Taiga squints at the row of Mega Lemon Sour glasses in front of him. The perfect subject for artistic photography. He arranges them in a diagonal line, each one casting a small shadow under the restaurant’s dim lights.
“Fucking masterpiece,” he mutters, snapping a photo with his phone.
The image blurs. He tries again, holding his breath to steady his hand.
Better. Not ART-PUT quality, but it’ll do.
The restaurant buzzes around him, other patrons’ conversations merging into white noise. How long has he been here?
The clock on his phone reads 11:47 PM. Hours, then.
The waitress keeps giving him concerned glances. Probably because he’s been talking to himself, composing tweets aloud before typing them with exaggerated concentration.
His Twitter feed glows back at him, a string of increasingly incoherent posts. Something about drinking alone and knocking people flat? And that last one about barriers... did he really try to promote tomorrow’s single release that way?
Shit. The release.
He should be home, resting. Not drunk at Torikizoku at midnight.
The room tilts slightly when he shifts in his seat. Definitely past his limit, and that’s saying something.
“Need to go,” he announces to no one in particular.
Taiga’s finger hovers over his phone. Manager. He needs his manager. The contact list swims before his eyes, names blurring together. He presses what he thinks is the right name and waits, head propped against his hand.
“Hello? Taiga?”
Not his manager’s voice. Too deep, too familiar.
“Hokuto?” He straightens, knocking over an empty plate. “Why’re you answering my manager’s phone?”
“You called me, not your manager.”
“Oh.” Taiga blinks at his phone screen. Sure enough, Hokuto’s name glares back at him. “Sorry. Drunk dialing. Very unprofessional. I’ll hang up now.”
“Wait—are you okay? Where are you?”
Taiga laughs, the sound bouncing off the walls of the small booth. “I’m at Torikizoku. The one near the studio. Been here since... I don’t know. A while.”
“Have you seen your tweets?”
“My tweets? Oh, those tweets. Yes. Very artistic. Promotional.” He attempts to stand, sits back down heavily. “Need to go home. Was calling for a ride.”
A sigh travels through the phone. “Stay there. I’ll come get you.”
“No, no. We’re not close like that.”
“Taiga, just… don’t leave. I’m fifteen minutes away.”
“Hokuto-kun to the rescue.” Taiga makes a swooping gesture with his hand, nearly toppling sideways. “So reliable. So responsible. So... everything I’m not.”
“Just wait there.”
The line goes dead. Taiga stares at his phone, feeling a strange mixture of embarrassment and relief. He flags down the waitress.
“Water, please. Need to sober up. My groupmate is coming. Not my friend. Groupmate. Important distinction.”
She nods politely and brings him water, which he drinks in greedy gulps. The cold liquid does little to clear his head, but it gives him something to focus on besides the room’s gentle spinning.
Twelve minutes later—Taiga’s been counting—Hokuto appears in the doorway, scanning the restaurant until he spots Taiga in his corner booth. His expression is unreadable as he approaches.
“You came,” Taiga says, stating the obvious.
“I said I would.” Hokuto slides into the booth beside him. “How much have you had?”
Taiga gestures grandly at the collection of cups. “Lost count. Strong tolerance, though. I’m fine.”
“You called me thinking I was your manager.”
“Minor mistake.” Taiga leans forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Did you see my tweets? Promotional genius, right?”
Hokuto’s lips twitch. “Sony-san’s PR team might disagree.”
“They have no vision.” Taiga attempts to stand again, more successfully this time. “Let’s go. I can walk.”
He takes two steps and sways. Hokuto is beside him instantly, one arm sliding around his waist to steady him.
“I’ve got you,” Hokuto says, his voice close to Taiga’s ear.
The contact sends an unexpected jolt through Taiga’s system. When was the last time Hokuto touched him outside of choreographed interactions? The warmth of the other man’s body against his side feels foreign yet familiar.
“Don’t need help,” Taiga protests, even as he leans into Hokuto’s support.
“Sure you don’t.”
The cool night air hits Taiga’s face as they step outside Torikizoku. The sidewalk seems to tilt beneath his feet, and Hokuto’s grip tightens around his waist.
“Almost there,” Hokuto says, guiding him past a group of late-night revelers.
Taiga tries to focus on walking straight, hyperaware of Hokuto’s fingers pressed against his side. They’ve never been this close without cameras watching or choreography demanding it. It feels intimate in a way that makes his alcohol-soaked brain short-circuit.
“Where’s the taxi?” Taiga asks, squinting at the empty curb.
“No taxi. Got a car.”
Taiga snorts. “You don’t have a car.”
