if only the light could stay

🎹

The flame flickers against the wind. Taiga cups his hand around the lighter, shielding it, until the tip of the cigarette finally glows orange. 

He takes a drag, bitter smoke filling his lungs. He holds it there for a second before exhaling a thin gray stream into the air.

Inside the Practice Tower, Professor Mori is inside the Piano Forum lecture right about now. He’s probably adjusting his glasses, scanning the room, and marking a neat little X next to Taiga’s name on the attendance sheet.

That makes three.

According to the syllabus—which Taiga only skimmed to find the loopholes—attendance is forty percent of the grade. He needs ninety percent just to pass. Seven absences should be the nail in the coffin.

Good.

Taiga leans back against the bamboo partition, the rough texture digging into his jacket. If he listens closely, past the rustle of the leaves overhead, he can hear the faint, muffled sound of a piano from the practice rooms. 

Scales. C major. Too fast. Uneven.

He clicks his tongue and pulls the camera from his side.

This was supposed to be the point. Taiga told them. He sat at the dinner table and said he was done. London made it clear. He’s not special. He’s not a prodigy. He’s just another kid who can hit keys in the right order.

His father called it a “slump.” His mother just smiled that thin, terrifying smile and paid the tuition for Tokyo Global Conservatory anyway. They think if they drag him back to the water, he’ll eventually drink.

They’re wrong. Expulsion is messy. It’s loud. It’s hard to ignore. When the letter comes, maybe they’ll finally stop looking at him like he’s a broken investment.

Taiga toggles the camera on. The LCD screen flickers to life.

I took these last night, wandering around Shinjuku when I couldn't sleep. The first image is a blur of neon lights reflected in a rain puddle.

Garbage.

He hits the delete button.

Next. A stray cat sitting on a vending machine. The focus is soft on the eyes. The aperture was too wide. Amateur mistake.

Delete.

Next. A salaryman glowing under the fluorescent light of a convenience store window.

He pauses. His thumb hovers over the button.

The composition isn’t terrible. The lines of the window frame lead the eye inward. But the exposure is slightly blown out on the left. It kills the contrast. If Taiga had just stepped two feet to the right or adjusted the shutter speed, the shadow would have cut across his face better. It would have meant something.

He grits his teeth.

It doesn’t matter. It’s a hobby. That’s what Taiga told himself. Point, shoot, forget. He’s not supposed to care about the lighting ratios or the narrative weight of a drunk businessman buying onigiri at 3 AM.

But his eye catches the flaw instantly. It’s like hearing a wrong note in a chord. It itches under his skin.

“If it’s not perfect, it’s worthless.”

The voice in his head sounds too much like his father. 

Taiga shuts the sentiment down. He’s not doing this. He’s not turning a cheap distraction into another test he can fail.

He deletes the photo.

Taiga scrolls faster. Delete. Delete. Delete. The shutter speed was too slow here. The ISO was too high there; the grain looks like noise, not texture. Shit. Why can’t he just take a normal picture? Why does everything have to be analyzed until it’s dead?

He switches the camera off. The screen goes black, reflecting his own face for a split second.

He looks away.

The cigarette has burned down to the filter. Taiga drops it onto the concrete and crushes it under the heel of his sneaker, grinding it until there’s nothing left but ash.

Fifteen minutes left of class. Maybe he should stay here until the bell rings, just to make sure he doesn’t accidentally run into anyone regarding his academic suicide.

Taiga’s phone vibrates against his thigh.

He ignores it for a second, watching a crow pick at a discarded wrapper near the maple tree. 

It buzzes again. 

Taiga swears under his breath and digs the device out of his jeans pocket. The screen is too bright in the shade, glaring up at him with a notification that demands attention.

Yugo: Conducting wrapped early. Picking up Jess from Italian Vocals.

Yugo: Cafeteria?

Yugo: Don’t skip lunch again.

Taiga stares at the message. The last message is typical. Yugo thinks he’s subtle, tacking on the concern at the end like an afterthought, but it’s the whole point of the message.

Yugo has always been the “mom” of the group. Before London, it was useful. They were kids. Someone had to make sure they didn’t walk into traffic while arguing about chord progressions.

Now, it just feels like surveillance.

Ever since Taiga came back, Yugo’s dialed the hovering up to eleven. He doesn’t ask about the piano. He doesn’t ask about London. Instead, he asks if Taiga’s eating. He asks if Taiga’s sleeping. He looks at Taiga with those crinkling eyes that everyone else finds so comforting, and all Taiga sees is Yugo checking for cracks.

It’s insulting. Taiga’s not some porcelain doll that got shattered in transit. He failed a few credits. He quit. That’s it.

He should say no. He could tell Yugo he’s busy studying for the classes he skipped.

But if he says no, Yugo will just show up at his apartment later with leftovers and that patient, understanding look that makes Taiga want to punch a wall. Yugo’s stubborn like that. 

And dragging Jesse along means he’s bringing a buffer. It’s a calculated move. Yugo knows Taiga can’t be too sharp-tongued when Jesse is shouting about opera and waving his arms around like a windmill.

It’s easier to just get it over with.

He types back with one hand.

Taiga: Fine.

He hits send before he can change his mind, then shoves the phone back into his pocket.

His fingers brush against the cold metal of his camera. He hesitates, then slings the strap over his shoulder. It feels lighter than it should.

Taiga pushes off the bamboo partition and heads back toward the main thoroughfare.

The courtyard is drowning in pink petals. Some are stuck to the wet pavement, others are tangled in hair or rotting in the gutters. The air smells like rain.

It’s the third week of the semester, the dangerous window where everyone still thinks they’re going to be great. The energy is frantic.

To his left, a group of freshmen are clustered near the fountain, cases slung over their shoulders like weapons. They’re loud, laughing at nothing, vibrating with that naive, desperate hope that hasn’t been beaten out of them yet. One of them, a trumpeter by the shape of his case, is talking about “redefining the genre.”

He almost laughs. Good luck with that.

Taiga sidesteps a dancer stretching her hamstring on a bench. She’s taking up too much space. She catches his eye. He looks past her at the gray stone of the walkway.

The conservatory loves this illusion. Art as Legacy. Art as Innovation. It’s all branding. It’s just a factory for insecurity. Everyone’s just waiting to see who cracks first.

Taiga grips the strap of his camera tighter. The metal digs into his palm.

“...heard he’s back, though.”

The voice cuts through the ambient chatter. It’s low, coming from a pair of violinists huddled near the shrine entrance. Taiga doesn’t stop walking, but his focus sharpens.

“Kyomoto? Seriously?” A scoff. “I thought he quit. Didn’t he choke in London?”

“Burned out, apparently. Couldn’t handle the pressure.”

Taiga’s jaw tightens. He stares straight ahead, focusing on the glass doors of the cafeteria.

“Pride goeth before the fall, or whatever,” the first one says, sounding bored. “Guess he wasn’t that special after all.”

He doesn’t turn around. It’s not worth it. If he stops, if he looks at them, he validates them. Give them three years, and they’ll be teaching lessons to toddlers in outlet malls.

But the words itch. Couldn’t hack the pressure. Not that special.

Taiga pushes through the cafeteria doors, eager for the noise to drown them out.

It’s worse inside. The air is thick with the smell of fried cutlets and coffee, the roar of conversation bouncing off the high ceilings. It’s a sensory assault.

He scans the room, looking for Yugo and Jesse. He spots them immediately.

The line for the lunch counter is long, winding back toward the vending machines. Yugo is standing near the front. He’s easy to find; he stands straighter than most people here.

Jesse is draped over him. Literally.

He’s got his chin resting on Yugo’s shoulder, saying something that involves wild hand gestures. He nearly knocks a tray out of a girl’s hands, but he just grins, apologizes, and turns back to Yugo.

Yugo doesn’t even look annoyed. He just shifts his weight to steady them both, his hand resting casually on Jesse’s forearm.

It’s so easy for them. They aren’t looking around to see who’s watching. They aren’t measuring their worth by who’s noticing them. They’re just... existing. Happy.

It’s irritating.

Taiga stops near the entrance, staying in the shadow of a pillar. If he goes over there, he becomes the audience, the charity case that the happy couple has to entertain. Jesse will try too hard to make him laugh. Yugo will watch him eat like he’s monitoring a sick pet.

“Is that him?”

A whisper behind him. Not the violinists this time.

“Yeah. That child prodigy. Look at him, he looks like a ghost.”

Taiga’s skin crawls. It feels like the temperature in the room just dropped ten degrees.

He looks back at Yugo. He’s laughing now, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He looks normal. He fits there.

Taiga doesn’t.

He pulls his phone out. His thumb hovers over the screen. He hates running. It feels like cowardice. But staying feels like walking onto a stage without knowing the music.

Taiga: Change of plans. Not hungry.

He hits send.

Before Yugo can check his pocket, before he can turn around and spot Taiga lurking by the door like a failure, Taiga turns on his heel.

He shoves the phone deep into his pocket and pushes back out into the courtyard, letting the heavy doors swing shut.

Taiga turns the corner around the Music Building too fast, head down, hands jammed in his pockets. The air feels heavy. He just needs to get to the gate.

He doesn’t see the figure stepping out of the faculty wing until he’s two feet in front of him. 

Taiga skids to a stop, the soles of his sneakers squeaking against the stone. He barely avoids slamming into a leather briefcase.

“Careful, Kyomoto-kun.”

Just hearing the voice makes Taiga’s stomach knot.

He looks up. Professor Mori is standing there, adjusting his glasses. He doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t even look surprised. He just looks at Taiga the way he used to look at his hands when he missed a tempo change.

“I didn’t see you,” Taiga mutters, stepping back. He wants to leave. He should just walk around him.

“Clearly,” Professor Mori says. He glances at the heavy doors of the building behind Taiga, then back to his face. “I haven’t seen you in this morning’s class or last Monday’s private piano lesson. Nor did Aoyama-sensei see you at Keyboard Skills.” He pauses. “Three weeks, Taiga. Three weeks’ worth of nine classes.”

Taiga grits his teeth. He knows the number. He didn’t need Professor Mori to count it out for him. He’s not asking for an excuse, but his gaze is waiting for one.

He should lie. His grandmother got sick. He got the flu. He oversleeps a lot.

“I’m not coming back,” he says instead. The words taste like ash, but he forces them out. “I didn’t want to enroll this semester. Or ever. My parents… they paid the tuition before I could stop them.” He looks past Professor Mori, focusing on a crack in the wall. “It’s a waste of money. I’m done. I don’t have it anymore.”

There. He said it.

He waits for the disappointment. He waits for Professor Mori to sigh and tell him what a shame it is that the ‘prodigy’ turned out to be a coward.

“Is that so?” Professor Mori says softly. 

He shifts his briefcase to his other hand, not looking convinced. He looks like he’s solving a puzzle he’s seen a hundred times before.

“Talent doesn’t expire, Kyomoto-kun. It just hibernates.” He checks his watch. “I’ll speak to your other professors. We can waive the penalty for the absences if you attend the remaining sessions. Consider it a probation period.”

“Probation?”

He doesn’t need a second chance. He needs Professor Mori to accept the resignation he’s trying to hand the professor verbally. He needs to be cut loose. If Professor Mori just files the paperwork, Taiga can disappear.

“I didn’t ask for—”

“Tanaka-kun!”

Professor Mori’s voice cuts through Taiga’s objection like a gavel. He lifts a hand, waving at someone walking past the fountain. He isn’t listening to Taiga. He never does.

Taiga stifles a groan and turns his head, following the professor’s line of sight.

A guy stops mid-step on the stone path. He’s about Taiga’s height, maybe a little taller, but he holds himself with a loose, lazy posture that makes him look like he’s leaning against the wall even when he’s standing in the middle of a courtyard.

He pulls down his headphones, letting them hang around his neck. “Sensei?” He turns toward the two.

Professor Mori beckons him over.

The guy takes his time. He walks with a rolling, casual gait, hands sliding into the pockets of his slim-fit jeans.

Taiga analyzes the guy before he gets within ten feet.

Ash-brown hair, styled to look messy but clearly intentional. Sunken cheekbones. Thin. Not the wiry kind of thin that comes from cardio, but the unhealthy kind that suggests he skips meals for cigarettes. He’s wearing a silver chain and a leather bracelet that looks cheap.

He looks like he got lost on his way to a club in Shibuya.

“This is Tanaka Juri,” Professor Mori says when the guy stops in front of them. “Second-year piano major, just like you.”

Taiga almost scoffs. The guy doesn’t look like a pianist. Juri looks like the type of guy who sits in the back of a lecture hall, hungover, texting on his phone until the professor calls him out.

Professor Mori gestures to him. “This is Kyomoto Taiga. He is returning to the program after… a leave of absence.”

Juri looks at Taiga. There’s a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He looks Taiga up and down like he’s pricing an item on a shelf.

“Kyomoto,” he repeats. The smirk widens a fraction. “The prodigy, right?”

Taiga hates that word. He hates the way Juri says it, like it’s a punchline they’re both in on.

“I need you to assist him,” Professor Mori says, ignoring the tension radiating off Taiga. “He has missed the first three weeks of the semester. Share your notes, ensure he knows the requirements for each subject.”

Taiga stares at the pavement. This is ridiculous. He doesn’t need a tutor. Especially not this guy. He looks like he barely attends class himself.

Say no.

Taiga wills Juri to do it. He looks lazy. Extra work should be the last thing he wants. He should make an excuse, like he’s busy. Or he has a job. Or he doesn’t have good notes. Just decline. Walk away. Let Taiga fail in peace.

Juri tilts his head. He looks from Professor Mori to Taiga, the silence stretching just long enough to be annoying.

Then he shrugs.

“Sure,” Juri says. His voice is smooth, scraping slightly at the edges. “I’ve got plenty of notes. No problem.”

Taiga snaps his head up, glaring at him.

Juri catches his look and winks. Actually winks.

“You’re in my hands, Kyomo,” he says.

Great. A babysitter with a bad dye job and a smirk. Just what he needed.

“I have to eat before my next lecture.” Professor Mori checks his watch. He turns to Taiga one last time. “I’ll ask Aoyama-sensei tomorrow if you attended Keyboard Skills. Don’t make me regret sticking my neck out for you, Kyomoto-kun.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He walks off toward the faculty wing, his briefcase swinging with annoying precision.

Taiga watches him go, feeling the weight of the “probation” settle on his shoulders. It feels like a trap.

“Tight leash,” Juri says.

Taiga looks at him. Juri’s rocking back on his heels, hands buried in his pockets, looking entirely too amused.

“Don’t bother,” he says, shifting away from Juri. His jaw is tight. “I don’t need your notes. I’ll figure it out.”

“Suit yourself.” Juri shrugs. As Taiga turns to leave, Juri’s voice drifts after him. “Music History’s on Friday, 11:30. Room 304. Don’t ditch, Kyomo. I’d hate to explain to Mori-sensei why his favorite project went AWOL again.”

Taiga doesn’t look back. He just walks faster.

He keeps walking until the pavement changes texture under his sneakers, turning from smooth concrete to uneven stone. The noise of the courtyard fades until there’s only the sound of wind in the trees.

Taiga stops.

He’s at the edge of the grounds, where the manicured landscaping gives way to something wilder. Overgrown cedars block out the afternoon sun, casting long, cold shadows. In the center of the grove stands a torii gate, its vermilion paint peeling like dead skin to reveal gray wood underneath.

The Futodama Shrine.

It looks neglected. Moss eats at the stone lanterns lining the path. It’s quiet here, though. No eyes and expectations. Just decay.

Taiga steps through the gate. The air is cooler, smelling of damp earth and resin.

He remembers this place. Barely. First year orientation. A senior dragged a group of first years on a tour. He stopped here, gesturing vaguely at the main hall with a grin that touched everything but his eyes. He talked about wishes granted, costs paid, spirits inhabiting the mirrors. Typical upperclassman nonsense to scare the freshmen into respecting the campus.

Taiga had stayed at the back of the group, checking the time on his phone. He didn’t care about ghosts. He had a concerto to memorize.

But now, standing in the silence, the place feels heavy and waiting.

Taiga steps off the stone path and into the dirt, the soles of his sneakers crunching against dry leaves. The cedar trees overhead are thick, twisting together like tangled fingers to block out the sun. It makes the air drop a few degrees. It smells like wet earth and something metallic, like old copper coins.

He lifts the camera.

0.6 seconds shutter speed. ISO 800. The lighting here is terrible. A nightmare for exposure.

Taiga aims the lens at a stone lantern. It’s covered in moss, half-sunken into the ground like it’s given up. He twists the focus ring manually. The moss sharpens in the viewfinder, transforming from a green blur into a landscape of tiny, fuzzy spikes.

Click.

It’s a boring shot. No narrative, just texture.

He moves deeper, stepping around a puddle of stagnant water. The main hall is smaller than it looks from the path. The wood is unpainted cypress, grayed by weather and time. It looks fragile. One good storm, and this whole thing collapses.

“Sacred,” Yabu-senpai had called it.

It just looks neglected to Taiga.

He walks toward the offering box. It’s dusty. He peers inside through the slats. A few coins glint in the darkness, probably tossed in by desperate students during exam week.

It’s pathetic. Relying on spirits to fix technique. If you didn’t practice your scales, a five-yen coin isn’t going to save your arpeggios.

Taiga frames a shot of the offering box. The angle is low, looking up at the heavy rope hanging above. Paper lightning bolts dangle from it, turning slowly in the breeze.

Click.

Better. The contrast between the heavy rope and the fragile paper works. It feels heavy and oppressive.

He lowers his camera and shakes his wrist. He should check the time. He should check if Yugo sent a text asking where he is. He should care that Juri is probably laughing about the “prodigy” needing a tutor.

He doesn’t.

Taiga turns to the side of the altar. There’s a rack for prayer plaques, but most of them are weather-beaten, the ink washed away by rain. Wood rot eats at the edges of the frame.

And there, nailed to a post that looks like it’s holding up the roof by sheer stubbornness, is a blackened wooden sign. The calligraphy is faded, etched deep into the grain. 

Taiga steps closer, squinting to read it in the dim light.

“What is hidden will one day be revealed, and what is revealed cannot be hidden again.”

He stares at it. It sounds like something a pretentious composition major would title their final project. He scoffs, the sound sharp in the silence.

Taiga brings the viewfinder to his eye. He adjusts the aperture. f/2.8. He wants the depth of field shallow. The text needs to be sharp, the background dissolved into nothing. 

He lines up the grid. The wooden grain fills the frame. The words look jagged through the lens, like scars.

Click.

The shutter snaps.

Taiga pulls the camera away from his face to check the result on the LCD screen.

The screen flickers.

Static cuts across the image.

“Cheap piece of shit,” Taiga hisses, tapping the side of the casing.

The static clears. But the image doesn’t return. The screen goes black, then flares with a blinding, absolute white.

Taiga’s head snaps back.

It’s not the screen. It’s him.

The ground vanishes. The scent of damp earth and resin is ripped away, replaced by the smell of brewing coffee and expensive fabric softener.

