Chapter Text
Satoru Gojo looked exactly like the kind of prince people wrote fairytales about—assuming the fairytale was about a chaotic deity who weaponized high fashion.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and entirely too striking, he carried himself with the effortless, liquid confidence of a man who had never once doubted he belonged at the dead center of every room he entered. His snow-white hair fell messily around his face, as if even the laws of aerodynamics refused to tell him what to do. Beneath a fringe of pale lashes hid eyes so vividly blue they defied logic—bright, sharp, and blinding, like noon sunlight fracturing off glacier ice. He wore clothes like an art form; the man could have draped himself in a potato sack and sparked a global trend.
And right now, that exact same Prince Satoru Gojo had been waiting in line for an eternity.
Or maybe twenty minutes.
Or maybe five.
Truthfully, Satoru had never waited for anything in his entire life, so he lacked the structural framework to tell the difference. To him, time spent waiting was a personal insult.
Across the dock, Yaga—the inspector overseeing the boarding lists with the warmth of a stone wall—didn’t look particularly moved by the tragedy of Satoru’s patience. Then again, everyone idling on the pier was blue-blooded. Princes, princesses, heirs, and high nobles from every corner of the map had gathered for the annual summer summit. The brochure described it as an elite, structured retreat: No titles, no servants, no privileges—just legacy-building and leadership in an inviting, collaborative environment.
Satoru translated that internally as: Boring, restrictive, and entirely devoid of good entertainment. And that is exactly why he's crashing this party.
"I am so excited!" a blue-haired girl a few spaces down squealed, practically vibrating in her designer flats. "I heard there's going to be a special surprise this year!"
The green-haired girl beside her adjusted her glasses, the picture of aristocratic fatigue. "Miwa, we come here every year. The only surprise is whether the tea is served at the wrong temperature."
"But what if there is?" Miwa gasped, clutching her hands together. "I heard rumor that Prince Satoru is actually attending this year!"
The glasses-wearing girl looked entirely unimpressed. "So? He's a walking PR nightmare."
"So?!" Miwa repeated, her voice hitting a pitch that could shatter crystal. "Have you seen him? He's gorgeous! Everyone says his eyes look like literal starlight! And he’s so tall, and just... oh, he looks so dreamy. I’m going to faint if he’s in our seminar group."
Satoru, possessing the hearing of a apex predator when his own name was involved, caught every single syllable. A slow, smug grin unfurled across his face.
'See?' he thought, tilting his head back. At least someone around here has an education.
Unfortunately, Miwa’s accurate assessment of his looks wasn’t making the line move any faster.
---
By the time the crowd thinned, Satoru was convinced his white hair was going to fall out from sheer, unadulterated stress. He had arrived before the sun was fully up, yet through some twisted miracle of bureaucracy, he was still standing on the asphalt.
The royal yacht was nearly full, its polished wood gleaming under the morning sun. The line was practically empty. Yet, his name hadn't been called.
With a sigh so heavy it could have moved sails, Satoru abandoned his spot, leaving his butler sweating over their mountain of luggage, and sauntered toward Yaga’s desk. The remaining crowd naturally parted—not out of respect for his crown, but because he looked like a spark looking for a powder keg.
Yaga grunted, his eyes fixed firmly on his clipboard. "Get back in line."
"I was in line. For an hour. Possibly a lifetime."
"Then go back to it."
Satoru leaned forward, planting both hands flat on the mahogany desk, invading the inspector's personal space with a blinding smile. "Why hasn't my name been called, Inspector? I'm missing prime tanning hours."
Yaga finally looked up, his expression entirely deadpan. "Name."
Satoru blinked, his smile twitching. "You know my name."
"Name."
Satoru rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. "Satoru Gojo."
Yaga flipped through the first clipboard. Then the second. Then he went back to the first, tapping a thick finger against the page. "Huh."
Satoru’s eyes narrowed. "What does 'huh' mean? 'Huh' is not a royal designation."
"You're not on the list."
Satoru let out a sharp, loud laugh, waiting for the punchline. Nobody else laughed. The silence on the dock stretched out, suddenly very awkward.
"...You're joking," Satoru said, the humor vanishing from his voice.
