, backstage in clothes that did not belong to him. He appeared too calm, a lack of enthusiasm on his face, as if unconcerned about the following events. The only telltale sign that he genuinely cared that Akito could seen was the faint glint in his eyes, and the constant tugging at his clothes.

He was surprised Toya had agreed to come, and even more surprised that he had actually showed.

He supposed the writer's resolve wasn't as weak as his.

"What's up?" He repeated, slightly furrowing his brows as Toya said nothing in response.

Admittedly, it was frustrating how Toya would only occasionally talk while he was thinking, as if he were trying to pry his thoughts out of him while his guard was low. He didn't need him doing that.

"...coming on stage, EVER!" He heard the MC call out, the noise echoing into the backstage. Former performers walked through the door, the latter group walking the other way.

Three more groups. Thirty more minutes. He had half an hour to prepare, and he was fairly certain that there used to be something he would do within that time. He couldn't recall, though.

The cramped space emitted sounds of small chattering, the aforementioned microphone feedback, and lingering sounds from the stage. He hadn't felt anything from them in a long while, not since he lost his passion.

Now, the cold felt like stinging warmth.

To an almost suffocating extent, they felt warm. Or, at the very least, something akin to a single flicker from a lighter, a second-long flame in the middle of an otherwise frigid autumn.

They didn't feel safe, necessarily, that word was reserved for how his voice sounding.

Regardless, they felt like previously alien heat, contrasting yet overlapping with feelings brought upon him by the writer standing next to him. His temporary partner.

Thinking wasn't what he'd do within the hour or so he'd stand there, waiting, but he was content.

He was content with this.

"Do you remember what songs we're doing?" Toya spoke again, for the first time in what the other estimated to be around seven or eight minutes.
"Obviously. I'm not going into this blind," he said with a slight grin, a sense of something akin to arrogance overcoming him momentarily.

Instead of a response, Toya, expectedly, only gave a smirk, unconsciously inching towards the ginger.

"What's that look for? Quit staring at me like that." The prior confidence dispersed, instead becoming feigned annoyance. "It's not like I'd just forget that kind of stuff. I wouldn't just screw over some event 'cause of that."
"I know."
"Then why the hell are you asking me?"