He stumbles, grabbing for a support that isn’t there.

He’s standing in a room.

There’s too much sunlight. It streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, turning dust motes into gold.

Taiga blinks, disoriented.

Hardwood floors. A beige rug. A leather sofa that looks distressed.

He looks down at his hands.

They look... older. There’s a scar on his thumb he doesn’t recognize. And on his ring finger, a band of gold catches the light.

He touches it. It feels cold and real.

Behind him, the sound of a page turning.

Taiga whips around.

A grand piano sits in the corner. A Steinway. The lid is open. The bench is cluttered with sheet music—scores covered in red ink and blue ink. Two different handwritings.

He knows the red ink. It’s his. But the annotations are confident. No hesitation marks.

Taiga’s heart hammers against his ribs. This is a dream. A hallucination. He didn’t eat lunch, and now his blood sugar is crashing. That’s it. He passed out in the shrine.

But everything is too sharp. The grain of the wood. The dust on the metronome.

He walks toward the kitchen island. It’s granite. Two mugs sit there. One is empty, a ring of coffee stain at the bottom. The other is half-full.

A calendar hangs on the wall.

October.

Taiga steps closer.

2030.

His breath hitches. Fifteen years? No, that’s impossible. He’s twenty. He’s in the shrine.

The phone rings.

It’s a landline—a sleek, cordless thing sitting on the counter. It rings again.

Taiga’s hand moves without his permission. He picks it up.

“Hello?” His voice sounds deeper, settled.

“Is this Kyomoto Taiga-sama?” It’s a woman’s voice, official-sounding.

“Yes.”

“Just to confirm, are you married to Matsumura Hokuto-sama?”

Hokuto.

Taiga doesn’t know anyone named Hokuto. He’s never met a Hokuto. The name means nothing to him.

And yet, his chest aches. A sharp, phantom pain, like missing a step in the dark. The name tastes familiar on his tongue. Matsumura Hokuto.

“Yes,” he says. The word drags out of him automatically. Does he sound terrified?

“Kyomoto-sama, I am calling from Chuo Police Station. Matsumura-san has been involved in an accident.”

The sunlight in the room seems to freeze. The dust motes stop dancing.

“Accident?” Taiga asks. His fingers grip the edge of the counter. The gold rink clinks against the granite.

“There was an incident at the station. A woman and her child fell. Matsumura-san jumped down to assist.”

His stomach drops. He can see it. Not the memory, but the logic. It sounds like something this stranger—this Hokuto—would do. Selfless but stupid, reckless.

“He saved them,” the voice says. “The mother and the child are unharmed.”

“And Hokuto?” Taiga asks, his voice cracking.

Silence.

“I’m sorry, Kyomoto-sama. He died on impact.”

The world tilts.

The sunlight turns gray. The coffee mug on the counter mocks him. He left it half-full. He was running late for work.

Hokuto.

Grief washes over him, but it doesn’t belong to him. It’s a tidal wave crashing into a house that hasn’t been built yet. It’s suffocating.

Taiga can’t breathe. He can’t—

The floor drops out.

He gasps, lurching forward.

Taiga’s knees hit the dirt.

The impact jars his spine hard. Pain shoots up his legs.

He’s on the ground. The smell of cedar and rot rushes back, choking him. The shrine looms overheard, looking dark and indifferent.

He’s shaking violently.

His camera lies in the dirt next to his hand. Taiga scrambles for it, gripping the body like a lifeline. He checks the screen.

Black. Off.

Taiga scrambles backward, kicking up dead leaves, until his back hits the rough bark of a tree. He presses himself against it, chest heaving.

“What the fuck?” he wheezes.

🪈

The air in the Yoshikawa apartment always smells faintly of roasted barley tea and tatami. It’s a comforting scent, the kind that makes you feel like you’ve stepped out of the city’s rush and into a pocket of slow time.

Junko stands by the window, her flute reflected in the glass. The late afternoon light is thinning, and Hokuto can see the tension in her shoulders even from where he’s sitting on the zabuton. She’s sixteen, an age that feels both very close to his and impossibly far away, and she holds her breath too long before she plays.

She starts the opening phrase of Debussy’s Clair de Lune.

It’s a difficult arrangement for the flute. You have to create the illusion of sustained piano chords with nothing but air, and the F-sharp in the second measure is delicate. Junko rushes it. Her tone cracks, just a little, and she stops abruptly.

“I’m sorry, sensei,” she says, lowering the flute. Her face flushes. “I messed it up again.”

“It’s fine,” Hokuto says quickly, maybe too quickly. He shifts his weight, trying to look relaxed so she doesn’t feel pressured. “You don’t have to apologize. It was a difficult interval.”

“It sounded ugly.” She stares at the floor. “My mom says I should pick a happier song for the talent show. Maybe something faster. People like fast songs.”

Hokuto looks at the sheet music on the stand. The notes drift across the page like falling leaves. “Do you like fast songs?” he asks, keeping his voice soft.

“I don’t know.” She fidgets with the keys of her flute. “Fast songs obscure mistakes. If I play fast enough, maybe no one will notice I’m nervous.”

“Maybe,” he agrees. He understands that feeling. “But I think the mistakes are why Clair de Lune is beautiful.”

Junko looks up, blinking behind her glasses. “What do you mean?”

Hokuto stands up, moving slowly to join her by the window. He doesn’t want to loom over her, so he leans back against the wall, making himself smaller.

“The piece is about moonlight,” he says, thinking of how the moon looks from the small balcony in the apartment he shares with Jesse and Shintaro. “But moonlight isn’t perfect white light. It has shadows. It changes. If you play it perfectly straight, it doesn’t feel real.” He grabs his flute. “Do you mind?”

She shakes her head.

The metal is warm in Hokuto’s hands. He lifts it, taking a shallow breath. He doesn't play it like a soloist trying to impress a hall; he plays it the way he feels it when he’s alone. He lets the breath catch on the lower notes. He lets the tempo drag, just a little, allowing the silence between the phrases to feel heavy.

When he lowers the flute, the room feels quieter than before.

“You sounded sad, sensei,” Junko says, her voice hushed.

“I think I usually do,” Hokuto admits, setting down the instrument with a small, apologetic smile. “But that’s okay. Sadness is… honest. When you played earlier, that crack in your tone? It didn’t sound ugly to me. It sounded like you were feeling something.”

She looks at her own instrument, running her thumb over the lip plate. “So I don’t have to switch to confident music?”

“No,” he says gently. “You don’t have to be confident. You just have to be there. If you’re nervous, let the music sound nervous. If you’re sad, let it be sad. That’s what reaches people. I think... I think people are lonely, mostly. Hearing that someone else feels the same way is better than being impressed by a perfect scale.”

Junko takes a breath. It’s deeper this time, her shoulders dropping a fraction.

“Okay,” she whispers. “One more time.”

“Take your time,” Hokuto tells her, and he settles back into the cushion, folding his hands in his lap. “I’m listening.”

She begins again. It isn’t perfect—there is still a tremor in the long notes—but she doesn’t stop. The sound fills the room, melancholic and tender, and for a moment, the weight in his own chest feels a little lighter, carried away on her breath.

The lesson ends at exactly 5:00 pm, the way it always does. Mrs. Yoshikawa steps into the living room just as Hokuto is packing his flute into its case. She’s a small woman with a quiet presence, the kind of person who moves through a room without making a sound. Her hands are folded in front of her, and she smiles at him with a warmth that feels practiced but not insincere.

“Thank you so much for today, Matsumura-san,” she says, bowing slightly. “Junko seems much more relaxed after your lessons.”

“It’s fine,” Hokuto says automatically, adjusting the strap of his case. “She’s making good progress.”

Mrs. Yoshikawa reaches into her pocket and pulls out a white envelope. “Here’s your payment for this week.”

He takes it, his fingers brushing against the paper. It feels thicker than usual. He hesitates before slipping it into his bag, but she notices.

“Please, take it,” she insists, her voice gentle but firm. “Junko has been so much happier since you started teaching her. She even played for her father last night. She hasn’t done that in months. It’s more than just music to us.”

Hokuto swallows, his throat tight. “I don’t—”

“You’re doing more than just teaching her scales,” she interrupts, her smile softening. “You’re giving her confidence. That’s worth more than the fee.”

He nods, because he doesn’t know what else to do. He should be grateful—money is always tight, especially with tuition and rent—but the thought of taking more than he’s earned makes his stomach twist.

Mrs. Yoshikawa must see something in his expression because she adds, “Please, don’t refuse. Consider it a small thank-you for what you’ve done for our family.”

Hokuto exhales slowly, his fingers curling around the strap of his bag. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “I’ll… I’ll use it well.”

The door to the Yoshikawa apartment clicks shut behind him, the sudden silence of the hallway a physical pressure against his ears. Hokuto stands there for a moment, adjusting the strap of his flute case on his shoulder, letting the tension from the lesson drain out of his spine slowly, breath by breath.

The envelope in his bag feels heavy against his hip. He didn’t earn that extra money. He just listened. Though maybe that’s all anyone really wants.

The walk back to the main Ueno area is short. The evening air has a bite to it, hinting at rain, but Hokuto doesn’t mind. It feels clean.

He keeps his head down, watching the pavement scroll beneath his shoes, merging with the rhythm of the city without really stepping into it. Around him, people are rushing home to dinners and families, to lives that weave together. He feels, as he often does, like he’s walking alongside the world rather than inside it.

His phone buzzes in his pocket just as he turns the corner onto the main street.

Hokuto pulls it out. There are a few notifications, mostly emails from the conservatory about recital schedules that he’ll read later, but the top banner is from the group chat: Matsumura Kids.

A little warmth sparks in his chest. He stops walking, stepping aside near a vending machine to read it properly.

Masaya [17:08]: Got the math test back. 82!! I didn’t fail!

Yuina [17:10]: See? Told you studying was worth it. Mom didn’t notice the paper on the fridge yet but I put it up there.

Masaya [17:11]: Thanks Nee-chan. Should I tell Dad?

Yuina [17:12]: Maybe later. He’s in a mood. Dinner is ready though, come eat.

Hokuto stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Masaya passed. He should be typing congratulations, telling him he’s proud, asking which formulas gave him trouble. Last year, he would have been the one leaning over Masaya’s desk in Shizuoka, checking his work, brewing tea when his focus drifted. He would have been the one gauging their father’s mood by the sound of the front door opening, intercepting him so Masaya wouldn't have to worry about reading the air.

Now, Yuina is doing it.

She’s eighteen. She should be worrying about her own entrance exams, or going out with friends, not acting as a buffer for the entire household.

Hokuto: That’s great, Masaya. I knew you could do it.

He deletes that line immediately. It sounds selfish. It makes Masaya’s success about Hokuto’s absence.

Hokuto: Yuina, are you okay? Should I call tonight?

Her reply comes almost instantly.

Yuina [17:16]: It’s fine, Hoku-nii!! We’re eating curry. Don’t worry about us, focus on your classes. We’re holding the fort.

Hokuto lowers the phone, the screen going dark.

They’re fine. They’re managing. The realization is a relief—it’s a relief, mostly—but beneath it, there’s a hollow ache that he can’t quite name.

If they can handle the storms in Shizuoka without him, if Yuina can protect Masaya and Masaya can pass his tests and the house keeps standing… then his leaving didn’t break them. That’s good. That’s what he wanted.

But if they don’t need him to protect them, what is him to them now?

Hokuto grips the phone a little tighter, feeling the cold seep into his fingers. It’s a selfish thought. He shouldn’t want them to struggle just so he can feel useful. He shouldn’t want them to be lonely just so he can be the one to fix it.

“It’s fine,” he whispers to the empty street. “They’re okay.”

The screen lights up again before Hokuto can put the phone away. This time, the vibration pattern is a rapid staccato, buzzing three times in quick succession. It’s the other group chat—Tokyo Chaos.

The name was Jesse’s idea. Hokuto remembers arguing for something simpler, maybe just “Room 604,” but Jesse had laughed and said that was too boring for an opera singer, a dancer, and a brooding flutist.

Hokuto didn’t think he was brooding, but he let Jesse keep the name. It seemed to make him happy.

He taps the notification.

Jesse [17:18]: EMERGENCY. 🚨🚨🚨

Jesse [17:18]: Hokuto!! Where are u??

Jesse [17:19]: Yugo is making gyudon but we have NO SOY SAUCE. Literally zero. It’s a tragedy. Help us??

Hokuto stares at the messages, and the tightness in his chest loosens, just a fraction.

It’s a mundane request. There’s no life-changing news here, no shifting family dynamics or quiet reminders that he’s no longer essential to the ecosystem of his childhood home. They just need him to buy soy sauce.

It’s a simple task. He’s tired, but the supermarket isn't that far out of the way. He could say no—Jesse has legs, he could run down and get it himself—but the thought makes Hokuto feel guilty. Yugo is cooking for everyone. The least he can do is make sure he has the ingredients.

Hokuto: Just finished lessons. I can stop by the store.

The reply is instantaneous.

Jesse [17:21]: MY SAVIOR. 😭 Yugo says thank you. I say I love you. Hurry home!!

Then, another message pops up, separated from the rapid-fire stream of Jesse’s gratitude.

Shintaro [17:21]: Hokkun!! 🐻

Shintaro [17:22]: You’re the best. Seriously. The weather is cold so walk fast okay? I don’t want you to freeze.

Hokuto blinks at the nickname. Hokkun. Shintaro started using it the day they first moved in together, slipping it into conversation with that bright, unfiltered grin of his, and by the time Hokuto thought to correct him, it had already stuck. It sounds childish to Hokuto’s ears—something you’d call a little kid, not a college student—but Shintaro says it with such earnest enthusiasm that he never has the heart to tell him to stop.

Shintaro worries too much. Unlike Jesse, whose energy is all outward explosion, Shintaro’s energy sometimes feels like it’s trying to wrap around you. He’s always checking if Hokuto has eaten, or if he’s warm enough, or if he’s stressed about school. It reminds him of Masaya, back when he was younger and used to follow Hokuto around the house, anxious if he was out of his younger brother’s sight for too long.

It’s nice to be worried about, even if it’s unnecessary.

The automatic doors of the supermarket slide open with a rush of warm, sterile air. Inside, the fluorescent lights are humming, a low, electric buzz that sits just beneath the cheerful jingle playing over the speakers. It’s brighter here than on the street, exposing everything a little too clearly, from the scuff marks on the linoleum to the way everyone seems to be moving in their own solitary bubbles.

Hokuto keeps his head down, adjusting his glasses as he weaves through the aisles. The soy sauce is easy enough to find. He grab the brand Yugo prefers—the one with the milder sodium content, because he says it balances better in stews—and cradles the bottle against his chest.

As he turns the corner toward the registers, a flash of blue packaging catches his eye.

They’re chocolate-dipped biscuits, the kind shaped like little sailboats. Shintaro bought a box two weeks ago and finished them in a single sitting, looking so delighted that Hokuto felt a strange, quiet satisfaction just watching him eat.

“They taste like summer,” he’d said, though Hokuto’s pretty sure they just taste like milk chocolate and salt.

He hesitates, then reaches out to take a box. It’s just a small thing, but it will make Shintaro smile.

The checkout lines are long. Hokuto picks the one that seems shortest, standing behind a small, elderly woman in a gray wool coat. She looks a bit like his grandmother used to—fragile, with shoulders that curve inward as if trying to take up as little space as possible.

Hokuto stares at the back of her coat, waiting. The soothing beep of the scanner sets a rhythm, steady and predictable, until suddenly, it stops.

Silence stretches out.

“Ma’am?” the cashier says. His voice is flat, the kind of tone born from an eight-hour shift that hasn’t ended yet. “That will be 4,847 yen.”

The woman is rummaging through her handbag. Her movements are jerky, frantic. She opens a side pocket, then the main compartment, shifting aside a folded handkerchief and a spectacle case.

“I-I had it right here,” she murmurs, her voice trembling. “I’m sure I put it in.”

Hokuto instantly feels the air around the register tightens. The cashier sighs, a short, sharp exhale through his nose, and begins tapping his fingers against the counter. Behind Hokuto, someone shifts their weight, the rustle of a plastic basket sounding loud in the quiet.

She forgot her wallet.

He watches her hands shake as she turns the bag over, searching for something that isn’t there. She looks small. She looks terrifyingly alone.

“I—I can put some things back,” she stammers, looking up at the cashier. Her face is flushed patchy red. “I’m so sorry. I live just down the street, I can go and come back—”

“Ma’am, there’s a line,” the cashier says, glancing past her at Hokuto, and then at the person behind him, silently inviting them to share in his annoyance.

The person behind Hokuto makes a low groan of impatience. The shame of it radiates off the woman’s back, and it settles into his own skin. He hates this feeling. He hates the way the air feels when someone is being looked at as a nuisance, as a burden.

He doesn’t think about the rent money in his account or the fact that he’s a student living on a budget. His hand moves before he can talk himself out of it, reaching into his bag and finding the thick white envelope that Mrs. Yoshikawa gave him.

“Excuse me,” he says.

His voice is quiet, but in the tense silence, it carries. He steps forward, bypassing the space between the woman and the counter.

He pulls out all the bills from the envelope. “I can get it,” he says gently, placing the bill on the tray. “It’s fine.”

The woman freezes, looking from the money to Hokuto. Her eyes are wide and watery behind her glasses. “Oh, no, young man, I couldn’t—that’s—”

“Please,” Hokuto interrupts softly, offering her a small, reassuring nod. He just wants the tension to dissolve, the cashier to stop tapping his fingers. He wants her to stop looking like she wants to disappear. “I don’t mind. Really.”

The cashier doesn’t argue and snatches the bills, quickly counting out the change. He hands the receipt and the few coins to Hokuto, eager to move the line along.

“Thank you,” the woman whispers, clutching her bag. She looks like she might cry. “You’re … you’re very kind.”

“It’s okay,” Hokuto says, stepping back to let her gather her bags. “Please, don’t worry about it.”

He puts his own items on the counter. As the scanner beeps again, he exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The envelope in his bag is now empty, but the heaviness in the air is gone.

Soon, the automatic doors slide shut behind him, cutting off the supermarket’s bright, humming warmth. The street is darker now, the wind threading through the collar of his coat with a sharper bite than before. Hokuto adjusts the plastic bag in his hand, and he prepares to merge back into the anonymous flow of pedestrians.

But someone is waiting for him.

The older woman in the gray coat stands just to the side of the entrance, her hands clutching her handbag tight against her stomach. When she sees him, she straightens up, though her shoulders still hold that fragile, inward curve from the checkout line.

“Excuse me,” she says, stepping into his path. Her voice is steadier now, but her eyes are still red-rimmed.

Hokuto pauses, suppressing the urge to step back. He honestly thought that she would have gone straight home.

“I realized I didn’t get your name,” she continues, fumbling with the clasp of her bag again. She pulls out a small notebook and a pen. “Or your address. Please, if you have a bank account number, write it down for me. My son can transfer the money to you tonight. I can’t let a stranger pay for my groceries. It isn’t right.”