"I don't joke about logistics," Yaga replied flatly.
Without an ounce of hesitation, Satoru snatched the clipboard out of Yaga's hands. "Give me that. There's no way." His bright blue eyes scanned every single line, tearing through the names of dukes and countesses twice over. Nothing. No Satoru Gojo. No Gojo at all. "This is a bureaucratic hate crime."
"It's a standard roster," Yaga said, retrieving his paperwork with a flick of his wrist.
"But I signed up—"
"SATORU GOJO!"
The shout didn't come from Yaga. It echoed from the far end of the harbor, cutting through the salty air from a completely separate dock.
Every head on the royal pier turned in unison.
Across the water, standing at the ramp of a battered, heavily stickered vessel, was a woman with a cigarette dangling precariously from her lip and a distinct birthmark beneath her eye. She looked entirely unimpressed by the concept of authority. Surrounding her was a chaotic sea of leather jackets, ripped denim, neon hair, guitar cases, and amplifiers. It was the exact demographic every royal etiquette tutor warned children about under threat of disinheritance.
"Satoru Gojo!" the woman shouted again, cupping her hand around her mouth. "Are you boarding this boat or are we leaving you on the asphalt?"
Satoru slowly raised a finger, pointing across the bay. "Why is that woman screaming for me?"
Yaga squinted across the harbor, then looked down at a third, previously unread stack of papers on his desk. He let out a long, gravelly sigh. "There appears to have been a data error."
"An error," Satoru repeated, his voice dropping an octave.
"Looks that way."
"That is the musician camp, Inspector."
"That is the musician camp."
Satoru looked at the pristine, white royal yacht. Then at Yaga. Then back to the gritty, bass-thumping vessel across the way. "Inspector."
"Yes?"
"I think we both know I don't belong over there. I don't even know how to tune an instrument. I am the instrument."
"According to the ink on this paper, you do."
"I am a crown prince!"
"And according to the registrar, you're currently in musician camp," Yaga said, completely unfazed.
Several nearby nobles snorted, burying their faces in their silk handkerchiefs. Satoru looked personally violated. "But surely you can just—"
"No."
"I didn't even finish the sentence!"
"The answer is still no. Next."
---
By the time Satoru dragged himself over to the musicians' dock, his poor butler was practically wheezing behind him, towing four massive, monogrammed leather suitcases that looked entirely ridiculous against the backdrop of battered drum kits and peeling stickers.
The woman with the cigarette looked him up, down, and then up again, eyeing his pristine tailored coat and the subtle diamond glinting at his throat.
"You're Satoru Gojo?" she asked, exhaling a plume of smoke.
"Regrettably."
The cigarette shifted to the corner of her mouth. "You lost, Your Highness?"
"Physically, yes. Spiritually, also yes."
Before she could reply, a tall, imposing shadow fell across the deck. Satoru turned his head, his gaze meeting a man stepping off the boat's ramp.
The newcomer was tall and lean, with broad shoulders that carried a very different kind of gravity than Satoru’s. His ink-black hair fell past his shoulders in layered, dark waves, partially tied back in a loose topknot while stray strands framed a sharp, strikingly handsome face. He looked simultaneously like someone who would buy you a drink and someone who would break a guitar over your head. Heavy, intricate tattoos crawled across his sun-kissed skin—delicate spider lilies intertwining with coiling, dark dragons along his forearms, disappearing beneath the straps of a faded black tank top. Silver rings cluttered his fingers, and a small lip piercing caught the sun as his mouth twitched into a lazy smile.
Beside him walked a shorter, bulkier musician with a thick, horizontal line tattoo painted straight across the bridge of his nose, hauling a heavy drum hardware case on his back with a look of permanent irritation.
"Do we really need to attend this... stuff?" the one with the nose tattoo grumbled, adjusting the straps. "It feels like a waste of tour time."
The long-haired man smiled, his voice a smooth, low baritone that sounded like it belonged on a late-night radio broadcast. "It's good to touch base with the basics, Choso. Keeps us grounded."
"We've sold out arenas, Geto. We don't need to be grounded."
"And? There's always something new to learn."
Choso muttered something under his breath, looking entirely unconvinced.