“This way.” Hokuto steers him toward a small parking lot behind the restaurant building.
The world tilts again, and Taiga stumbles, his shoulder bumping against Hokuto’s chest. The contact sends another jolt through him—warmer this time, more insistent.
“Sorry,” Taiga mumbles, straightening himself with exaggerated dignity. “Very coordinated. Always.”
Hokuto’s laugh is soft. “Sure you are.”
They stop in front of a sleek black sedan that Taiga doesn’t recognize. Hokuto releases him to dig keys from his pocket.
“Whose car?” Taiga asks, leaning against the passenger door for support.
“Tera lent it to me.”
“Tera?” Tera blinks, processing this information. “You called Tera to borrow his car… to pick me up?”
Hokuto shrugs, not meeting his eyes. “I was in his place when you called, and I was leaving anyway. No big deal.”
“Big deal,” Taiga insists, jabbing a finger in Hokuto’s direction. “Very big deal. We’re not even friends.”
The words hang in the air, heavier than he intended. Hokuto’s expression shifts, something flickering across his features too quickly for Taiga’s drunk brain to interpret.
“Just get in the car, Kyomoto.”
Taiga complies, fumbling with the door handle before Hokuto reaches across him to open it. He drops into the passenger seat with zero grace, his head thumping against the headrest.
This is humiliating.
Hokuto slides into the driver’s seat, the interior light casting shadows across his face. He looks tired, Taiga realizes.
“Your address is still the same, right?” Hokuto asks, starting the engine.
“Yeah.” Taiga stares out the window, suddenly wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole. “Sorry for this. Not very professional.”
“It happens.”
“Not to you.”
Hokuto doesn’t respond to that, just pulls out of the parking lot and merges into the sparse midnight traffic. The car’s interior smells like someone’s cologne (probably Tera’s) and something else—Hokuto’s scent, subtle but distinct.
Taiga breathes it in, finding it oddly grounding amid the alcohol-induced fog.
They drive in silence for several minutes. The city lights blur past, smearing into streaks of neon against the darkness. Taiga’s stomach lurches uncomfortably.
“You okay?” Hokuto asks, glancing over.
“Fine.” Taiga swallows hard, fighting the rising nausea. “Just… car sick, maybe.”
Another wave hits him, stronger this time. He presses his forehead against the cool window glass.
“You’re going to throw up.”
“No, I’m not.” Taiga takes deep breaths through his nose. “Kyomotos don’t throw up from alcohol.”
“Your face is green.”
“It’s the streetlights.”
Hokuto sighs and flips on his turn signal. “There’s a 7-Eleven coming up. I’ll stop.”
“Don’t need to stop.”
“Water and food will help.” Hokuto pulls into the convenience store parking lot. “What do you want?”
Taiga’s stomach rolls again. “Nothing.”
“Onigiri? Pocari Sweat?”
The mention of food makes Taiga’s nausea spike. He groans, dropping his head into his hands. “Just water.”
“I’ll be right back. Don’t throw up in Tera’s car.”
Hokuto leaves, and Taiga closes his eyes, focusing on his breathing. The silence of the empty car amplifies his thoughts.
Why did Hokuto come for him? They’ve worked together for years, performed side by side, but always with that invisible barrier between them—the one fans love to speculate about.
We’re not even friends.
His own words echo back to him, and he winces. Drunk or not, that was harsh. Especially when Hokuto had gone out of his way, borrowing a car, coming to his rescue.
The driver’s door opens, and Hokuto returns with a plastic bag. He hands Taiga a cold bottle of water and what looks like saltine crackers.
“Drink slowly,” Hokuto instructs. “The crackers will help absorb some of the alcohol.”
Taiga accepts both, their fingers brushing during the exchange. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“No, I mean...” Taiga twists the cap off the water bottle, struggling to articulate through his drunken haze. “For coming to get me. For not... laughing at me.”
Hokuto’s expression softens slightly. “Why would I laugh?”
“Because I’m a mess.” Taiga takes a small sip of water. “And you’re... you.”
“What does that mean?”
“You know.” Taiga gestures vaguely with the water bottle. “Perfect Hokuto. Always composed. Never drunk-tweeting nonsense late at night.”
Hokuto snorts. “I’m not perfect. I post quizzes about myself to fans on my blog that even I couldn’t answer perfectly.”
Taiga laughs at that, a genuine sound that bubbles up unexpectedly from his chest. It breaks through his alcohol-induced haze with surprising clarity.
“God, that quiz.”
“Exactly.” Hokuto’s mouth quirks up at one corner. “Not so perfect.”