She holds the pen out to him. Her hand is trembling slightly.

Hokuto looks at the notebook. It’s a sensible, practical request. In her position, he would do the same thing; the weight of owing someone, especially a stranger, is heavy.

But taking the money back would feel worse. The envelope in his bag is empty, and he knows he’ll have to be careful with his budget for the rest of the week, but taking her money now feels like turning an act of care into a transaction.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says softly. “Please. It was just a little help.”

“It wasn’t a little,” she insists, shaking her head. “It was nearly 5,000 yen. Students don’t have money to throw away. Why would you do that for someone you don’t even know?” She looks at Hokuto with genuine confusion, her brow furrowed.

Hokuto shifts his weight, looking past her shoulder at the traffic light changing from green to red. He doesn’t know how to explain that he did it because the silence at the register was hurting him more than the cost of the bill. He did it because seeing her panic felt like a physical weight on his own chest.

“My grandmother used to say that kindness should move in circles,” he says. It’s a lie, or maybe it’s a half-memory, he’s not sure anymore. It sounds like something she might have said. “Maybe one day you’ll help someone else. That’s enough.”

The woman stares at him. Her mouth opens slightly, then closes. The confusion in her face melts into something softer, something that looks painfully like relief. “In circles,” she repeats, almost to herself.

“Yes,” Hokuto says, offering a small, tentative smile. “So, really. It’s fine.”

She lowers the notebook. Tears well up in her eyes again, catching the streetlamp light, but this time she doesn’t look ashamed. She looks seen.

“Thank you,” she whispers, bowing low. “Thank you so much.”

“Take care getting home,” he says.

She nods, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, and turns to walk down the street. Her step seems a little lighter than before, though maybe he’s just imagining it.

Hokuto stands there by the supermarket entrance, the wind biting at his ears, and he waits. He watches until her gray coat disappears around the corner, swallowed by the evening rush. He needs to be sure that she’s gone, that there’s no chance for her to turn back and try to settle the debt.

Only when the street is empty of her does he let out a long, slow breath. The cold feels deeper now, seeping into the spaces where his adrenaline used to be. His bank account is lighter, but the heavy, suffocating tension from the checkout line is gone. That has to be enough.

He tightens his grip on the grocery bag and turns toward the apartment. They’re waiting for the soy sauce.

🪈

Hokuto reaches the sixth floor, and the familiar, muffled hum of Room 604 begins to filter through the heavy door before he even finds his keys.

He exhales a long, slow breath as he steps inside. The air in the entranceway is thick with the scent of dinner and safety. He takes off his shoes, lining them up neatly by the rack.

“Hokuto? Is that you?” Yugo’s voice calls out from the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Hokuto answers. “I have the soy sauce.”

As he steps into the hallway leading toward the common area and kitchen, the scene opens up like a well-played chord. Yugo is standing at the stove, focused on the beef, his shoulders relaxed despite the heat. 

Pressed right against his back is Jesse. His long arms are looped loosely around Yugo’s waist, and his chin is resting heavily on Yugo’s shoulder as he peers into the pot with a look of dramatic anticipation.

It’s a sight Hokuto sees often—the two of them existing in a space where the air seems thicker and warmer. It must be nice, to have someone who anchors you so physically to the ground.

“You’re a lifesaver, Hokuto,” Yugo says, turning his head just enough to offer Hokuto a grateful smile. His eyes crinkle at the corners, that familiar, grounding expression that always makes Hokuto feel like he’s come home.

“I’m the one who sent the emergency text, so technically I’m a co-savior,” Jesse adds, grinning at Hokuto without moving from his position.

Hokuto can’t help the soft, faint lift of his lips. He walks over and places the soy sauce on the counter within Yugo’s reach.

“What took you so long, Hokkun?”

Shintaro is sitting on the sagging couch in the common area, his legs sprawled out. He’s looking at Hokuto with that head-tilted curiosity of his, the younger one’s dark eyes searching his as if he can read the last twenty minutes in the tilt of Hokuto’s shoulders.

Hokuto hesitates. He remembers the time he found that lost child at the park and spent three hours at the neighborhood police station, missing his early Monday Liberal Arts lectures because he couldn’t leave her until her father arrived.

They had worried then. They told Hokuto he gives too much, and he doesn’t want to hear that tonight. He doesn’t want his kindness to feel like a burden to them.

“The line was longer than usual,” he says softly, adjusting his glasses even though they haven’t slipped. “And I think the cashier was new. He was having a bit of trouble.” He reaches into the bag and pulls out the blue box of chocolate-dipped biscuits, walking over to hand them to Shintaro. “Here. For you.”

Shintaro’s face lights up, the concern vanishing behind a wide, boyish grin. “Thank you, Hokkun!” he exclaims, clutching the box as if it’s a prized trophy.

He’s already tearing at the plastic film of the biscuit box, but a sharp, rhythmic sound of a spatula tapping against the rim of a pan stops him mid-motion.

“Wait, Shin,” Yugo says, not even looking back from the stove. “Ten more minutes. If you eat those now, you won’t finish your rice.”

Shintaro lets out a dramatic, pained groan, but he obediently sets the box down on the low table. Hokuto watches him reach for the lid, his fingers lingering on the cardboard. “But I’m starving, Yugo! Purely from the smell of your cooking. It’s a medical emergency.”

“It’s fine,” Hokuto says softly, reaching out to gently pat Shintaro’s shoulder as he passes him. “I’ll help you set the table so we can eat sooner.”

Shintaro looks up at him, and for a second, his expression shifts. The loud energy he usually carries seems to quiet, settling into something softer and more intense. He watches Hokuto as he goes to the cupboard to fetch the bowls, the younger one’s eyes following the movement of his hands.

“You’re too good to me, Hokkun,” Shintaro murmurs. His voice has dropped an octave, and he stays close as they begin to clear the common area table. “Did anything actually happen on the way back? You look… I don’t know. A little tired? Even though your hair is perfect, as always.”

Hokuto feels a small, fluttery sensation at the compliment. Shintaro has always been observant, but he’s been focusing on him a lot lately. Maybe he’s worried about Hokuto’s work-school schedule. “It was just a quiet walk, Shin. Maybe the wind was just a bit stronger than I expected.”

Shintaro moves to take the heavy stack of plates from Hokuto, the younger one’s fingers accidentally brushing against his. Shintaro doesn’t pull away immediately; instead, he lingers there for a heartbeat, his gaze fixed on Hokuto’s face with a strange, searching look.

Hokuto blinks behind his glasses, wondering if he has a smudge on his cheek or if Shintaro’s trying to tell him something.

“You should let me carry the heavy stuff,” Shintaro says, his tone turning a bit more assertive. “Since I’m the one who’s supposed to be looking out for my favorite senpai.”

“I’m fine, really,” Hokuto reassures him with a small smile. “But thank you. It’s kind of you to offer.”

Across the room, the kitchen is a different kind of world. Yugo is trying to dish the gyudon into bowls, but Jesse is still tethered to him.

“Jesse, seriously,” Yugo laughs, though it’s that fond, breathless sound he only makes for one person. “I have hot ladles and steam everywhere. Let go for two seconds?”

“In a minute,” Jesse’s voice is muffled against Yugo’s neck. “I’m recharging.”

“Jesse.”

“Fine, fine.” Jesse finally unwinds himself, stepping back with an exaggerated sigh of loss. But before Yugo can turn away, Jesse catches his chin, tilting his head up. It’s a quick, effortless motion, and Jesse ducks down to steal a kiss.

Hokuto looks away, focusing very intently on the placement of the chopsticks. It’s not because he’s uncomfortable; it’s just that their happiness feels so bright it’s almost hard to look at directly.

“Food’s ready,” Yugo announces, his cheeks a faint, healthy pink as he brings the first two bowls over.

They all settle onto the floor cushions around the low coffee table, their knees nearly touching in the cramped space. Shintaro makes sure to slide his cushion right next to Hokuto, the younger one’s shoulder pressing against his arm.

It’s a little crowded, but Hokuto doesn’t mind the warmth.

The steam from the gyudon rises in gentle, swirling ribbons, softening the edges of the room. As Hokuto eats, he finds himself watching the way the light from their mismatched floor lamp catches the amber in Jesse’s eyes as he talks. He’s currently explaining how he somehow ended up promising to help a third-year cello student move a sofa, even though they’ve only spoken once in the conservatory hallway.

“I’m telling you, the guy looked like he was about to crumble,” Jesse says, gesturing widely with a pair of chopsticks. “How could I say no? Plus, he knows a guy who knows a guy at that jazz club in Shimokitazawa.”

“Jesse, you’ve been here five weeks and you know more people than the Dean,” Shintaro quips, though he’s busy inhaling his rice. He looks over at Hokuto, his eyes bright. “Right, Hokkun? It’s abnormal. I think he is secretly several people.”

Hokuto lets out a soft, breathy chuckle. “Maybe. But I think people just find it hard to look away when you’re being so kind, Jesse.”

He remembers how he felt five weeks ago, standing in the doorway of this apartment with his suitcase, his heart a tight, frantic knot in his chest. He had lived in a small dorm room in his first year, and the thought of being squeezed into a living space with two first-years who seemed to vibrate with energy felt like a recipe for a slow, polite exhaustion. He was so afraid he would be the anchor that dragged them down, the brooding senior who ruined their fun.

But they never made him feel like an outsider. Jesse brought him coffee when he stayed up too late practicing his scales, and Shintaro always leaves the best seat on the couch for him. They took Hokuto’s silence and filled it with warmth without ever demanding he change.

“Hey, that reminds me,” Yugo says, setting his bowl down. The shift in his tone is subtle, but it draws them all in. Yugo is the orbit they all move around, the one who ensures the rhythm of their lives stays steady. “I wanted to ask if you guys were free tomorrow night. I’m thinking of a group dinner at Sampuku.”

“The izakaya by Ueno Station?” Shintaro asks, already looking interested. “The one with the good yakitori?”

“That’s the one,” Yugo nods, his eyes crinkling. “I want to introduce you and Hokuto to someone. My childhood friend, Taiga. He’s finally back on campus.”

The name ripples through Hokuto’s mind. He pauses, his chopsticks hovering just above his bowl.

He thinks back to Monday morning, 7:00 am, in the Liberal Arts lecture hall. Professor Moriya always calls the roll in alphabetical order. Kyomoto Taiga. Every week for three weeks, there has been a pause—a small, empty pocket of silence where a response should be—before the professor sighs and moves on.

It was the same on Friday in Music History. Hokuto remembers looking around the lecture hall, wondering what kind of person leaves such a consistent absence behind.

“Kyomoto… Taiga,” He repeats the name softly, the syllables feeling delicate on his tongue. “I think we’re in the same classes. Society, Politics, and Culture? And Music History?”

“You’re in the same classes?” Yugo’s face transforms, the lines of fatigue around his eyes smoothing out into something bright and hopeful. He leans forward, his hands resting on the edge of the low table. “That’s perfect. How has he been? Is he… does he seem like he’s doing okay?”

Hokuto looks down at his bowl, watching a single grain of rice cling to the side. He wants to give Yugo the answer he’s looking for, to tell him that his friend is thriving, that he’s focused and brilliant and well. He hates being the person who has to break a heart, even in a small way.

But he’s always been factually reliable, even when it’s uncomfortable.

“I… I’m not sure, Yugo,” Hokuto says, the words coming out slowly, qualified by his own hesitation. “To be honest, I haven’t actually seen him. Not yet.”

Yugo’s brow furrows. “He might be sitting in the back? Taiga likes to be near the exit.”

Hokuto shifts slightly on his cushion, the fabric of his trousers rustling in the sudden quiet of the room. He doesn’t like the way the atmosphere is cooling, the way the easy warmth of the dinner is being replaced by a thin, sharp edge of worry.

“Maybe,” he murmurs, his voice softening as he tries to cushion the blow. “But his name is called every time. For the past three weeks, there’s just been… no one there to answer. I think he hasn't been attending.”

The silence that follows is different from the comfortable ones they usually share. Yugo’s expression falters, his bright optimism wilting into a look of deep, quiet concern. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, his gaze dropping to the floor, and Hokuto feels a pang of guilt in his chest, as if by reporting the absence, he’s somehow responsible for it.

He catches himself quickly, though. It’s part of who Yugo is—he doesn’t let his own shadows linger long enough to darken the rest of them. He breathes out, his face smoothing into a more neutral, composed mask, though Hokuto can still see the flicker of anxiety in the way his fingers tap rhythmically against his knee.

“I see,” Yugo says, his voice carefully level. “He’s probably just… adjusting. London was a lot for him. He’s probably just finding his feet again.”

“Exactly!” Jesse interjects, sensing the shift and moving in with that tireless, golden energy of his. He reaches over and gives Yugo’s shoulder a firm, supportive squeeze. “You know Taiga. He probably just decided the lectures were boring and he’s out taking photos or something. He’ll show up when he’s ready. Don’t sweat it, babe.”

Yugo offers him a small, tight smile, and the tension in the room begins to ebb, even if it doesn’t entirely disappear.

Hokuto picks up his bowl again, but his mind is elsewhere. Now that the name has a face—or the lack of one—the whispers he’s overheard in the conservatory hallways start to resurface. He usually tries to let gossip drift past him; he doesn't like the way people use others’ misfortunes to make their own lives feel more stable. 

But the words “fallen prodigy” and “London failure” had been hard to ignore when they were hissed in the Practice Towers.

He thinks of the way people spoke about Kyomoto Taiga—with a sort of cruel fascination, as if they were watching a beautiful instrument crack. He wonders if Taiga heard them. He wonders if that’s why he hasn’t been attending.

“Well, I’m definitely free!” Shintaro says, breaking into Hokuto’s thoughts with a voice that is blissfully oblivious to the heavy undercurrents. He’s already finished his rice and is looking at the chocolate biscuits again. “I could eat my weight in yakitori right now. Seriously, Yugo, let’s go. I’ve been craving it for a week.”

“Okay, Shin,” Yugo laughs, the sound a bit more natural this time. “Tomorrow night, then. It's a plan.”

As they descend back into a debate about which skewers are the best, Hokuto finds himself retreating inward. He thinks about what it must feel like to be a person who makes a habit of vanishing—to step out of the frame of your own life and leave nothing but a silent name on a roll sheet.

It feels heavy, imagining the kind of sadness that makes a person want to be invisible. Hokuto wonders what it’s like to decide one day to simply not exist in the places where you are expected to be. 

And more than that, he wonders how it feels to finally come back—to walk back into the light of other people’s expectations when you’ve grown so used to the dark.

Maybe Hokuto will see Kyomoto Taiga tomorrow. He hopes he’s alright.

🎹

The light in the apartment is cold—thin, spring sun cutting through the windows of the music room. It’s too bright. Taiga hasn’t moved the Steinway in months, yet he spent half an hour this morning wiping down the wood.

Habit is a bitch.

The photo is on the music stand. He printed it an hour ago using the high-end inkjet his father bought when Taiga was still his “star.”

Through the lens, the wooden sign looks like a threat.

“What is hidden will one day be revealed…”

Taiga stares at the jagged calligraphy. His heart starts that slow, heavy thrum again. He doesn’t want to look, but he can’t turn away. He focuses on the grain of the wood in the center of the frame.

The air in the room shifts.

Taiga is back in the sun-drenched living room. 2030. The gold ring is a heavy, cold weight on his finger.

The phone is already in his hand.

“—died on impact.”

It’s not his grief—he doesn’t know this man—but the vacuum he left behind is screaming in Taiga’s ears. It’s a hole in the world.

Taiga blinks.

The music room comes back. His knees are locked. His hands are shaking so hard the photo flutters off the stand and slides across the hardwood floor.

“Shit,” he mutters, rubbing his face. His skin feels clammy.

Taiga grabs the other prints from the desk—the stray cat, the neon puddle, the drunk salaryman—and lines them up on the piano bench. He stares at them until his eyes ache. He waits for the floor to drop out, for the smell of coffee.

Nothing.

The cat stays a cat. The puddle stays water. It’s just the shrine.

He grabs his phone and hits the browser. He’s been scouring photography forums and the conservatory’s old bulletin board system for two hours. Most of it is garbage—freshmen claiming they saw a shadow, or people complaining about the lighting. It’s all “it felt creepy” or “I heard a voice.”

Taiga scrolls deeper into a thread from three years ago on an urban exploration board. A post near the bottom stops him.

User: savras2028

“took a photo at the shrine last spring and saw something weird in it. couldn’t explain what but it felt important. anyone else have experiences there?”

It’s blunt. No flowery ghost story bullshit.

Taiga checks the profile. savras2028. Last active: April 2014.

Fucking great. A dead end.

He looks at the photo of the sign on the floor. If this is some kind of mental break—some delayed reaction to the stress in London—then he’s crazier than he thought.

But if it isn’t…

He doesn’t believe in spirits. He believes in cause and effect, in evidence.

Taiga opens a direct message, his thumb hovering. This is desperate. It looks pathetic. But the alternative is sitting here waiting for a dead man to haunt him again.

To: savras2028

i know this is random, but i had an experience there yesterday that might be similar. if you’re still active and willing to discuss it, i’d appreciate it.

He hits send.

The “Message Sent” notification pops up. Taiga stares at it for a second before flipping the phone face down on the piano.

He picks up the photo of the sign and tears it into four clean pieces. He doesn’t need a reminder of what the floor feels like when it disappears.

The air in the room is too thick. He needs to move.

Taiga heads for the balcony, but a sharp, rhythmic scatching at his ankles stops him. Anzu is looking up, her dark eyes wide and expectant. She’s got that frayed toy—the one with the neon green tassels—clamped between her teeth.

“Not now, Princess,” he mutters.

She doesn’t budge. She drops the rope, lets out a single, high-pitched yip, and does a frantic little spin.

It’s a demand. Taiga can’t exactly win an argument with a four-pound dog.

He sighs and drops to the floor, the hardwood cold against his sweatpants. He grabs the rope and gives it a sharp tug.

She growls—a tiny, ridiculous sound—and plants her paws, shaking her head with enough force to rattle her collar.

He pulls her into his lap, burying his face in her fur for a second. She smells like shampoo and safety. No cedar. No fabric softener.

Taiga scratches behind her ears until she goes limp, tongue lolling out in a daze of unconditional worship. It’s the only time he doesn’t feel like he’s being graded. Anzu doesn’t care about his failed credits or his lack of a career—she just wants her toy and scratches.

He gives her a final squeeze, tosses the toy toward her bed to keep her occupied, and steps out onto the balcony.

He flicks his lighter. The first drag of the cigarette hits like a reset button.

Taiga leans his elbows on the railing, looking toward the view of Tokyo Dome in the distance. His mind keeps circling back to that name.

Matsumura Hokuto.

In the vision, it hadn’t been just a name. It had been a fact. Like “gravity” or “piano.” He tries to map that face onto anyone he’s seen in the hallways at TGC, if he attends TGC at all.