The long-haired man stepped up to the desk, his presence instantly demanding attention without him having to raise his voice. "Suguru Geto," he introduced himself to the woman with the clipboard. "I believe I should be on the list, Miss Shoko."
Shoko checked her list. Then she flipped the page. Then she went back to the front. "Hm."
The easy smile remained on Suguru’s face, though the corners of his eyes tightened just a fraction. "Hm?"
"You're not here," Shoko said, tapping her pen against the board.
A brief, heavy pause hung in the air.
"I beg your pardon?" Suguru asked, his polite tone suddenly carrying a distinct edge.
"No Suguru Geto. No 'Geto' at all on the indie rock or alternative rosters."
Choso immediately dropped the drum case with a heavy thud, stepping forward protectively. "There’s a mistake. We confirmed the booking three months ago."
Shoko raised a single, dangerous eyebrow over her cigarette. "You think I can't read, drummer boy?"
Choso looked at her expression, evaluated his life choices, and slowly took a step back. "No ma'am."
"Good."
Before the tension could boil over—
"GETO SUGURU!" Yaga’s booming, megaphone-assisted voice thundered across the entire harbor from the royal dock.
Every musician turned. Every royal on the neighboring pier turned.
Shoko looked across the water at Yaga, who was holding up a golden, wax-sealed royal scroll. Then she looked down at her own messy, coffee-stained list. Then she looked at Satoru’s pristine white coat.
"Oh," Shoko muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You have got to be kidding me."
The realization hit Satoru and Suguru at precisely the exact same second. It settled over them like a heavy fog.
A prince assigned to alternative musicians. A rockstar assigned to the high-society filled with champagnes and tiaras.
"I think there's been an error in the sorting algorithm," Satoru said, his voice entirely flat. "You see, I don't exactly fit in here."
Suguru’s gaze flicked to him, taking in the designer sunglasses and the absolute aura of immense wealth, then turned his head to look at the royal yacht where people were currently boarding in perfect, quiet formation.
"I think you're right," Suguru said.
Up close, Satoru could see the thick calluses on the man's fingertips—unmistakably a string player. And Suguru could easily see that Satoru had never handled anything heavier than a champagne flute in his entire life. Their worlds weren't just different; they were on opposite sides of a cosmic divide.
"Suguru Geto," the musician said, extending a hand covered in silver rings.
Satoru took it, noting the firm, steady grip. "Satoru Gojo."
"I know," Suguru said, a faint, amused smirk breaking through his confusion. Of course he knew. You couldn't open a newspaper without seeing Satoru's face attached to some royal scandal. Satoru was both famous in good way and bad way.
An awkward silence descended upon the dock. Neither of them looked particularly thrilled about the impending disaster of their respective summers. Satoru looked back at the musicians, who were currently arguing loudly over whether a bass amplifier could be used as a cooler for beer. Suguru looked back at the royal pier, where a duke was currently correcting a steward on the proper angle of a luggage rack.
Both men looked mildly horrified.
Finally, Satoru’s smirk returned, sharper and more chaotic this time. "Well."
"Hm?"
"Looks like we're both entirely screwed."
For the first time, Suguru let out a genuine laugh—a short, quiet, gravelly sound that shook his shoulders. "Perhaps."
Satoru pointed a thumb over his shoulder toward the pristine royal vessel. "Good luck with them. Try not to piss them off like I did."
Suguru followed his finger, his smile faltering as he watched a princess adjust her white lace gloves. "...I'll carry a spare." He turned back to Satoru, his eyes sweeping over the chaotic, loud deck of the musician's boat. "And good luck to you. Don't touch the amplifiers unless you want to lose your hearing."
"Please," Satoru scoffed, turning toward the ramp. "They'll adore me."
"Good luck, Your Highness," Suguru called out, the title dripping with a teasing, easy irony.
Satoru grinned over his shoulder, lifting a hand in a lazy wave. "Likewise, Rockstar."
Without another word, Suguru turned and began the long, agonizing walk toward the high-society yacht, adjusting the collar of his tank top. Satoru turned around, grabbed the handle of his own oversized luggage from his exhausted butler, and reluctantly dragged it up the metal ramp into the loud, chaotic world of rock and roll.