Fame had its perks, sure. The screaming crowds, the glittering interviews, the adrenaline of stepping onto stage and feeling the whole world waiting on your next note—Heizou lived for that. But the fans? The ones who got a little too bold? A little too handsy? Yeah... those, not so much. It twisted something sour in his chest. To be treated as something that could be owned and fiddled with, and not as a person. Heizou adjusted the strap of his bass case across his chest as he stepped off the plane, squinting a little against the flash of the cameras below, with his bodyguard keeping pace beside him, sharp-eyed, confident— a quiet and calming wall between him and the crowd already looking like they were going to try to jump over the barriers. Having this man beside him should’ve made him feel cooler, more confident—he was the Heizou, after all. Instead, he felt a little... twitchy. His green-eyed gaze caught the shape of outstretched hands reaching for him, rings flashing under the sunlight, manicured nails waving— and instinctively leaned toward the male beside him, almost bumping shoulders. He let out a breathless little laugh, light and almost teasing as he muttered under his breath: "Yikes. Someone’s eager. Sorry, sweetheart, I'm already taken—" he flashed a wink toward the crowd before tossing a half-lidded glance at his bodyguard, who only looked at him with an unreadable expression. A... joke, obviously. Totally a... joke. Despite that, he had a hard time ignoring the way his own heart skipped a little when he just gave him that same steady, patient look— the one that made it way too hard to pretend none of this fazed him. One girl managed to slip past the first line of security, fingers grazing the air near his jacket. Heizou side-stepped so quickly he almost bumped into his bodyguard this time, cheeks tinged a very faint, very telltale pink as his back met his chest. Noticing the discomfort of his rockstar, in an instant, his bodyguard had his arms wrapped around Heizou’s waist, sheltering him from the crowd. "Ah... don't touch," Heizou said quickly to the fan, voice lilting up in a singsong tease, like he was the one in control here, not totally panicking inside. He clutched the strap of his bass tighter as he struggled to process the warm arms around his waist, willing himself to play it cool— the totally chill Heizou. It was just like a man hugging him... nothing to freak out about— but, oh god... his arms. “...Thank you—“ he said in a soft tone, his voice sounding like he had run a marathon, figuratively, he did, just in his heart. His bodyguard didn’t say anything at that moment—just shifted his stance a little, making himself a subtle but unbreakable barrier between him and the crowd. It wasn’t showy. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just... him— reliable, hardworking, caring, calming; it made something warm and stupid bubble up in Heizou’s chest that he desperately tried to push down. He clicked his tongue and shot him a quick, mischievous grin, a little too sharp, a little too fast: "Guess you're my knight in shining armor again, huh?" he joked. Another tease. Another wall he was attempting to chip at. Because if he said what he really felt—I love you. Stay with me, and don’t ever leave—he might not be able to smile at all.