He’s probably some overachiever. The kind of person who’d die for a stranger because he’s got some martyr complex he wants to satisfy.

It’s irritating. Just thinking about that level of selflessness makes Taiga’s jaw tight.

He pulls his phone out, his thumb poised over the search bar. He needs to know if Matsumura Hokuto is real. If he finds a flutist with that name, then the shrine isn’t a hallucination—it’s a warning.

“Taiga!”

The shout drifts up from the street.

He looks down.

Yugo is standing outside the apartment building, looking up with that signature “mom” expression of his. He’s holding a plastic bag that’s already fogging up from the heat.

“I brought food!” he yells, ignoring the fact that Taiga has neighbors. “I know you haven’t eaten.”

Taiga leans over the railing, a cloud of smoke trailing from his mouth. “Go away, Yugo. I’m busy.”

“I’m not leaving until the food containers are empty!” Yugo shouts back, unbothered. He holds the bag higher like a trophy. “Buzz me in, or I’ll start singing until someone calls the cops.”

He’d do it, too. Yugo’s got no shame when it comes to being “dependable.” It’s exhausting.

Taiga crushes the cigarette out in the tray. He could ignore him, but Yugo is like a persistent melody—one that loops until it wears you down. Taiga can’t handle his best friend’s optimism right now, but he can’t handle the hunger either.

He shoves his phone into his pocket without running the search. “Fine!” he calls down. “I’ll buzz you in.”

Yugo just beams at him.

Taiga turns back inside, heading for the intercom to buzz the idiot up. Not worth the fight.

Three minutes later, the elevator dings down the hall. Taiga stands by the door, hand on the lock, listening to the heavy, familiar tread of footsteps approaching. His heart is still hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs—a leftover tremor from the vision—but he forces his breathing to even out.

He can’t let Yugo see him like this. Not Yugo. He notices too much.

He unlocks the door and pulls it open before Yugo can knock.

Yugo stands there, grinning like he didn’t just interrupt a mental breakdown. He looks irritatingly put-together—windbreaker unzipped, hair messy in a way that looks intentional, holding the plastic bag like a peace offering.

“You took your time,” he says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “I was about to start the second verse of the school anthem.”

“Don’t,” Taiga says, closing the door behind him. “The neighbors hate me enough already.”

A brown blur shoots past his ankles.

Anzu is vibrating with joy, her claws scrabbling against the hardwood as she throws herself at Yugo. She lets out a sharp, happy yip, her tail wagging so hard her entire back half sways with it.

“Hey, Anzu-chan!” Yugo coos, dropping into a crouch. He balances the takeout bag on one knee and uses his free hand to scratch exactly the right spot under her chin. “Did you miss me? Yeah? Did you miss me?”

She melts instantly. Ears flat, eyes closed, leaning her entire insignificant weight into his hand.

“Traitor,” Taiga mutters.

“She just has good taste,” Yugo says, looking up at him. His eyes crinkle at the corners. It’s that same steady, patient look he’s given Taiga since they were eight.

It’s annoying. It makes Taiga want to kick him out and simultaneously makes his shoulders drop an inch.

Yugo straightens up, stepping out of his sneakers and lining them up neatly next to Taiga’s carelessly disregarded ones. “Table,” he commands.

Taiga follows him into the kitchen. The air in the apartment is stale, smelling of old cigarettes and dust, but the scent coming from the plastic bag cuts through it. His stomach cramps hard, a sudden, violent reminder that he hasn’t eaten in nearly 24 hours.

He ignores it and leans against the kitchen counter, watching Yugo unpack on the dining table.

Yugo moves with efficient, practiced motions. Two plastic bowls. Two sets of disposable chopsticks. He snaps them apart, checking for splinters before handing a pair to Taiga.

“Katsudon,” he says, popping the lid off the first bowl, steam billowing up. “Extra egg. Just how you like it.”

“I didn’t ask for it,” Taiga says, though he takes the chopsticks.

“I know. That’s why I brought it.” Yugo sits on the chair opposite him, dragging his own bowl closer. He doesn’t look at Taiga—he’s busy mixing the rice and egg—which is a mercy. 

If he asks Taiga how he is, he might snap. Or worse.

“Just eat, Taiga. You look like a ghost.”

Taiga bristles at the description. Ghost. Too close to the bone.

He sits down. The bowl is warm between his hands. The egg is still runny, coating the breaded cutlet in gold.

It looks perfect.

He takes a bite.

The flavor hits him instantly. It’s humiliating how good it tastes. The heat spreads through his chest, chasing away the cold, clammy feeling that the vision left behind.

He hates that a bowl of cheap takeout can fix the shaking in his hands.

Taiga chews slowly, staring at the grain of the table.

“Well?” Yugo asks. His mouth is full, but he’s watching Taiga closely, waiting for the verdict.

Taiga swallows. He wants to tell Yugo that it’s cold, that he wasn’t hungry. But the lie sticks in his throat. “It’s fine,” he says before biting off a piece of pork.

“Just fine?”

“It’s edible,” Taiga corrects, keeping his eyes on the bowl. “The dashi is a little sweet.”

“Right. Terrible. That’s why you’re eating it like someone’s gonna steal it.” Yugo chuckles, a low, easy sound. He leans back, looking satisfied. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Whatever,” Taiga mutters, shoving another bite into his mouth to shut his best friend up.

Under the table, Anzu settles on Yugo’s foot, letting out a long, contented sigh. The apartment feels smaller, warmer. The silence between them isn't heavy anymore. It’s just quiet.

Taiga hates how easy it is for Yugo to do this. To just walk in and fix the atmosphere.

Yugo doesn’t say anything else as they eat. Soon, the silence in the kitchen is heavy, the kind that makes the hum of the refrigerator sound like a drill. Under the table, Taiga can hear the soft thump-thump of Anzu’s tail against the floor. Even she knows the mood has shifted.

“I went to have dinner with Jesse and his roommates last night,” Yugo says at last as he pushes his empty bowl. “One of them was in your Liberal Arts class. And in Music History and Theory III. Apparently, the professors call you for attendance, and you haven’t showed up for the past three weeks.”

Taiga feels the familiar prickle of heat at the back of his neck. He tightens his grip on his water glass, his knuckles turning white. He should’ve known that the katsudon was just bait. “Who told you?” he asks, his voice coming out sharper than intended.

“It doesn’t matter who it was, Taiga.” Yugo finally looks at him. His eyes aren’t angry—they’re patient, which is worse. “Why aren’t you going?”

Taiga lets out a short, ragged breath and shoves his chair back. “Because it’s a waste of time, Yugo. I told you after London. I’m done. The only reason I’m even enrolled is because Mom already threw the tuition money at the finance officer and then cried when I talked about dropping out.”

He paces the narrow length of the kitchen. His hands are restless, searching for a cigarette that isn’t there.

“Mori-sensei caught me skipping class yesterday,” he continues, the words spilling out like a bitter refrain. “He’s convinced I’m still some project he can fix. He even set me up with a babysitter—some brat with a smirk that makes me wanna put my fist through a wall. He’s supposed to ‘guide’ me. As if I need a tour guide for my own failure.”

“He’s trying to help you,” Yugo says quietly.

“He’s trying to preserve his own reputation,” Taiga snaps back. He stops at the window, staring out at the hazy skyline. “He doesn’t want the Kyomoto ‘prodigy’ to be the one who failed out on his watch. None of it is about the music. It’s about the optics.”

Yugo is silent for a beat. Taiga expects him to argue, to give him the usual speech about talent and responsibility. Instead, he just stands up and starts stacking the plastic bowls.

“Give it one semester,” he says.

“One semester,” he repeats, leaning against the counter and holding Taiga’s gaze. “Attend the classes. Give the whole thing a legitimate shot. If you get to the end of July and you still hate it—if you’re sure you wanna quit—then drop out. I’ll go with you to talk to your parents. I’ll be the one to tell Masaki-san that you’re moving on.”

Taiga hesitates. He knows what Yugo is doing, but the offer is a hook he can’t ignore. His father listens to Yugo. He respects Yugo’s “steadiness” that he thinks Taiga has lost. If Yugo stands behind him, he might actually get out of this cage without a war.

“You’d really do that?” he asks, the defensiveness in his voice replaced by a cautious, ugly hope.

“I would,” Yugo says. “But only if you actually try. No more skipping.”

The weight of the promise feels like a lead vest. But Yugo wouldn’t back down on his promise. He’s never broken any of his promises, even when Taiga thought Yugo would disappear on him when he started dating Jesse.

“Fine,” Taiga mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “One semester.”

Yugo’s tension vanishes instantly. He looks like he’s just won a competition. “Good. What’s your next class?”

Taiga glances at the crumpled sheet tacked to the refrigerator. “I have 1:00 pm Keyboard Skills I.”

“Aoyama-sensei? He’s strict about attendance,” Yugo says, grabbing the plastic containers. “Let’s clean this up, and let’s go.”

Taiga wants to argue, wants to tell Yugo not to hover. But arguing takes energy he doesn’t have, and if he stays in this kitchen any longer, Yugo will start hovering over Taiga’s nonexistent skincare routine or some other domestic bullshit. 

He turns and heads into his room, pulling the door shut just enough to create a boundary. He strips off the shirt he’s been wearing since yesterday and tosses it toward the hamper.

He misses. Whatever.

He hops into the bathroom for a quick shower then pulls a fresh black graphic tee from the drawer, pairing it with his darkest jeans and a leather belt.

Taiga catches his reflection in the full-length mirror for a split second and looks away. He’s pale, and there are shadows under his eyes. He looks exactly what he is: a guy repeating his second year because he couldn’t hack it in a city that actually mattered.

He grabs his watch and straps it on. Finally, he reaches for the Samsung NX1. He checks the lens, clears a speck of dust that isn’t there, and slings the strap over his shoulder.

Having the camera against his ribs feels better than any degree. If things get too loud or too heavy, he can just look through the viewfinder and turn the world into a composition.

When Taiga walks out, Yugo is standing by the door, cooing over Anzu. He looks Taiga over once, nodding as if he’s satisfied with the repairs.

“Ready?” he asks.

“As I’ll ever be for Aoyama’s bullshit.”

They head out, the silence in the hallway feeling like a countdown.

They’re halfway to the elevator when Yugo pipes up again. He’s got that tone—the one where he tries to sound casual but he’s actually pitching something.

“Hey, since you’re being a functional human today,” he starts, hitting the down button. “Jesse and I are meeting his roommates at Sampuku tonight. 9:00 pm. It’s that izakaya near Ueno Station. You should come.”

Taiga stiffens. “Jesse’s roommates? You mean the snitch who’s been tracking my attendance?”

“He wasn't snitching, Taiga. He was just answering a question. Besides, they’re good guys. You’d probably find them less annoying than that brat who's guiding you."

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. Taiga’s heart does a strange, jagged stutter against his ribs. 

“I’m not in the mood to play nice with strangers, Yugo,” Taiga says, stepping into the elevator. “Especially over loud yakitori and cheap beer.”

“It’s just dinner,” Yugo insists, stepping in beside him. “Just one drink. Show me you’re actually trying to reconnect. It’ll make the July conversation a lot easier for me to have with your dad if I can say you really made an effort.”

He’s playing his hand perfectly. He knows Taiga needs him. If Taiga wants to walk away from the piano for good in three months, he needs Yugo to be his witness. If Taiga blows him off now, he’s just the lazy, bitter failure his father already thinks he is.

Taiga clicks his tongue softly, staring at the floor indicator.

3. 2. 1.

“Fine,” he mutters as the doors slide open to the lobby. “But if they ask about London, I’m leaving.”

“Deal,” Yugo says.

The sheer relief in his best friend’s voice is enough to make Taiga want to take it back.

🎹

Taiga stares at the sheet music on the stand. A simple figured bass exercise. Key of E-flat major. A standard I-IV-V-I progression with a suspended fourth at the cadence.

It’s toddler work, the kind of thing they give to non-majors who just need to pass a credit.

He places his hands on the keys. His fingers feel like they’re wrapped in lead tape.

He plays the progression.

The chord voicing is correct. The soprano line moves in contrary motion to the bass, avoiding parallel fifths. Technically, it’s right.

But it sounds dead. It sounds like a machine punched the keys.

Taiga lifts his hands and lets them drop into his lap.

Passable. That’s what Professor Aoyama had called it at Keyboard Skills I earlier. He hadn’t frowned or yelled. He had just adjusted his glasses, made a note in his ledger, and said, “It is passable, Kyomoto. For a returning student, the rust is expected.”

Rust.

Two years ago, Taiga would have eaten this progression alive. He would have improvised three different realizations, transposed it on the fly to F-sharp, and made it sound like a damn concerto. He was the freshman who made seniors nervous.

Now, he’s the returning failure who gets a pity nod for playing a dominant seventh chord without tripping.

Taiga grits his teeth and stares at the black and white keys until they blur.

He’s been in here for four hours. His stomach is hollow, twisting around the katsudon Yugo forced down his throat earlier, but he ignores it.

He’s gone through next week’s assignment twice. Realizing figured bass in multiple keys. D major. B minor. A-flat.

Taiga plays the opening chord of the B minor exercise again. It’s too loud. The tone is harsh.

“Stop hitting the instrument, Mr. Kyomoto. It hasn’t done anything to you.”

The voice in his head isn’t Aoyama’s. It’s sharper. British accent. Clipped and condescending.

Professor Blackwood. Royal College of Music. Office hours, three weeks before he quit.

Taiga can still smell the damp wool of his jacket and the stale tea on Blackwood’s desk. He hadn’t even looked up from his paperwork when he said it.

“You play like you’re angry at the music for existing,” he had said, finally glancing at me with eyes that looked like dead fish. “You have excellent fingers. Wonderful mechanics. But every time you sit down, I hear a boy trying to prove he deserves the seat throughout the noise. It’s exhausting to listen to.”

He had leaned forward then. πThere is no art in desperation, Mr. Kyomoto. There is only noise.”

Taiga slams his hands down on the keys—a discordant crash that echoes in the dead air of the soundproof room.

The noise dies instantly, swallowed by the acoustic panels.

“Fuck off,” he mutters to the empty room.

His reflection stares back at him from the dark window of the corridor door. Messy hair. Shoulders hunched. He looks pathetic. A breakdown over a sophomore assignment.

He checks his watch. 8:08 pm. He swears he’d leave by six.

Taiga’s phone buzzes against the resin of the music stand. A sharp, angry vibration that cuts through the silence.

He stares at the screen.

Yugo: [shared a location]

Yugo: Don’t flake. Be here before 9:20 or I’m dragging you out myself.

He glares at the text. He’s bluffing—Yugo is too polite to cause a scene—but the threat hangs there anyway. He’s persistent. It’s his best and worst quality.

Taiga shoves the phone into his pocket. The hunger he’s been ignoring is starting to feel like a bruise inside his stomach.

Fine. Whatever.

He closes the piano lid. It shuts with a heavy, final thud that feels more satisfying than anything he played in the last four hours. His wrist aches. 

Bad technique. Tension. Professor Blackwood used to poke his forearm with a pencil whenever his muscles tightened.

Taiga rubs the spot, trying to grind the memory out.

The bag zipper snags. He forces it shut. He grabs the camera bag next. The leather feels cool, grounding.

He slings the strap over his shoulder and turns to leave, but he stops at the door.

The room looks sterile. Grey walls. Black piano. Harsh light. It looks like a cell.

Taiga’s hand moves before he tells it to. He unzips the bag and pulls out the camera. The grip fits into his palm better than his hand fits over a chord these days. He flicks the power switch. The shutter opens with a mechanical snap.

He turns back to the piano.

He hates this thing. He hates the wood, the keys, the silence it makes when he’s not failing to play it.

Taiga lifts the viewfinder to his eye.

Framing. That’s all it is. Lines and light. Taiga adjusts the focus ring. The edge of the keyboard sharpens. The contrast between the white ivory and the deep shadow underneath the lid. It’s stark. Cold.

Click.

The shutter fires.

But the sound doesn’t stop.

The buzz of the fluorescent lights cuts out. The air pressure drops like a door slamming in a pressurized cabin.

He blinks.

White balance shifts. The sterile blue-white of the practice room bleeds out, replaced by a warm, hazy gold.

He’s not standing anymore. The floor is gone.

He’s sitting. Couch cushions. Fabric that feels worn and expensive under his fingers.

Taiga pulls the camera away from his face, but the viewfinder isn’t there. His hands are empty.

“Remember this one?”

The voice comes from his left. Low. Baritone. It vibrates in the air like a cello string.

He turns his head.

Taiga’s breath hitches in his throat.

There’s a guy sitting next to him.

He’s close. Too close. He’s leaning over a coffee table cluttered with albums and beer bottles.

He’s… striking. That’s the first thing Taiga’s brain registers. High cheekbones that catch the golden afternoon light. A jawline that looks like it was cut from glass. He’s wearing wire-rimmed glasses that slide slightly down his nose, and his hair is long, tucked loosely behind one ear.

He looks like a model who stumbled into a candid shot. It’s annoying. People shouldn’t look that symmetrical from this angle.

He’s smiling. Not at Taiga—at a photograph in his hand.

“The ryokan owner took this,” a voice says.

It’s Taiga’s voice.

He flinches, looking down at himself, but he’s not moving. The Taiga in this room—the one whose eyes he’s borrowing—speaks with a dangerous kind of ease. “You were so embarrassed about asking.”

“He was delighted. Said we made a lovely family.”

Family?

Something warm and heavy settles against Taiga’s thigh. He looks down.

Anzu.

But she’s older. Her fur is silvering around the muzzle, and she moves with the stiff, comfortable heaviness of an old dog. She rests her chin on the stranger’s knee. She knows him. She likes him.

Who the hell is this guy?

The stranger reaches out. His fingers are long, elegant. He touches Taiga’s hand—the hand resting on the couch. He traces the knuckles with his thumb.

The contact burns. It’s not electric; it’s familiar. That’s worse. It feels like a habit.

“Taiga,” he says.

The way he says Taiga’s name makes his skin prickle. It sounds owned.

“Before we finish this,” the stranger says, his voice dropping, losing its humor. “Seven years. We've been doing this for seven years.”

Seven years?

Taiga checks the phone on the table. June 2022. Seven years from now.

“Technically six years and ten months,” his voice says. “But who’s counting?”

“I am.” The guy looks up. His eyes are dark, intense. There’s a desperation there that ruins the perfect composition of his face. He looks terrified. “I’ve been counting every day since you finally stopped running away from me.”

Taiga’s stomach drops. Running away. Yeah. That sounds like him.

“Let me say this,” the stranger says. His grip on Taiga’s hand tightens. “Please.”

The air in this sun-drenched room feels thick, like water. Taiga can’t move. He’s trapped behind his own eyes, forced to watch this stranger dissect him.

He talks about mornings. About socks on the floor. About Taiga taking photos to prove good things exist. It’s all mundane, domestic drivel. But the stranger says it like it’s scripture. Like Taiga’s inability to pick up after himself is some holy attribute.