Something shifts in the air between them—a slight easing of the perpetual tension that’s defined their relationship for years. Taiga stares at Hokuto’s profile, illuminated by the harsh fluorescent lights of the 7-Eleven sign.
Has he ever really looked at him before? Not during performances or photoshoots, but like this, when no one’s watching?
The crackers taste like nothing as Taiga nibbles on the edge of one. His stomach settles slightly with each careful bite.
“The fans would lose their minds if they could see this,” he says, gesturing between them with the cracker. “KyomoHoku, alone in a car at midnight.”
Hokuto’s eyes remain on the windshield. “The infamous non-friends.”
“Is that what we are? Non-friends?”
The question hangs between them, more direct than Taiga would ever be sober. He watches Hokuto’s fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on the steering wheel.
“I don’t know what we are,” Hokuto says finally. “Groupmates who respect each other, I guess.”
“That’s very diplomatic.” Taiga takes another sip of water, his head clearing just enough to recognize dangerous conversational territory. “PR-approved answer.”
“What would you call us then?”
The question catches Taiga off-guard. He stares at the half-empty water bottle in his hands, searching for words.
“Parallel lines,” he says finally. “Moving in the same direction but never quite connecting.”
Hokuto turns to look at him then, something like surprise crossing his features. “That’s... poetic.”
“I’m very deep when I’m drunk.” Taiga attempts a grin, but it feels wobbly on his face. “Don’t tell the others.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
The words send an unexpected warmth spreading through Taiga’s chest. He blames it on the alcohol, though the nausea has mostly subsided.
“We should get you home,” Hokuto says, starting the engine again. “It’s late.”
“Right. The single release tomorrow.” Taiga rests his head against the window again, watching Tokyo slide past in streaks of light. “Our manager’s going to kill me if I look hungover in the interviews.”
“I’ve got concealer you can borrow. Works wonders on dark circles.”
“Sharing makeup? Now we’re definitely friends.”
The word slips out before he can catch it. Taiga tenses, waiting for Hokuto to correct him or maintain the distance between them. Instead, Hokuto just hums noncommittally, eyes on the road.
The silence that follows feels different—not awkward or strained, but thoughtful. Taiga finds himself studying the way Hokuto’s hands rest on the steering wheel, the slight furrow between his brows as he concentrates on driving. Small details he’s never bothered to notice before.
“Why did you come get me?” The question escapes before he can think better of it. “You could have called me a taxi. Or just ignored the call.”
Hokuto doesn’t answer immediately. A red light stops them, bathing the car interior in crimson.
“Would you have preferred that?”
“No,” Taiga admits. “But it doesn’t make sense. We’re not—” He stops himself from repeating the ‘not friends’ line. “We don’t hang out. Ever.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
The light changes to green, and Hokuto accelerates smoothly. Taiga’s heart rate picks up for reasons that have nothing to do with the car’s movement.
“What do you mean?”
“We’ve been in the same group for years,” Hokuto says, his voice carefully neutral. “But we’ve never really tried to understand each other outside of work. It’s... easier to maintain distance.”
“Easier how?”
Hokuto’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Safer.”
The word lands between them with unexpected weight. Taiga’s alcohol-loosened mind latches onto it, turning it over, examining its implications.
“What are you afraid of?” he asks, the question emerging softer than intended.
Hokuto’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. “We’re almost at your place.”
The deflection is obvious, but Taiga doesn’t push. He’s already crossed more boundaries tonight than in the past several years of working together.
The familiar streets of his neighborhood come into view, and he feels a strange reluctance at the sight of his apartment building.
“I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable,” Taiga says as Hokuto pulls up to the curb. “Sorry if I did.”
“You didn’t.” Hokuto puts the car in park but doesn’t turn off the engine. “I’m just not good at this.”
“At what?”
“This.” Hokuto gestures vaguely between them. “Talking. Opening up.”
Taiga snorts. “And you think I am?”
“You’re doing it right now.”
“I’m drunk. Doesn’t count.”
Hokuto’s lips quirk upward again. “Convenient excuse.”
“The best kind.” Taiga unbuckles his seatbelt but doesn’t move to exit the car. Something keeps him rooted to the seat, a reluctance to end whatever this moment between them is. “Thanks again. For coming to get me.”
“Anytime.”
The simple response feels weighted with meaning Taiga can’t quite decipher. Their eyes meet briefly in the dim light of the car, and something electric passes between them.
“I should go,” Taiga says, but doesn’t move.
The silence stretches between them, thick with something unspoken. Hokuto’s face is half-shadowed, the streetlight catching only one side of his features. It makes him look mysterious, almost dangerous.