Taiga studies the stranger while he speaks. He’s wearing a loose sweater. He looks soft. He looks at Taiga like he’s something rare. Like he’s not a fraud who failed out of London.

It makes Taiga want to look away. He doesn’t deal well with pity, and this looks dangerously close to adoration.

Then the stranger reaches into his pocket.

Taiga’s pulse hammers against his wrist.

“I know what I know,” the stranger says. “Which is that I want seven more years. And seven after that. And however many we can steal from the universe.”

He pulls out a ring. It’s simple. White gold. No diamonds, no engraving. Just a band. Clean. Precise.

Taiga stares at it. He can feel the judgment rising in his throat—it’s a trap, it’s a shackle—but the thought dies before it forms.

It’s a nice ring.

“Marry me,” the stranger says. His voice cracks. Just a fracture, barely audible. “I know you hate big gestures, and I know you think you don’t deserve good things, but you do. We do. So marry me.”

Silence.

The dust motes dance in the light. The dog sighs.

Taiga waits for the rejection. He waits for him in this vision to pull his hand away, to laugh, to make some sarcastic comment about how marriage is a bureaucratic nightmare. He braces himself for the sabotage. It’s what he does. It’s who he is.

“I don’t—” His voice starts. Here it comes. “What if I mess it up?”

“You won’t.”

“What if I get scared again? What if I run?”

“Then I’ll wait.” The stranger doesn’t even blink. He’s maddeningly calm. “I’ve gotten good at it.”

Taiga feels a crack in his chest. A physical sensation, like a rib snapping.

His future self laughs. It sounds wet. “Seven years and you think I’m worth all this trouble?”

“Seven years and I’m more sure than ever.”

Taiga looks at the photos scattered on the table. Snapshots of a life he hasn’t lived. Him, older. The stranger, laughing. Anzu.

It looks… bearable.

“Okay,” Taiga hears himself say. The word is small. “Yes. Okay.”

The stranger—no, not a stranger. Hokuto. The name surfaces in Taiga’s mind like sleek wreckage rising from the ocean. Hokuto.

Hokuto smiles. The expression breaks his face open. He suddenly looks younger. He slides the ring onto Taiga’s finger. It fits.

He leans in.

The kiss is—

Snap.

The shutter closes.

The sound is a gunshot in the quiet room.

Taiga stumbles back, his hip checking the sharp corner of the piano bench. Pain flares immediately.

The gold light is gone. The gentle, suffocating warmth is gone.

He’s back in Practice Room 402. The fluorescent lights are humming their hateful little tune. The air smells like dust and acoustic foam.

He’s gasping, his chest heaving like he just ran a sprint. His hands are shaking. He grips the camera body so hard the plastic digs into his skin.

Taiga looks at the LCD screen, then glances away immediately lest it trigger the vision again. It shows a picture of piano keys. Stark. Black and white. High contrast.

No ring. No guy with glasses and a face that makes his chest hurt.

“What the fuck,” he whispers. His voice sounds think. Weak.

He touches his left hand, the ring finger. It’s bare. Of course it’s bare.

“Stupid,” Taiga mutters. He drags a hand through his hair, gripping the roots. “You haven’t eaten all day. You’re hallucinating.”

But he can still feel the weight of the ring.

He switches the camera off. His fingers are clumsy. He shoves it back into the bag, zipping it shut with more force than necessary.

He needs to get out of here. Yugo’s waiting.

🎹

Taiga stands near the Panda Bridge exit of Ueno Station, shivering slightly as a drop of water slides down the back of his neck. His sneakers are soaked through. He can feel the dampness seeping into his socks, but he doesn’t move just yet.

9:00 PM exactly.

Yugo said 9:00. He’s probably already at the izakaya, securing a table and already ordering edamame to start.

Taiga took the long route. He walked through the park, past the museum and the dark, dripping trees, purposely dragging his feet. He told himself it was to avoid the crowded main street, but that’s a lie. He needed the dark. He needed the noise of the rain to drown out the loop playing in his head.

Marry me.

He scoffs, wiping water off his face with a sleeve that’s just as wet.

It’s ridiculous.

He doesn’t do seven years. He barely did an academic year in London.

Through the rain-slicked lens of his memory, the guy—Hokuto—was striking. Taiga can’t deny that. Even in a hallucination, his subconscious apparently has high standards for composition. High cheekbones, the kind of jawline that catches light perfectly, the softness of his hair falling over wire-rimmed glasses. He looked… gentle.

Beautiful.

Taiga grits his teeth and shoves it back down.

He was objectively attractive. That’s it. It’s an aesthetic assessment, not a feeling. Taiga can appreciate the symmetry of a face the same way he appreciates a well-balanced photograph without wanting to frame it on his wall.

But the way Taiga looked at him—

He shakes his head, hard. “Stop it,” he mutters.

He checks his reflection in the glass of a ticket kiosk. He looks like a drowned rat. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and there are dark circles under his eyes that no amount of studio lighting could fix.

This is the reality. This is Kyomoto Taiga. A Royal Academy with a camera he uses to hide behind and a piano technique that’s rusting over.

His version in that sun-drenched room—the one wearing the ring—felt settled. Solid. He didn't feel like he was constantly waiting for the floor to drop out.

That’s how he knows it’s fake. That kind of stability doesn’t exist. Not for him.

Taiga’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

Yugo: Grabbed a table for us already. With Jesse and his roommates.

The red lantern hanging outside Sampuku is torn on one side, leaking harsh, incandescent light onto the wet pavement. The place looks exactly like the kind of hole-in-the-wall Yugo loves.

Taiga stands under the dripping awning, his hand gripping the strap of his camera bag until his muscles ache.

“One drink,” he mutters to himself. “Show Yugo you’re trying. Leave.”

He pushes the sliding door open.

The noise hits him—a roar of shouting salarymen, clattering plates, and the sizzle of yakitori grills. The air is thick, blue with cigarette smoke and heavy with the scent of grease. It makes his stomach turn.

Taiga steps inside, hugging the wall to avoid a waiter sprinting past with a tray of beer towers. He scans the room, narrowing his eyes against the haze.

It takes him three seconds to find them. They’re in a booth at the back, tucked away from the main chaos but still loud enough to be noticeable.

Yugo is there, looking infuriatingly relaxed. He’s leaning back against the padded bench, his arm draped casually over the back of the seat.

Jesse is pressed up against his side, occupying zero personal space. His face is flushed—he’s clearly two drinks deep already—and he’s laughing at something, his hand slapping the table in a rhythm that’s probably destroying the structural integrity of the wood.

Typical. They look like a rom-com poster. It’s nauseating.

Then he looks at the others.

Sitting across from them is a guy with his back to Taiga. He’s massive—broad shoulders stretching out a white tank top.

He stares. A tank top. In April. In the rain.

He’s vibrating with energy, bouncing slightly in his seat like a golden retriever waiting for a tennis ball. Even from behind, he radiates a frantic, exhausting kind of enthusiasm. He throws his head back, letting out a laugh that cuts through the ambient noise of the izakaya.

“Summer Boy,” Taiga’s brain supplies, categorizing him instantly. The type of person who sweats optimism. Annoying.

Then his gaze slides to the person next to Summer Boy.

The laughter in the room seems to drop out. The clatter of plates fades into a dull buzz.

He’s sitting quietly near the wall, seemingly trying to make himself smaller. He’s sipping something from a ceramic cup. He’s wearing a loose, dark cardigan that swallows his frame, looking like he’s freezing despite the humidity in here.

Taiga knows that profile.

High cheekbones that catch the poor lighting. A sharp, elegant jawline. Black hair that waves slightly over the frame of wire-rimmed glasses.

It’s him.

The air leaves Taiga’s lungs.

It’s the guy from the vision. The “husband.” The man who sat on a beige sofa in a sun-drenched room that doesn’t exist and asked Taiga to marry him.

The same guy who will die saving strangers.

But he’s younger. Sharper. He doesn’t have that settled, soft look in his eyes yet. He looks guarded, brooding—like he’s waiting for someone to tell him he’s in the way.

But it’s undeniably him. Hokuto.

He’s real.

Taiga’s brain stutters. This isn’t possible. You don’t hallucinate a stranger’s face in high-definition detail and then walk into an izakaya and find him sitting with your best friend and your best friend’s boyfriend. That’s not how psychosis works. That’s not how physics works.

“Hey!”

Yugo’s spotting him. He waves, his face lighting up with a grin.

“Taiga! Over here!”

The sound of his name acts like a trigger.

The guy—Hokuto—looks up.

He turns his head. Their eyes lock across the crowded room.

Hokuto’s eyes are dark almond. Intense. There’s a flash of curiosity in them, followed by a polite, tentative recognition of someone being called over. He doesn’t know Taiga. To him, Taiga’s just Yugo’s friend.

But looking at Hokuto makes the skin on Taiga’s left finger—a phantom weight of cold gold that isn’t there.

Panic floods his system.

It’s too much. The noise. The smoke. The face of a dead man from a future he made up staring at him from an izakaya booth.

He doesn’t think. He doesn’t calculate the social cost.

He turns around and pushes past a startled businessman.

“Taiga?” Yugo’s voice, confused now.

Taiga doesn’t stop. He hits the sliding door hard, stumbling out into the rain. The cold air slaps his face, but it doesn’t help.

He starts running toward the station, his sneakers splashing through the puddles, desperate to put as much distance as possible between him and the impossibility sitting in the izakaya booth.

🪈

The sliding door rattles shut, cutting off the damp, gray streak of the street outside, but the chill lingers in the booth. It settles over the table like a fine mist, dampening the warmth of the grill.

“I’m sorry—start without me,” Yugo says, his voice tight. He doesn't wait for us to answer. He grabs his umbrella with a quick, fluid motion that betrays how worried he is, and then he’s gone, chasing into the rain after a friend who looked like he had seen a ghost.

Or maybe a monster.

Hokuto sits very still, his hands resting in his lap. The ceramic cup of tea in front of him is still warm, sending up a thin ribbon of steam that twists and vanishes, much like the person Yugo just ran after.

“Well,” Shintaro says. He picks up a skewer of chicken skin, looking at the empty doorway with wide, unblinking eyes. “That was fast.”

Jesse lets out a long exhale, scrubbing a hand over his face. The golden energy he usually carries seems to dim, replaced by a weary sort of gravity. He leans back against the padded bench where Yugo had been sitting just seconds ago, as if trying to hold the space for him.

“Sorry, guys,” he murmurs, sounding tired. “Taiga is… he’s going through a lot right now.”

Hokuto nods, shifting slightly to make himself smaller in the corner of the booth. He doesn’t want to intrude on a history he doesn’t share, but the silence is heavy, and silence is often harder to bear than noise.

“It’s fine,” he says softly. “Yugo should go. He’s the only one who can help him, right?”

Jesse offers me a small, grateful smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“So, that was him?” Shintaro asks, chewing thoughtfully. He’s never one to let uncomfortable air sit for too long. “The ‘Failure of London’? That’s what they call him in the dance department.”

“Shin,” Jesse warns, his tone sharpening just a fraction.

“I’m just asking!” Shintaro raises his hands defensively, the bamboo skewer pointing at the ceiling. “I heard he had a meltdown. Like, a total collapse on stage. People say he forgot how to play in the middle of a concerto.”

“People talk too much,” Jesse says, picking up his beer glass but not drinking from it. He stares into the amber liquid. “It wasn’t a meltdown. He just… he realized he wasn’t happy. Or maybe he realized he wasn’t special in the way everyone thought he would be. I don’t know all the details—Yugo tries to protect him from the gossip—but it messed him up.”

Hokuto watches Jesse’s fingers tight around the glass. He loves Yugo, and because he loves Yugo, he carries the weight of Yugo’s worries too. It must be exhausting, trying to be the bright spot for someone who is constantly trying to save a dying friend.

“Sometimes when people retreat, it’s because they’re protecting something. Not because they’ve lost it,” Hokuto says. The words come out quieter than he intended.

Jesse looks at him, surprised. “Yeah. I guess it does. But Taiga doesn’t see it that way. He thinks he’s just… scraps. And Yugo thinks he can fix it if he just loves him enough.” He sighs, a heavy sound that vibrates through the table. “I just worry Yugo’s going to burn out trying to keep Taiga warm.”

Hokuto knows that feeling. The fear that your own warmth isn’t enough, or that giving it all away will leave you with nothing. “He’s lucky to have Yugo,” he murmurs.

But his mind keeps drifting back to the moment before the door slammed.

Kyomoto Taiga didn’t look at Yugo. He looked at him.

Hokuto lifts his tea, bringing it to his lips it to his lips just to have something to do. The memory of Taiga’s eyes is sharp, uncomfortable. He looked at Hokuto with a kind of terrified recognition, as if he knew him—or as if Hokuto was the last person on earth he wanted to see.

It felt oddly loud, that look. Like a sudden, discordant note in the middle of a quiet phrase.

Hokuto has never met him. So why did Taiga look at him as if he had just accused him of something?

Maybe he reminded Taiga of someone else. Or maybe he just happened to be in the line of fire when his panic set in.

“Hokkun?”

Hokuto blinks, realizing Shintaro is leaning into his space, his eyes searching Hokuto’s face.

“You okay?” he asks. “You’re frowning at your tea like it offended you.”

“I’m fine,” Hokuto says quickly, adjusting his glasses. “Just… thinking. I hope he’s alright in the rain. He didn’t seem to have an umbrella.”

“He’ll be fine,” Jesse says, though he’s checking his phone, probably waiting for a text from Yugo. “Taiga is stubborn. He survives out of spite mostly.”

Hokuto nods and takes a sip of the cooling tea. It’s bitter now.

The sliding door drags open again, a harsh, wooden rattle that cuts through the hum of the izakaya. For a moment, the sound of the rain is louder—a steady, rushing static—before the door slams shut, sealing them back inside the warmth.

Yugo shakes his umbrella, the motion sharp and frustrated, sending tiny sprays of water onto the concrete entryway before he walks back to their booth. He looks damp, not just from the rain, but in spirit. His shoulders, usually so square and dependable, are slumped forward, creating a hollow space where his confidence usually sits.

He slides into the seat next to Jesse, bringing the smell of wet pavement and cold air with him.

“He’s not coming back,” Yugo says quietly. He doesn’t look at the booth. He picks up the oshibori and wipes his hands, rubbing at the skin a little too hard. “He said he needed air. But… I think he just needed to run.”

The vacancy in the booth feels heavy. The spot across from Hokuto—where Kyomoto Taiga would have sat—is just empty space now, a gap in the conversation before it even began.

“I’m sorry,” Yugo sighs, finally looking up. His eyes are tired, lacking their usual crinkle. “I shouldn’t have forced it. I just thought if I got him out of his head for one night, maybe he’d… I don’t know. I’m sorry for dragging the mood down.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Hokuto says, the words slipping out automatically. “Please, Yugo. It’s fine. You don’t have to worry about us.”

He really doesn’t mind. If anything, he feels guilty that Yugo is carrying this weight on their behalf. Yugo wanted to bring his worlds together, and instead, one of them shattered before it could even touch the other.

“Yeah, seriously,” Shintaro chimes in, his mouth half-full of pickled cucumber. He waves a hand dismissively. “More food for us, right? Besides, the guy looked like he was about to vibrate out of his skin. Probably better he went home and crashed.”

Shintaro says it lightly, trying to be helpful, but Yugo flinches just a little.

Jesse shifts, turning his body to block out the rest of the room, creating a small, private shelter for Yugo within the booth. He rests his hand on the back of Yugo’s neck, his thumb brushing against the hairline in a slow, grounding rhythm.

“You did good, Yugo,” Jesse murmurs, his voice dropping to that gentle register he saves only for Yugo. “You got him to try. That’s a win. Don’t overthink it.”

Yugo leans into the touch, just for a second, his eyes closing. “I scared him off,” he whispers. “He looked terrified.”

Hokuto looks down at his tea. Terrified. That’s the word for it. When Taiga saw him—when he saw them—it was fear.

He wonders what it feels like to be so brittle that a simple dinner with strangers feels like a threat. He wants to tell Yugo that it’s not his fault, but he doesn’t have the right words. He just nudges the plate of yakitori closer to him.

“Eat,” Hokuto says softly. “It’ll get cold.”

Yugo offers a weak smile, picking up a skewer.

As the conversation slowly restarts—Jesse asking Shintaro about his dance choreography, Shintaro launching into an animated retelling of a slip-up—Hokuto drifts back into his own head.

He sips his tea and realizes, with a sudden, quiet jolt, that this isn’t the last time he’ll have to think about Kyomoto Taiga.

Tomorrow is Friday. Professor Nagata’s class. Music History.

Taiga’s on the roster. He hasn’t been there since the beginning of the semester.

Hokuto stares at the liquid in his cup. He wonders if Taiga will show up.

And if he does, Hokuto wonders if Taiga will look at him again with that same terrified recognition.

🪈

The lecture hall is never truly silent. Even at 11:15 in the morning, fifteen minutes before Professor Nagata is due to arrive, the room hums with a low, residual energy. Hokuto steps inside, careful not to let the heavy door slam behind him, and the air smells faintly of floor wax and old paper.

He spots Juri immediately. It would be difficult not to; he occupies space with a kind of effortless sprawl that Hokuto has always quietly envied. Juri is sitting in their usual middle row, his legs stretched out beneath the desk in front of him, looking less like a student preparing for a lecture on the late Baroque period and more like someone waiting for a train he isn’t sure he wants to catch.

“Morning, Juri,” Hokuto says softly as he slides into the seat beside him.

Juri looks up from his notebook—spiraled, messy, the margins filled with more sketches than actual notes—and offers Hokuto that familiar, crooked smirk. He looks tired, the shadows under his eyes a little darker than usual, but his energy is light.

“Hokuto,” he greets, spinning a pen between his fingers. “You’re early. Trying to make the rest of us look bad?”

“I think I’m just on time,” Hokuto says, setting his bag down gently. “You’re here early too.”

“Forced labor, sadly.” Juri sighs, leaning back until the chair creaks. He gestures vaguely toward the seat on his other side, where his bag is. “Mori-sensei has decided I’m in need of character building, apparently. He assigned me to be the personal guide for the prodigy.”

Hokuto pauses, his hand freezing on the zipper of his pencil case. “You mean… Kyomoto Taiga?” he asks.

“The one and only.” Juri chuckles, though it sounds a little dry. “Apparently, he’s on probation because he ghosted the first three weeks. Mori-sensei wants me to make sure he actually learns the material instead of just relying on his ‘genius.’”

Hokuto thinks of Yugo’s face last night. He thinks of the way Yugo blamed himself for Taiga running away. “That sounds… like a lot of responsibility,” he murmurs.

“It’s a pain is what it is,” Juri says, though his tone lacks any real malice. He taps his pen against the notebook. “But speaking of responsibilities—check your email?”

Hokuto shakes his head. “Not since this morning. Why?”