When did Hokuto get so fucking handsome?
The thought crashes through Taiga’s mind with alarming clarity, cutting through his alcoholic haze like a knife.
“Your building security will think I’m stalking you if we sit here much longer,” Hokuto says, his voice lower than before.
“Let them talk.” Taiga shifts in his seat to face Hokuto more directly. “Everyone else does.”
Hokuto’s eyebrow raises slightly. “What do you mean?”
“The fans. The members. Everyone has theories about why we’re not close.” Taiga waves his hand dismissively, nearly hitting the dashboard. “KyomoHoku. Like we’re some puzzle they need to solve.”
“And what’s the answer to the puzzle?” Hokuto asks, his fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel.
The question hangs in the air. Taiga stares at Hokuto’s hands—elegant, capable hands. Hands that steadied him earlier without hesitation.
“I don’t know,” Taiga admits. “Maybe there isn’t one.”
“Or maybe it’s simpler than everyone thinks.”
Taiga’s heart skips. “Meaning?”
Hokuto turns the engine off, plunging them into relative quiet. The soft hum of the city at night fills the silence—distant traffic, the rustle of wind through trees, someone’s laughter echoing from an open window.
“Sometimes,” Hokuto says carefully, “it’s easier to keep distance from the things that matter most.”
The words land like stones in still water, rippling through Taiga’s consciousness. He blinks, trying to process what Hokuto might be saying.
“Are you saying I matter to you?” The question comes out more vulnerable than intended.
Hokuto doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reaches over and brushes a strand of hair from Taiga’s forehead, his touch feather-light.
“You’ve always mattered,” he says finally. “That’s the problem.”
Something shifts in Taiga’s chest—a door opening to a room he didn’t know existed. He leans into Hokuto’s touch without thinking, and Hokuto’s hand freezes against his temple.
“Sorry,” Taiga murmurs, pulling back. “Drunk. Very drunk.”
“Are you?” Hokuto’s eyes search his. “Still drunk enough that this doesn’t count?”
Taiga swallows hard. “Count for what?”
Instead of answering, Hokuto leans forward, closing the distance between them with excruciating slowness. He pauses, his face inches from Taiga’s, close enough that Taiga can feel his breath.
“Tell me to stop,” Hokuto whispers.
Taiga’s heart hammers against his ribs. His gaze drops to Hokuto’s mouth, then back to his eyes. “What if I don’t want to?”
The confession hangs between them for one breathless moment before Hokuto closes the final distance, pressing his lips against Taiga’s with surprising gentleness.
The kiss is tentative at first, questioning. Taiga responds instantly, his hand coming up to cup Hokuto’s jaw. The contact sends electricity coursing through him, more intoxicating than all the lemon sours he downed earlier.
Hokuto pulls back first, his eyes wide with something like wonder. “That was...”
“Unexpected,” Taiga finishes, his voice rough.
“I was going to say ‘overdue.’”
A laugh bubbles up from Taiga’s chest, genuine and unguarded. “Years overdue.”
“So what now?” Hokuto asks, uncertainty creeping into his expression.
Taiga considers the question, reality starting to pierce through the perfect bubble of this moment. Tomorrow they’ll face cameras, interviews, the carefully constructed personas they present to the world. The distance between them has been part of their public narrative for so long.
“Now,” Taiga says, reaching for the door handle, “you come upstairs for coffee.”
Hokuto raises an eyebrow. “Coffee? It’s almost 1 AM.”
“I didn’t say we’d drink it.” Taiga unbuckles his seatbelt and opens his car door. “Coming?”
Hokuto sits frozen for a moment, then scrambles to unbuckle his seatbelt. “Wait—are you serious?”
Taiga leans down to look through the open door, enjoying the rare sight of Hokuto flustered. “About the coffee? Very serious. I have an expensive machine.”
“Taiga—”
“Or we could talk,” Taiga interrupts, suddenly serious. “About all this. About why we’ve been parallel lines for so long when we could have been...”
“What?” Hokuto prompts, stepping out of the car.
Taiga smiles, feeling lighter than he has in years. “Intersecting. Constantly.”
Hokuto’s startled laugh echoes in the quiet street. “That’s terrible geometry.”
“I’m still drunk. Cut me some slack.” Taiga holds out his hand, an offering and a question. “So? Coffee, talking, or both?”
Hokuto looks at the extended hand, then back at Taiga’s face. His expression softens into something Taiga has never seen directed at him before—something warm and unguarded and real.
“Both,” Hokuto says, taking Taiga’s hand. “Definitely both.”