Juri grimaces, scratching the back of his neck. “Nagata-sensei sent out the groupings for the research paper. Since you and I were already paired up, and since Kyomoto needs a group...” He trails off, giving me a look that is half-apologetic, half-amused. “We’re a trio now. You, me, and the ghost.”

Hokuto stares at Juri, waiting for the punchline, but Juri just shrugs, returning to his notebook.

The image of Taiga from last night flashes behind his eyes. If Taiga couldn’t even stand to be in the same restaurant as Hokuto is, how is he going to manage sitting next to Hokuto for a semester-long project?

Hokuto feels a sudden, sharp pang of guilt. He doesn’t know what he did to scare Taiga, but the thought of forcing him into close proximity feels cruel. Maybe he should ask to switch groups. Maybe it would be kinder to remove himself from the equation so Taiga doesn’t have to feel that panic again.

“You okay?” Juri asks, tilting his head. “You got quiet. I know he has a reputation for being difficult, but I can handle him. You don’t have to worry about the heavy lifting.”

Hokuto looks at Juri. He doesn’t know about the dinner, or Yugo, or the way Taiga ran. If he tells Juri, it might explain why he’s hesitant, but it feels like a betrayal of privacy. Taiga’s fear—whatever caused it—doesn’t belong to Hokuto. It isn’t a story Hokuto has the right to tell.

“It’s fine,” he says, forcing his shoulders to relax. He offers Juri a small, reassuring smile. “I don’t mind. If he needs the help, we should help him.”

“You’re too nice, Hokuto,” Juri says, shaking his head with a laugh. “Seriously. It’s gonna get you in trouble one day.”

“Maybe,” Hokuto answers softly, opening his own notebook.

The air in the lecture hall shifts before Hokuto even hears the door. It’s a subtle change in pressure, a draft cutting through the stagnant warmth of the room, and instinctively, he looks over his shoulder.

Kyomoto Taiga is standing at the top of the tiered steps.

He looks different in the daylight. Last night, through the rain and the neon haze of the izakaya sign, he had looked terrified.

Now, under the fluorescent hum of the lecture hall, he looks sharper. He’s wearing a black graphic t-shirt that seems too large for his frame, and his hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans. He stands with a hesitation that feels loud in the quiet room, his gaze sweeping the rows of seats as if searching for an exit rather than a place to sit.

Then, his eyes find Hokuto’s.

The breath catches in Hokuto’s throat. It happens again, that strange, heavy sensation he felt last night. It isn’t just recognition, because they don’t know each other. It feels more like a memory of something that hasn’t happened.

Taiga’s eyes are dark, wide, and guarded, and for a second, Hokuto feels sure he’s going to turn around and walk out the door again. He wants to tell Taiga it’s okay, that he doesn’t have to run, that Hokuto’s not whatever he thinks he is, but the words die before they even form.

“Kyomoto! Over here.”

Juri’s voice breaks the tension. He waves his pen in the air, completely oblivious to the silent current passing over his head.

Taiga blinks. He shifts his gaze to Juri, his expression closing off into something blank and unreadable. He doesn’t smile or wave back. He simply starts walking down the stairs, his movements stiff, as if each step requires a conscious decision.

“I saved you a seat,” Juri says cheerfully, removing his backpack on the chair to his left.

Hokuto realizes that Juri is sitting between them. If Taiga sits there, Juri will be a buffer, separating Taiga from him.

Good, he thinks, though the thought tastes a little bitter. It’s better this way. If he’s the one making Taiga uncomfortable, then distance is the kindest thing he can offer.

Taiga reaches their row and pauses. He looks at the empty seat next to Juri, then his eyes flick briefly to Hokuto again. There’s no panic this time, just a wary assessment, like a stray cat deciding if the food is worth the risk of the trap.

Hokuto turns slightly back to his notebook, keeping his posture relaxed and non-threatening. He doesn’t look at Taiga. It might help if he pretends he’s not paying attention.

After a long heartbeat, he hears the scrape of a chair. Taiga sits.

“You missed the first two weeks,” Juri says immediately, sliding a stack of photocopied pages across the desk toward Taiga. “Basically, we’ve covered the transition from the court to the public sphere and why everyone in the 1700s was obsessed with the Doctrine of Affections. Mori-sensei said I have to catch you up, so consider this your starter pack.”

Taiga stares at the papers as if they are written in a foreign language. “I know this already,” he mutters. His voice is melodic, yet raspy and clipped.

“Great. Then you’ll ace the midterm,” Juri replies, unfazed. ”But take the notes anyway. I scribbled some translations in the margins because Nagata-sensei likes to use fancy French terms just to see if we’re awake.”

Hokuto risks a glance to his side. Juri is leaning toward Taiga, pointing something out on the page, and Taiga is leaning away, his arms crossed over his chest, his posture defensive.

He looks tired. There represent dark circles under his eyes that the harsh overhead lights do nothing to hide, and his skin is pale, almost translucent.

From this angle, watching the sharp line of his jaw and the way his dark hair falls messily over his eyes, Hokuto can see why people stare at him. He’s beautiful, undeniably so. It’s a quiet, fragile kind of beauty, sharp edges wrapped in something delicate.

But beauty doesn’t fix anything, and it certainly doesn’t make him look any less lonely.

Hokuto looks away, focusing back on his notebook. It’s not his place to stare.

At the front of the room, the side door swings open, and Professor Nagata strides in, clutching a leather satchel and looking brisk. The room quiets instantly, the hum of conversation dying down to the rustle of notebooks opening.

Hokuto picks up his pen, letting the silence settle between them.

🪈

The room empties in a wash of noise as zippers drag and chairs scrape against linoleum. Hokuto gathers his pens methodically, sliding them into their case one by one.

Two seats away, Taiga is already standing. He moves with a restless urgency, his bag slung over one shoulder, his body angled toward the exit as if the air in here has suddenly run out.

“Hold on, Kyomo,” Juri says. He doesn’t stand up yet, just stretches a leg out into the aisle, effectively blocking the path with the toe of his sneaker. “Don’t run off. We need to sync up.”

Taiga stops. He looks down at Juri’s shoe, then up at Juri’s face, his expression tightening into a frown that looks less angry and more exhausted. “I have somewhere to be,” he says, his voice barely cutting through the ambient noise.

“The cafeteria isn’t going anywhere," Juri replies easily, finally pulling his leg back but standing up to close the distance. “And neither is the smoking area. We just need five minutes. Mostly because I have no idea what your schedule looks like, and Nagata-sensei will actually kill me if we don’t sort out the research paper before midterms.”

Hokuto finishes packing his bag and stands up slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements. He keeps his distance, standing slightly behind Juri so Taiga doesn’t feel cornered. “I don’t mind meeting later, if you’re busy,” he offers softly.

Taiga’s gaze flicks to him just for a second before darting away. He shifts his weight, eyes fixing on the whiteboard behind Professor Nagata’s retreating back. “Five minutes,” he says, the words clipped.

“Perfect.” Juri grins and hops to sit on the edge of the desk, crossing his arms. “So, Hokuto and I already picked a topic back in Week 1. We’re doing Gluck’s Orfeo ed Euridice.”

Taiga blinks. The tension in his shoulders drops, just a fraction. “Gluck.”

“Yeah. Specifically, how it marks the shift from virtuosity to expression,” Juri continues, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “You know, stripping away the showy vocal acrobatics to focus on actual emotion. The moment music stopped being about showing off and started being about feeling things.”

Hokuto watches Taiga’s face. Something dark and complicated ripples across his expression. He lets out a short, soft sound that might have been a scoff if it had more breath behind it.

“Stylistic reform,” Taiga mutters, looking at the floor. “Replacing vanity with truth. It’s a standard topic.”

“Standard means there are plenty of sources,” Juri counters with a shrug. “I’m taking lead on research because I’m great at digging things up and terrible at writing them down coherently. Hokuto here is the writer.”

Hokuto nods, adjusting his glasses. “I can handle the drafting. I don’t mind the writing part, so you don’t have to worry about the word count.”

It’s a lot of work—drafting the literature review and the discussion sections alone—but it’s better if he takes the heavy load. He doesn’t want Taiga to feel burdened by a project he didn't ask for, especially when he already looks like he’s barely holding himself together.

“So that leaves the clean-up,” Juri says, pointing a finger at Taiga. “You’re the editor. Structure, formatting, making sure Hokuto and I don’t sound like idiots. And checking the citations.”

Taiga looks at them for the first time since the conversation started. He seems surprised. “Fine,” he says, and his hand moves unconsciously to the silver tag hanging around his neck, fingers brushing the metal. “I can fix structure. Just don’t give me garbage to work with.”

“I’ll do my best,” Hokuto says sincerely.

“I’ll send you the shared doc link tonight, though we’re still in the outlining and source gathering part,” Juri adds, sliding off the desk. “And since you’re technically under my supervision, I need to know your actual schedule so I can tell Mori-sensei I’m doing my job.”

Taiga hesitates, then makes a sharp exhale through his nose. “Send me your LINE. I’ll send you my schedule.”

“Alright, phones out,” Juri announces. He spins his phone in his hand before unlocking it. “Add me. If I have to email you about citations, I’m gonna drop out.”

Hokuto reaches for his bag, moving slowly. He doesn’t want to startle Taiga. “I think that’s efficiency, not laziness,” he offers softly, pulling his phone out.

Taiga hesitates. He looks at Juri’s outstretched phone, then at Hokuto’s. For a moment, Hokuto thinks he’s going to refuse, but he sighs and digs a black phone out of his pocket. The screen is cracked in the corner.

He scans our codes in silence. Juri’s fingers fly across his screen, tapping out a new group name.

A moment later, Taiga’s phone buzzes.

“Okay, schedule check,” Juri says, leaning back in his chair so the front legs lift off the ground. “Send me your timetables. I need to know when I can harass you.”

Taiga taps his screen with quick, aggressive movements and sends an image. Hokuto forwards his a second later.

Juri opens Taiga’s image first, zooming in. “Okay, not bad. You have a lot of gaps on Tuesdays.” He scrolls, squinting. “Wait. You’re in Jiro-sensei’s Liberal Arts on Monday mornings?”

Taiga nods stiffly. “Yeah. Why?”

“Hokuto is in that class,” Juri says, looking up. He points a pen at Hokuto. “Also Ear Training II tomorrow. And—wow, okay, we’re all in Theory III tomorrow.”

Taiga freezes. He turns his head slowly to look at Hokuto, his brow furrowing. The guard goes up in his eyes instantly, a sharp, defensive wall slamming down.

Hokuto adjusts his glasses, wondering if he should say something.

Taiga studies Hokuto’s face for a second, before looking away, his hand coming up to touch the silver tag hanging around his neck. “Whatever,” he mutters.

“Well, that makes things easy,” Juri says, dropping the front legs of his chair back to the floor with a clatter. “Theory III is tomorrow evening, right? Let’s grab dinner after,” he adds, shooting a quick, knowing look at Taiga. “We can brainstorm the thesis.”

Taiga looks like he wants to say no. Hokuto can see the refusal forming on his tongue, the instinct to run warring with whatever obligation is keeping him here.

“I don’t mind if we keep it short,” Hokuto interjects, trying to give Taiga an out. “Just to align on the basic argument.”

Taiga looks at his cracked phone screen, then back at Juri. “Fine,” he says, the word clipped. “But I can’t stay long.”

“Deal,” Juri grins. “Also, Golden Week is coming up. We’re gonna need to meet at least twice to draft the outline. Don’t book a trip to Hawaii, Kyomo.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Taiga snaps, shouldering his bag. He stands up abruptly, the movement sharp and fluid. “Is that it?”

“That’s it,” Juri says.

Taiga doesn’t say goodbye. He just turns and heads for the stairs, moving with that same restless urgency Hokuto saw last night. 

Hokuto watches him go, noticing how Taiga keeps his head down, effectively carving a path of isolation through the students milling about the exit.

“Well,” Juri says, capping his pen with a satisfied click. “That went well.”

Hokuto looks at the empty doorway where Taiga disappeared. His chest feels heavy, a quiet ache resonating where his suspicion had landed.

“I hope so,” he whispers, picking up his bag. “I really hope so.”

🎹

The sound of a phone ringing echoes in Taiga’s skull long after he snaps his eyes open.

It’s not real. His apartment is dead stiff, save for the low, electric hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

He sits up, his skin cold and damp, shoving the charcoal sheets off his legs. His left hand feels strange and heavy. He looks down at it, flexing his fingers in the gray predawn light.

There’s no gold band. No weight. Just his own pale, empty hand.

“Shit,” Taiga mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

The images are still burned behind his eyelids. White gold glinting in the sun. Then, abruptly, a voice—died on impact.

It makes him nauseous. His brain is broken. That’s the only explanation. He’s hallucinating a life he doesn’t want with a person he barely knows because the stress of being back at the conservatory is finally cracking him open.

Matsumura Hokuto is just a student. He’s nobody. The fact that Taiga’s subconscious decided to cast him as the tragic lead in his nightmare is just a cruel joke.

He tries to fall back against the pillows, hoping to salvage a few more hours of unconsciousness, but a small, warm weight lands on his chest.

Anzu.

She stares down at him, her dark eyes wide and unblinking in the gloom. She knows he’s awake. There’s no faking it with her.

“Go back to sleep,” Taiga whispers, closing his eyes.

She responds by sneezing directly onto his chin, then tapping her front paws against his collarbone. When that doesn’t work, she lets out a high, impatient whine.

He groans. “You’re a tyrant. You know that?”

Taiga cracks one eye open. She wags her tail in a frantic blur of motion. She needs to pee, and she needs to pee now.

Giving up, he pushes himself upright. Anzu immediately scrambles into his lap, burying her face in his shirt.

For a second, he stops moving. He wraps his arms around her small, sturdy frame, burying his nose in her fur. It’s grounding. The panic from the dream recedes, just an inch, pushed back by the solid, uncomplicated reality of her warmth.

“Alright, Princess,” Taiga murmurs, scratching behind her ears. “Let’s go.”

He carries her to the living room, sliding the balcony door open just enough for her to squeeze through. The morning air hits him smelling of wet asphalt. The sky is a flat, uncompromising gray.

Anzu trots over to her designated spot. He leans against the railing, fumbling for the pack of cigarettes he left on the warped metal table. His hands are shaking slightly. He blames the cold.

The lighter sparks—once, twice—before the flame catches. Taiga drags the smoke into his lungs, holding it there until it burns, then exhales a long, thin stream into the dawn.

His phone vibrates on the table.

He shouldn’t look. Nothing good happens on a screen at 5:00 AM. But he picks it up anyway, squinting against the harsh backlight.

[Gluck Enthusiasts (unfortunately)]

Juri: rise and shine kyomo

Juri: don’t forget we have piano performance class today, 10 am

Taiga stares at the messages. Does Juri ever sleep? 

Performance class. He hasn’t practiced seriously in days, unless you count having a hallucination in a practice room as rehearsal.

Why is Juri texting him? He’s Taiga’s guide, not his mother.

Another bubble appears.

Hokuto: Good morning. We also have the quiz in Ear Training later.

Taiga’s thumb hovers over the screen. Seeing Hokuto’s name sends a spike of adrenaline through his chest that he doesn’t want. 

It’s irritating. Hokuto writes exactly like he talks—stiff, polite, careful. It contrasts sharply with the version of Hokuto from Taiga’s dream, the one who laughed like wind over glass.

Taiga clenches his jaw, dispelling the image.

Juri: if ur rusty i can book a room before ur class

Juri: hokuto and i can cram w you

Taiga flicks the ash from his cigarette, staring at the words. They want to help. Or rather, they want to fix him. That’s what this is—charity work for the “fallen prodigy.” They think if they drag him through the coursework, they’ll get a gold star.

It’s annoying. It’s intrusive.

But if he fails that quiz, or blows the performance class, the faculty will have more ammunition to stare at him with that suffocating pity.

Taiga takes another drag, watching the smoke curl around his fingers.

Taiga: Whatever.

Taiga: Book it.

He shoves the phone back in his pocket.

Anzu finishes her business and sits by his feet, looking up at him expectantly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Taiga mutters, stubbing out the cigarette. “I’m coming.”

The balcony door slides shut with a heavy thud, sealing the damp chill outside where it belongs. He locks it and turns back to the warmth of the apartment.

Anzu is already waiting by her bowl in the kitchen. She sits with perfect posture, staring at the empty ceramic dish as if sheer willpower will manifest food.

“I’m moving,” Taiga mutters, walking past her to the cabinet. He pours a scoop of kibble. The dry clatter against the ceramic is the only sound in the room. 

She eats immediately, methodical and quiet. He watches her for a second, just to make sure she’s eating, then turns to the espresso machine.

It’s a sleek, chrome beast his father bought him when he moved in. Now, it just takes up too much counter space and makes noise.

He grinds the beans. The machine hisses, spitting out a shot of black liquid that smells like burnt earth. He drinks it standing up, leaning against the counter, the bitterness coating his tongue. 

It helps. The fog in his brain from that damn dream starts to thin out.

He pulls his phone from his pocket.

The browser is still open to the forum page. savras2028. Last active: 2014.

His message is sitting there in the inbox. Unread.

“Useless,” Taiga says to the empty room.

He tosses the phone onto the counter. It slides, stopping inches from the edge.

He shouldn't care. It’s an internet ghost story. If he had any sense, he’d delete the account, forget the camera, and focus on surviving this semester so he can quit in July without Yugo hunting him down. 

But the image of the shrine—and the man in the vision—itches at the back of his skull.

He picks the phone up again. His fingers move before he can stop them.

Matsumura Hokuto.

The search bar blinks. Taiga hits enter.

A flood of social media profiles for other people. A dentist in Osaka. A salon owner in Kyoto. He scrolsl past them until he hits a link from a regional news site.

Shizuoka Prefectural Wind Instrument Competition (2012).

He taps it. The page takes forever to load, but eventually, a low-resolution PDF pops up. It’s a list of winners and participants. Buried in the text, under Flute Solo Division: Matsumura Hokuto - Silver Prize.

There’s a photo of the group. It’s grainy, taken from too far away, but he zooms in.

Hokuto’s there. Younger. His hair is shorter, less styled, and he’s wearing a different pair of glasses. 

He looks… ordinary. Just a high school kid in a uniform holding a flute like it’s a lifeline. He doesn't look like the man who proposed to Taiga in a hallucination. He doesn’t look like someone who dies saving strangers.

He looks boring.

Taiga locks the screen, annoying himself. He doesn’t know why he expected a smoking gun. Hokuto’s just a music student.

But yesterday, Hokuto didn’t feel ordinary. He sat next to Juri like a statue. Quiet. Too quiet. Every time Juri opened his mouth, Hokuto would nod or murmur something polite, but his eyes kept darting toward Taiga.

It wasn’t a friendly look. It was sharp, wary. Like he expected Taiga to bite him.

It pissed Taiga off then, and it pisses him off now. He’s used to people staring, but Hokuto’s stare didn’t have that heavy, sticky weight of pity. It was fear.

What does Hokuto have to be afraid of? Taiga’s the one losing his mind.

He finishes the coffee in one swallow and sets the cup down hard enough.

Anzu licks her bowl clean, the sound of her tongue against the ceramic scraping through the silence. She looks up, satisfied, waiting for the next step in the routine.

“Done?” Taiga asks.

She trots over, her nails clicking on the floorboards, and paws at his shin.

Taiga picks up her bowl and rinses it in the sink. The water runs cold over his hands. 

Performance Class II starts in two hours. Professor Mori is going to expect proof that Taiga hasn’t forgotten what a piano is.

He dries his hands on a towel. They feel stiff.

“Fine,” Taiga says, grabbing his phone. “Let’s get this over with.”

🎹

The fifth floor sounds like a riot in slow motion.

A dozen different pianos bleed through the soundproofed doors of the practice rooms lining the corridor—Chopin crashing into Rachmaninoff, scales fighting against discordant jazz chords. It’s a headache waiting to happen.

To anyone else, it might sound like “artistic fervor” or whatever the brochure promises. To Taiga, it just sounds like desperation. Everyone here is trying to prove they exist.

He adjusts the strap of his bag, feeling the weight of his camera dig into his shoulder. He shouldn’t have brought it, but leaving it at home felt like leaving a limb behind.

Studio 534 is at the end of the hall. The door is cracked open.

Taiga hesitates. His pulse kicks up a stupid, rebellious rhythm against his ribs. He hates this feeling. The tightness in the throat, the anticipation of judgment. It’s been months since he sat in a performance class, and even longer since he wanted to.

He pushes the door open.

The room is brighter than the hallway, flooded with the gray morning light of April. It smells of wood polish and cheap coffee. Most of the seats are empty, but the center aisle is occupied.

Tanaka Juri is impossible to miss.

He’s sprawled in a chair like he’s lounging in a bar rather than a conservatory classroom, legs stretched out, one arm draped over the backrest. He’s wearing a loose shirt, paired with the kind of casual smirk that makes people want to punch him or kiss him.

Currently, it’s working on the girl sitting next to him. She’s laughing at something he said, a hand covering her mouth, eyes crinkling.

Juri leans in, whispering something that makes her turn a shade of pink that Taiga didn’t think was biologically possible. It’s pathetic. He treats charm like a utility, something he switches on to get what he wants.

Taiga turns to find a seat in the back, as far away from the blast radius of Juri’s personality as possible.

“Kyomo!”

He freezes.

Juri is looking right at him. He hasn’t moved a muscle, but the smirk has shifted from less predatory to more knowing. He pats the empty chair beside him. “Over here,” he says. “Saved you a spot.”

The girl looks at Taiga, then back at Juri, her smile faltering as she realizes the show is over. She gathers her sheet music and scuttles off to a seat three rows back.

Taiga walks over stiffly and drops into the chair. “You didn’t save anything.”

“I totally did,” Juri says, ignoring his tone. “Relax. I’m just making sure you’re alive.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Physically, maybe.” Juri leans closer, his voice dropping. The playful lilt vanishes, replaced by something sharper. “Mori-sensei is in a mood. I heard him tearing into a third year earlier. He’s gonna make people play today.”

Taiga’s stomach drops. “It’s the first week back for me. He won’t.”

“He will,” Juri corrects. “Especially you.”

Taiga clenches his jaw. His fingers unconsciously curl into fists on his lap. He hasn’t prepared a solo piece. Not a real one. His practice sessions lately have been disjointed messes—scales, Hanon, fragments of pieces he used to know but can’t stomach finishing. “I have nothing,” he hisses.

“You have muscle memory,” Juri counters, unbothered. “Just pick something safe. We’re discussing Classical and Early Romantic styles this week, so keep it structured. Strict. Don’t try to impress him with emotion, just hit the notes.”

Structure. Safety.

Taiga’s mind races through the repertoire he buried years ago. Mozart is too exposed. Beethoven is too heavy.

“Clementi,” he says, the name tasting like chalk.

Juri raises an eyebrow. “Really? A Sonatina? Isn’t that a bit… grade school for you?”

“It’s clean,” Taiga snaps. “Opus 36, Number 1. C Major.”

“Safe,” Juri agrees, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Boring as hell, but safe. If you play it like a machine, he can’t complain about the technique.”

“I don’t play like a machine.”

“Maybe,” Juri says, not unkindly. He taps a rhythm on his knee, glancing toward the door as footsteps approach. “But I guess right now, that might be exactly what you need to survive Mori.”

Taiga stares at the shiny black grand piano at the front of the room. It looks like a coffin. “Whatever,” he mutters, turning away from Juri.

Professor Mori enters the room with the subtle grace of a tank. The heavy door clicks shut behind him, cutting off the cacophony from the hallway. He drops a leather folder onto the podium, and the low murmur of conversation dies instantly.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t frown. He just scans the room, checking faces against a mental roster that is undoubtedly more accurate than the one on his desk.

His eyes land on Taiga.

Taiga stops breathing.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice projecting without effort to the back of the room. “We are discussing the transition from Classical structure to Early Romantic expression today. But before we get to the theory...” He doesn’t look away from Taiga. “Kyomoto-kun. Since you’ve missed our previous sessions, I’d like to hear where you are.” He gestures to the Yamaha grand at the front. “Please.”

Beside Taiga, Juri shifts. Taiga can feel him looking at him, probably waiting to see if he’ll snap or run.

Taiga does neither. He just stands up. His legs feel like he’s wading through water.

He walks down the aisle. The distance between his seat and the piano is only 20 feet, but it feels like a mile of exposed wire. He keeps his eyes on the floor, ignoring the rows of students on either side. He can hear them shifting, the rustle of fabric, the quiet intake of breath. 

They want a show. They want to see if the rumours about London are true.

Taiga sits on the bench. He doesn’t adjust the height, just places his hands on the keys. They’re shaking—barely—but he presses his fingertips down to ground them.

Safe, Juri had said.

He takes a shallow breath and starts the Clementi.

Do-mi-do-so.

It comes out brittle. The tempo is brisk, faster than it should be, a nervous tic Taiga thought he’d killed years ago. The C Major opening is supposed to be spirited, vivid, but he makes it sound like a typing test.

He gets through the exposition without incident. It’s mechanical. Dull. It’s exactly what he wanted.

Then the development section hits.

Taiga modulates to G minor, his right hand running through the scale passages. His thumb tucks under, but it’s clumsy. He clips the edge of a B slightly too hard, and the rhythm trips.

Shit.

Taiga freezes for a microsecond before he forces his hands to keep moving. He recovers, but the flow is gone. He’s chasing the beat now, rushing to catch up to a tempo he sets too high in the first place.

Another note smudges in the recap. It sounds muddy. Amateur.

Taiga hits the final chords. C-G-C. Loud. Final. Get it over with.

He lifts his hands and lets them drop to his lap, staring at the black sheen of the fallboard as his heart hammers against his ribs.

It was a Sonatina. A piece children play for recitals. And he just butchered it.

“You’re tight,” Professor Mori says.

Taiga turns on the bench. Professor Mori isn’t frowning. He looks… thoughtful. Which is worse.

“Your wrists are locked, Kyomoto-kun,” he continues, stepping closer to the piano. “You are playing entirely from the forearm. The technique is there, beneath the tension, but you are fighting the instrument. The Clementi requires clarity, yes, but not rigidity.”

He taps the lid of the piano. “You are protecting yourself,” he says, casually, as if diagnosing a cold. “You cannot play if you are afraid of the keys. Sit down.”

Taiga stands up too fast. As he walks back up the aisle, the whispers start. They try to hide it, ducking their heads behind sheet music or leaning close to their neighbors, but the acoustics in here are designed to carry sound.

“That was him?”

“I thought he was supposed to be a prodigy.”

“...rusty as hell…”

Taiga stares straight ahead, fixing his gaze on the exit sign at the back of the room. It doesn’t matter. None of them matter. They’re nobodies.

He drops into his seat next to Juri. He doesn’t look at him. He grabs his bag, pulling it onto his lap like a shield.

“Hey,” Juri whispers.

“Shut up,” Taiga snaps, low enough that Professor Mori doesn’t hear, but sharp enough to cut. He opens his notebook to a blank page and stares at it until the lines blur.

The wait until 11:00 am was a long one that he’s already moving when Professor Mori finishes his sentence about next week’s focus on romantic repertoire. He wants a cigarette, and he wants to be anywhere that isn’t this room where the air still feels stale with his own failure.

“Class dismissed,” Professor Mori says. The room dissolves into the scrape of chairs and the murmur of relief.

Taiga turns toward the door.

“Kyomoto-kun.”

Taiga freezes. The sound of his name is quiet, calm, and absolutely unavoidable.

He doesn’t turn around immediately. He considers pretending he didn’t hear Professor Mori—just walking out, blending into the crowd of students flooding the hallway—but that’s a rookie move. Running makes you look guilty. Or worse, weak.

Taiga turns back.

The room empties quickly. Juri lingers by the door for a second, catching Taiga’s eye.

Taiga jerks his chin toward the exit.

He hesitates, spins that silver ring on his finger, then slips out into the corridor.

Now it’s just him and Professor Mori. And the Yamaha.

Professor Mori doesn’t look at him. He’s organizing his sheet music, tapping the edges against the podium to straighten them. “You need the credits,” he says. It’s a statement, not a question.

“I know,” Taiga says, his voice rough.

“Your attendance record is… sparse. And today’s performance suggests you are not quite ready for the pressure of a juried recital.” Professor Mori finally looks up, his expression unreadable behind his glasses. “I have a proposition for extra credit.”

Taiga braces himself.

“The Shibuya Arts Academy is hosting their annual wind and strings competition after Golden Week,” he continues, sliding a flyer across the sleek surface of the podium. “They need a student judge from the conservatory. Someone with a… refined ear. To sit on the panel for the high school division.”

Taiga stares at the flyer. “You want me to judge high schoolers?” he asks, the absurdity of it rising in his throat like bile. “I just butchered a Clementi sonatina. I’m not exactly in a position to critique anyone.”

“On the contrary. You know what a mistake sounds like better than anyone right now.”

Taiga flinches.

“It will be good for you,” Mori says, his tone softening in a way that makes Taiga’s skin crawl. “To sit on the other side of the table. To observe. Sometimes, watching young musicians—before the cynicism sets in, before the industry breaks them—can be remindful.”

“Remindful of what?”

“Of why you started.” He offers a small, terrifyingly gentle smile. “It might bring you back to happier times.”

Taiga looks away, staring at the scuffed floorboards. Professor Mori thinks music was ever about happiness for him. It was about precision, about being the best. There’s no innocent nostalgia to go back to—just a time when he didn’t make mistakes.

He wants to tell Professor Mori to find someone else, to tell him he’d rather fail the class than sit in an auditorium and listen to teenagers.

But he and Yugo made a deal.

“I’ll email you the details,” Professor Mori says, taking his silence for acceptance. “Don’t be late.”

Taiga turns on his heel and walks out.

He pushes through the heavy double doors, desperate for the exit, for air, for the noise of the city to drown out the hum in his ears.

He makes it ten steps before he sees Juri.

Juri is leaning against the wall, one leg bent, tapping away on his phone. He looks irritatingly relaxed, like he hasn’t just spent ninety minutes listening to Taiga humiliate himself.

Taiga keeps walking, keeping his eyes fixed on the stairwell at the end of the hall, walking fast, shoulders hunched.

“Kyomo,” Juri calls out.

Taiga doesn’t slow down. “Not now, Tanaka.”

Footsteps scuff quickly against the tile as Juri pushes off the wall and falls into step beside him. Taiga stops walking so abruptly that Juri almost crashes into him. 

He spins around. The soles of his sneakers squeak against the linoleum—a sharp, irritating sound that cuts through the hallway chatter.

“Save it,” Taiga says, his voice tight in his throat.

Juri blinks, rocking back on his heels. He has his hands in his pockets, that habitual smirk playing at the corner of his mouth like he thinks everything is a joke. Even Taiga. Especially Taiga. “Save what?” he asks.

“The pep talk. The ‘you’ll get ‘em next time’ speech. I don’t need your pity party, Tanaka. I know exactly what that performance sounded like.”

The smirk slips, just a fraction. “I wasn’t gonna give you a speech.”

“Then what? You’re following me because Mori told you to babysit the basket case?” Taiga steps closer, invading Juri’s space just to see if he’ll flinch. He doesn’t. “I’m fulfilling the credit requirements. I’m attending the classes. I don’t need a nursemaid.”

“You’re paranoid,” Juri says. He sounds bored, which infuriates Taiga more than anger would. He shrugs. “I was just gonna say that the Clementi wasn’t a total train wreck. You have good hands. You just play like you hate the piano.”

“I do hate it.”

“Right. That’s the problem.” Juri tilts his head, studying Taiga with eyes that are a little too sharp for someone who acts like a slacker. “It wasn’t pity, Kyomo. It was an observation. But if you wanna be miserable about it, go ahead.”

Taiga grits his teeth. He wants to hit him. He wants to smash something. Instead, he turns and shoves his weight against the heavy exit bar of the door leading to the stairway.

“Whatever.”

He descends all five floors and bursts out into the courtyard.

The sudden brightness is an assault. The midday sun reflects off the pale stone walkways, forcing Taiga to squint. He pulls his cigarettes from his pocket, his fingers twitching. He needs the smoke. He needs the burn in his lungs to ground him before he starts thinking about the way his fingers slipped on the keys in there.

He heads for the far corner, past the central fountain. The smoking area is tucked behind a bamboo partition near the maple tree. If he walks fast enough, he won’t have to talk to anyone.

He’s halfway across the paving stones when he sees him.

Matsumura Hokuto.

He’s sitting on one of the wooden benches, posture careful, knees pressed together. He isn’t alone. A girl is sitting next to him. She’s crying. Her shoulders are shaking, heaving with ugly, gasping sobs that make passersby glance over and quickly look away.

Taiga should look away too. It’s uncomfortable. It’s messy.

But he doesn’t move.

He watches Hokuto, expecting him to look panicked. Most guys would. They’d be patting her shoulder awkwardly or checking their phones, desperate to escape the emotional blast radius.

Hokuto doesn’t do any of that.

He just sits there. He’s perfectly still, looking at her but not staring. He reaches into his bag—slow, deliberate movements, like he’s trying not to startle a wild animal—and pulls out a packet of tissues.

He holds it out.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t offer empty platitudes or tell her to stop crying. He just holds the plastic packet in the space between them, his expression calm. Almost blank.

The girl hiccups. She looks at the tissues, then at him.

Hokuto adjusts his glasses with his free hand. He waits. He has the patience of a statue.

After a long, agonizing moment, the girl takes the tissues. She wipes her face, blowing her nose with a wet, honking sound that would make anyone else cringe.

Hokuto doesn’t flinch. He waits until her breathing evens out, until the heaving stops.

She looks up at him, eyes red and puffy. She manages a watery, trembling smile. “Thank you,” she whispers.

Hokuto nods. Just once.

She stands up, clutching her violin case like a lifeline, and walks away toward the practice rooms, looking ten times lighter than she did a minute ago.

Hokuto stays on the bench. He puts the remaining tissues back in his bag and zips it shut.

Taiga realizes he’s staring.

He looks like a creep. Just standing in the middle of the walkway, cigarette pack crushed in his hand, watching this guy dispense charity like it’s loose change.

Taiga turns to leave.

Too late.

Hokuto looks up. Sunlight flashes off the lenses of his glasses, obscuring his eyes for a second, but Taiga feels the weight of Hokuto’s gaze. It’s heavy. Recognizing.

He should walk away, just keep walking until he reaches the smoking area. But his feet feel like they’re nailed to the pavement.

Hokuto stands up. He slings his bag over his shoulder and starts walking toward him.

Taiga tightens his jaw. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to talk to the guy who keeps haunting his hallucinations. He doesn’t want to explain why he’s frozen here like a deer in headlights.

“Kyomoto,” Hokuto says when he’s close enough. His voice is low and steady.

“Matsumura.” Taiga doesn’t apologize for staring. He barely inclines his head.

Hokuto stops a few feet away, keeping a respectful distance. “How was it? Performance class.”

Taiga lets out a short, sharp breath. “A riot. Mori-sensei practically threw roses at my feet.”

Hokuto studies his face. He doesn’t smile at the sarcasm, just tilts his head like he’s listening for a wrong note in a chord. It’s irritating. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” Taiga shifts his weight, looking past Hokuto toward the bench where the weeping girl had been. “Girlfriend?” he asks, jerking his chin at the empty space. “Trouble in paradise already?”

He knows it’s a cheap shot. Taiga wants to see Hokuto flinch.

“No,” Hokuto says. He adjusts his glasses, his fingers brushing the silver rim. “I don’t know her.”

Taiga blinks. “You don’t know her.”

“She’s a first-year violin student. She looked… overwhelmed. Sometimes the pressure here is loud.”

He says it simply, like walking up to a stranger having a meltdown and acting as their emotional sponge is a normal Saturday activity. Like it costs him nothing.

Taiga’s grip on the cigarette pack tightens until the cardboard creases. “So you just sat there? Because she looked sad?”

“I couldn’t leave her alone,” Hokuto says.

“You didn’t even know her name.”

“Does that matter?”

Taiga stares at him. Does that matter? To Hokuto, apparently not. He sees a problem, he throws himself at it. He sees a crying girl, he offers tissues. He sees a stranger, he offers pieces of himself.

An image flashes behind his eyes.

2030.

His breath hitches. The nausea from the shrine comes rushing back. It fits so perfectly it makes Taiga want to scream. Of course that’s how he dies. Hokuto’s exactly the kind of idiot who thinks he can save everyone.

Taiga looks at Hokuto. He’s standing there in his oversized shirt, looking soft and harmless and entirely too decent for a place that eats people alive. He thinks he’s helping. He doesn't realize he’s just practicing for his own funeral.

“You’re unbelievable,” Taiga mutters, looking away toward the fountain.

“Kyomoto?”

“You’re the type, aren’t you?” Taiga says, his voice scraping against his throat like sandpaper. “The type to jump onto train tracks if you saw someone fall in.”

Hokuto blinks. He doesn’t deny it or laugh it off. “Maybe,” he says quietly.

“That’s stupid.”

The words come out like glass breaking. Taiga should walk away, but he doesn’t. He stands there, glaring at Hokuto, ignoring the way the midday sun digs into the back of his neck.

“Use your head, Matsumura,” Taiga says. “You have friends. Family. People who would actually give a damn if you ended up as a stain on the ballast. You’d throw that away for someone you’ve never met?”

Hokuto looks down at his hands. It’s a nervous tic. “The stranger on the tracks,” he says, his voice quiet but irritatingly steady. “They have people who care about them too.”

Taiga scoffs. “You don’t know that.”

“I have to assume they do.” He looks up, the lenses of his glasses flashing. “Someone is waiting for them to come home. If I don't do anything... who explains to that family that no one tried?”

“You can’t save everyone.” The anger flares up. It’s the logic of a child. “The world is full of people falling off ledges. You think you can catch them all?”

“No,” Hokuto says. “But I can try to save someone.”

Taiga opens his mouth to argue, to tell Hokuto that ‘trying’ doesn’t count for shit when you’re dead, but the words die in his throat. The worst part is that Hokuto isn’t trying to be noble. He just thinks it’s normal.

He looks at Hokuto’s face, and he feels sick.

He needs a cigarette. Now.

Taiga looks down at the crumpled pack in his hand.

“Those will kill you,” Hokuto says.

“Eventually,” Taiga says. “Takes about forty years. Jumping in front of a train takes three seconds.”

Hokuto flinches. ”That’s a grim comparison,” he says.

“It’s just math.”

Hokuto watches him for a moment, his expression guarded. Then, he shifts his bag on his shoulder. “Juri’s waiting for us,” he says.

Taiga stiffens. “I told him to get lost.”

“He booked a room in the Practice Towers. 402.” Hokuto checks his watch, then looks back at Taiga. “The Ear Training quiz is in one and a half hours. You need a review.”

“I don’t need a tutor,” Taiga snaps. “Especially not a slack-off who scrapes on by charm.”

“Juri’s not just charm.” Hokuto sounds defensive now. Good. “He has a good ear. And he took this quiz two days ago, so we need his help.”

“Tell him I died.”

“I’m not going to lie for you.” Hokuto stands up straighter. “Do you want to get in trouble with Mori-sensei?”

Taiga grits his teeth. “Whatever,” he mutters, shoving the pack of cigarettes in his pocket.

“Let’s go,” Hokuto says. It’s almost an order.

Taiga glares at him one last time. “Stop saving people, Matsumura. It’s annoying.”

He turns and walks toward the towers without waiting for a response. He can feel Hokuto following him from behind.

🎹

Juri is already there at the practice room when Taiga and Hokuto arrive. He’s straddling the piano bench backward, his arms resting on the top of the upright, watching them enter. He doesn’t look annoyed that Taiga told him to get lost fifteen minutes ago. He just looks bored, spinning his phone on the polished black lid of the piano.

“Took you look enough,” he says. “I was about to start composing a requiem for you.”

Taiga ignores him as he drops his bag in the corner. “Don’t waste the manuscript paper.”

Hokuto moves past Taiga, setting his canvas tote on the floor with a quiet, deliberate rustle. He doesn’t look at Juri or Taiga. It’s irritating to watch—the efficiency of it, the way he assumes responsibility for the basic biological functions of everyone in a five-meter radius.

He pulls out three bottled lattes and sets them on the small table near the door. Then comes a white rectangular box. He opens the lid.

Onigiri. Six of them.

They aren’t the plastic-wrapped triangles you buy in the convenience store. These are handmade. 

“You brought lunch?” Juri asks, finally unfolding himself from the bench, sounding delighted. He reaches for a bottle and the box without hesitation. “Hokuto, you’re a saint. I was starving.”

“I made extra,” Hokuto says, pushing the box slightly toward Taiga. “Since we have to study through the break.”

Taiga stares at the rice balls. His stomach gives a treacherous, hollow twist. “I didn’t ask you to do that,” he says.

“Eat it or don’t,” Hokuto says, uncapping his tea. “But if you pass out during the quiz, I’m not carrying you to the infirmary.”

Taiga knows that Hokuto would do that anyway, but he grabs one. It’s easier than arguing.

He takes a bite. The rice is still slightly warm and seasoned perfectly. The filling is sour and sharp with umeboshi.

It’s good. It’s actually annoying how good it is.

Taiga chews quickly, keeping his face blank, refusing to give Hokuto the satisfaction of a compliment.

“So,” Juri says around a mouthful of rice. “Tsurubaya-sensei.”

Taiga swallows the bite. “What about her?”

“I took the quiz last Thursday,” Juri says, leaning back against the wall. He wipes a grain of rice from his lip. “It’s a bloodbath.”

Taiga’s hand tightens around the latte bottle. “Great.”

“It’s almost entirely mixed clefs,” Juri says, the playfulness in his voice dropping. “She’s not just doing treble and bass. She’s throwing in alto and tenor clef sight-singing. And for the rhythmic review? It’s compound meters mixed with simple. Five-eight switching to three-four.”

Taiga stares at the acoustic foam on the wall. He hasn’t read alto clef seriously since his first year. He’s a pianist; he lives in the grand staff. Violists read alto. Why does he need to know it?

“It’s just reading,” he says, sounding more dismissive than he feels. “It’s not hard.”

“It is when she puts a metronome on at 100 BPM,” Juri counters.

Taiga stays silent. The onigiri feels heavier in his stomach now. He can read music better than half the people in this building. But sight-singing in mixed clefs under pressure? That’s a place for mistakes to hide.

“We have forty minutes,” Hokuto says, half-finished with his onigiri. He pulls a sheaf of staff paper from his bag. “We can’t relearn the clefs from scratch, but we can drill the intervals. We’ll focus on the recognition speed.”

He sets the papers on the music stand. He’s already written out exercises.

“Strategy,” Hokuto says, capping a pen. “Juri, you play the root on the piano. Kyomoto, you sing the third and the seventh in the assigned clef. We rotate every four bars.”

“Sounds like a party,” Juri mutters, moving to the keys. He plays a C-major triad.

Taiga looks at the notes Hokuto has written—tiny, precise black dots marching across the lines. He did this for him.

It irritates him. It makes him feel like he owes Hokuto something, and Taiga hates owing people.

Juri runs his thumb along the edge of the piano keys, not pressing down, just ghosting over the ivory. The smirk is gone. Without it, his face looks sharper, hungrier.

“Don’t look at me like I’m wasting your time,” Juri says. He doesn't look up. “I get it, you know. The panic. The feeling that the floor is about to drop out.”

“You don’t get anything,” Taiga says, dropping onto the folding chair. “You treat this place like a social club.”

“I treat it like a job I can’t afford to lose.” Juri finally looks at Taiga, his eyes hard. “I’m on a full scholarship, Kyomo. Tuition, fees. The school pays for everything.”

Taiga pauses, his hand hovering over the stack of sheet music. He didn’t know that. He never asked. Juri dresses well and acts like he owns the hallway. Taiga assumed he was just another boredom-prone rich kid burning through his parents’ inheritance.

“If my GPA drops,” Juri continues, his voice flat, “the money’s gone. I’m back in Chiba working at my brother’s bar before the semester even ends.” He unzips his hoodie, revealing a faded t-shirt underneath. “So yeah. I get the pressure.”

Taiga stares at him. “That’s money,” he says. It comes out as dismissive, though he doesn’t entirely mean it to. “You’re afraid of being broke. That’s not the same.”

Juri scoffs. “Right. Because you don’t worry about rent.”

“It’s not about rent.” Taiga leans forward, elbows on his knees. His chest feels tight, that familiar compression that started in London and never really left. “If you fail, you go do something else. You survive. If I fail...”

He trails off. No. He’s not saying it. He’s not telling them that if he fails, he loses the only thing that justifies his existence. That without the talent, he’s just a hollow shell with a famous last name.

“Different pressures,” Hokuto says.

Taiga snaps his head toward him. Hokuto is standing by the acoustic paneling, blending into the gray background. Taiga forgot he was there. He has a way of erasing his presence until he decides to speak.

“But the fear’s the same, isn’t it?” Hokuto’s voice cuts through the air conditioning. “Being afraid that you’re not good enough. That everyone else can see something you can’t. That you’re just... pretending to belong here.”

The room goes dead silent.

Taiga hates him.

He hates Hokuto because he’s right, and Taiga hates him because he said it with that soft, resigned look on his face—like he knows exactly what it feels like to wake up at 3 AM hoping the building burns down so you don’t have to prove yourself again.

Juri lets out a short, humorless laugh. He plays a dissonant chord, softly. “Yeah. That.”

The air feels too heavy. Taiga doesn’t do this. He doesn’t do group therapy in soundproof boxes with people he doesn’t know.

“Whatever,” he says, picking up the handwritten sheet music Hokuto prepared. The notes are neat, obsessive little dots. “If the two of you are done traumatizing each other, we have twenty minutes before Tsurubaya rips us apart.”

Juri blinks, and the smirk returns—a little forced, but functional. “Right,” he says, hitting a low C on the piano. “Intervals. Let’s go.”

“Don’t rush the tempo,” Taiga mutters. “And if you play a major seventh when asking for a minor sixth, I’m walking out.”

Hokuto doesn’t smile, but Taiga sees his shoulders relax, just an inch. He uncaps a pen.

They get to work.

🎹

The metronome stops. The silence that follows is heavy, buzzing in Taiga’s ears like static. 

Professor Tsurubaya snaps her grade book shut. The sound is like a gavel. “Pencils down,” she says. “Pass your papers to the left.”

Taiga drops his pencil. His hand craps as he uncurls his fingers—a dull, throbbing ache that runs from his knuckles to his wrist.

He stares at the staff paper in front of him. The dictation in the last section was messy. He missed the rhythm in the third measure, but the intervals were solid.

It wasn’t perfect. But it wasn’t a disaster.

Taiga passes the paper to the guy on his left, a trumpet player who looks like he’s about to vomit, and shoves his pencil case into his bag. He just wants to leave.

“Class dismissed,” Professor Tsurubaya says.

Taiga pushes through the door into the hallway, the sudden drop in temperature heating the sweat on the back of his neck. He takes a breath.

“You caught the modulation in the second exercise, right?”

He doesn’t even have to look. Hokuto is matching his pace, his canvas tote bag settled securely on his shoulder. He looks unfazed.

“The shift to the relative minor?” Taiga asks, keeping his eyes on the exit sign down the hall. “Yeah. It was obvious.”

“Good,” Hokuto says. “A lot of people missed the leading tone.”

He sounds relieved. Not for himself but for Taiga. It’s annoying.

“We have two-and-a-half hours before Theory III,” Hokuto continues, checking his watch. “Ohno-sensei is covering secondary dominants and leading tone chords. If you want, we can go over the secondary dominant voicings in the library.”

Taiga stops walking. He wants a cigarette. He wants to go home and stare at the ceiling until his brain stops playing intervals on a loop. The last thing he wants is to sit in a silent room with Matsumura Hokuto and discuss voice leading.

But he promised Yugo. One semester.

“Fine,” he says, shifting the weight of his bag. “But we’re not—”

His phone buzzes in his pocket. So does Hokuto’s.

Taiga pulls his out. A notification from the conservatory registrar flashes on the screen.

IMPORTANT: CLASS CANCELLATION

Course: THMUS 311 - Theory III

Professor: Satoshi Ohno

Status: CANCELED due to family emergency.

“Canceled,” Hokuto reads aloud the text, sounding concerned. “I hope everything’s alright.”

Another buzz. LINE notification.

[Gluck Enthusiasts (unfortunately)]

Juri: heard the good news. ohno is out

Juri: bet he fell asleep at his desk again

Taiga almost laughs. At least Juri rarely disappoints in his cynicism.

Juri: since ur free and i have no life, research paper?

Juri: i’m at the gusto 5 min away. got a booth

Juri: drink bar’s entirely mine

Taiga stares at the message. He forgot about the damn research paper.

“We should go,” Hokuto says. “We were supposed to work on it today anyway.”

Taiga looks at him. “It’s Saturday,” he argues. “I just took a quiz. I’m tired.”

“We need the outline done before Golden Week,” Hokuto counters. He’s not pushy, just factual. “If we do it now, we won’t have to meet much during the break.”

That’s a point. If Taiga grinds this out now, he can spend Golden Week sleeping, smoking, and avoiding the piano without Juri harassing him over LINE.

He looks at the screen again. Juri sent a sticker of a cat face-planting.

“Gusto,” he says. “It’s gonna be loud.”

“Ideally,” Hokuto says. “It’s a family restaurant on a weekend.”

Taiga: fine, don’t order me anything weird

Taiga looks at Hokuto. He’s already adjusting his bag, ready to follow Taiga’s lead. He looks content. It’s irritating how easily adapts to the chaos of Taiga’s reluctance.

The air outside the conservatory is thick. Taiga hates this part of Ueno on weekends. It’s barely evening, but the sidewalks are already a mess of tourists dragging suitcases and students loitering in inconvenient clusters.

He walks fast. It’s a good way to filter people out. If they can’t keep up, they aren’t worth talking to.

Hokuto keeps up. Taiga doesn’t hear him—Hokuto walks with that annoying, gliding step of his—but he knows he’s there. Hokuto’s persistent. Like a shadow that doesn’t know when the sun has gone down.

Taiga adjusts the strap of his bag and shoves his hands into his pockets.

At the intersection, the light is red. The crowd thickens, pressing in from all sides. A salaryman yelling into his phone. Two girls laughing too loudly at a video. It’s sonic and visual trash.

Taiga stops at the curb, staring at the opposing traffic, but his neck itches. It’s a phantom sensation, like someone watching him.

He glances back.

Hokuto is a step behind, to Taiga’s left. He isn’t looking at Taiga. He’s adjusting his glasses, his gaze fixed on the tops of the cherry trees across the avenue. 

He looks calm. Unaffected by the noise. It’s irritating how he exists in the same chaotic frequency as the rest of us but seems tuned to a different station.

The pedestrian signal chirps.

Taiga steps off the curb. He’s still half-turned, looking at the profile of Hokuto’s face, checking if that calm façade is going to crack.

He doesn’t see the guy in the gray suit rushing from the right.

Shoulder meets chest. The impact is hard—a dull thud of bone against bone.

“Watch it!” the man snaps, shoving past without stopping.

Taiga’s sneaker catches on the uneven pavement. His center of gravity shifts, tilting backward. He braces for the hit—the scrape of hands on asphalt, the humiliation of sprawling out in the middle of a crossing.

It doesn’t happen.

An arm hooks around his waist. Another hand flattens against his chest, stopping his momentum cold.

The world tilts, then freezes.

Taiga’s pulled back, flush against a solid weight. It’s not the ground. It’s warm. He smells laundry detergent, and maybe black tea.

For a second, the noise of the intersection drops out. The frantic movement of the crowd blurs into peripheral gray. Taiga’s not falling. He’s held.

There’s a stability to it that he hasn’t felt in months. Not since London. Maybe longer. It’s effortless. It feels… correct.

The thought hits him, and it burns.

Taiga jerks away.

He shoves himself off Hokuto, stumbling partially back into the flow of pedestrians. His heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

“Careful,” Hokuto says, his voice maddeningly level. His hands are already back at his sides, like they were never on Taiga.

“I’m fine,” Taiga snaps, the words coming out harsher than he intended. “Guy was an idiot. Didn’t look where he was going.”

He turns away before Hokuto can say anything else. He doesn’t want to see Hokuto’s expression. He doesn’t want to know if Hokuto’s worried or—god forbid—pitying him for tripping over his own feet.

Taiga fixes his eyes on the red sign of Gusto down the block and walks. Faster this time.

🪈

The kitchen smells of caramelized onions and the faint, earthy scent of damp soil coming through the open window. It’s a comfortable smell, one that usually grounds Hokuto, but today his mind keeps drifting elsewhere.

“Hokuto?”

He blinks, realizing his hand has stopped moving. The knife is resting against the curve of a carrot on the cutting board. “Sorry,” he says, adjusting his grip. “I was just thinking about the heat.”

His mother, Riko, smiles at him from the stove. She’s stirring the pot where the chicken is browning. It looks as if the spoon is guiding her rather than the other way around. “It’s getting warmer, isn’t it?” she says. “Tokyo must be starting to get hot.”

“A little,” Hokuto agrees as he resumes cutting the carrots.

It’s been days, but the sensation hasn’t faded. The weight of Taiga stumbling back against him at the intersection still ghosts over his chest and arms. It wasn’t just the surprise of the impact; it was the way Taiga fit there, just for a second, before he realized who had caught him.

Taiga had felt solid. Real. For someone who oftentimes looks like he might shatter if the wind blows too hard, there was a surprising density to him. And then the way he jerked away—violent and sharp, like he’d been burned.

Hokuto shouldn’t dwell on it. Taiga made it clear he didn’t want his help.

“No! That’s cheating!” Masaya’s indignant voice cracks through the kitchen.

Hokuto glances over his shoulder toward the living room. Yuina and Masaya are sprawled on the floor rug, the sugoroku board between them. Masaya is up on his knees, pointing accusingly at his sister.

“It’s not cheating, it’s strategy,” Yuina says, leaning back on her hands with a maddeningly calm expression. “Read the card, Masa. It says ‘move back three spaces if you roll an odd number.’”

“But I rolled a five! That’s a good number!”

“Five is odd!” Hokuto calls out, not stopping the knife work. “Yuina is right.”

Masaya groans, flopping onto his back. “Hoku-nii, you always take her side.”

“I take the side of the rules,” Hokuto says. “Don’t kick the table.”

“You’re too strict, Hokuto,” Riko says. She’s watching them now, a soft, distant look in her eyes. The tension in her shoulders, usually so prominent when our father is home, has eased. “They look happy.”

“They’re loud,” Hokuto corrects gently, scraping the carrots into a bowl.

“They remind me of when you were little,” she says, turning back to the pot. She adds the water, the hiss of steam rising up to cloud the windowpane. “Do you remember that rainy season? When we lived in the apartment? You used to hold Yuina by the window for hours so she wouldn’t cry.”

Hokuto pauses, the peeler resting in his hand. He remembers.

He remembers the gray light of the endless and suffocating rain. He remembers the sound of shouting from the bedroom—his father’s sharp voice and his mother’s silence, which was somehow worse. He remembers holding Yuina not because she wouldn’t stop crying, but because he needed to cover her ears. He remembers sitting there, wondering if anyone was ever going to come out of that room and tell them it was okay, or if Hokuto, barely ten years old, was the only thing standing between his sister and the collapse of their world.

Riko looks at him, her eyes misty with a nostalgia that rewrites history into something soft and palatable. She sees a sweet big brother. She doesn't see the fear.

Hokuto can’t ruin that for her. It serves no purpose to bring up that memory now.

“I remember,” he says quietly. “She was heavy.”

“You were such a good boy,” she murmurs, reaching for the box of curry roux. “You always took care of everything.”

Hokuto looks down at the potatoes in the sink. The water is cold in his hands.

Took care of everything.

He did. He still does.

“Here,” he says, moving to the stove before she can struggle with the package. “Let me add the roux. The steam might burn you.”

“Oh. Thank you, Hokuto.” She steps back, letting him take over.

Hokuto breaks the blocks of curry into the ladle, dissolving them slowly into the broth. The smell deepens, filling the kitchen. It’s a rich and savory smell. It means dinner is ready. It means everyone is fed. It means he’s useful.

In the other room, Masaya laughs loudly, and Yuina shushes him, though she’s laughing too.

The curry is thickening now. Hokuto stirs carefully, making sure nothing sticks to the bottom of the pot. It’s a mindless motion, one that usually helps him settle, but the silence in the kitchen feels different today.

He wipes his hands on a towel and, without really meaning to, glances at his phone on the counter again. The screen is black. No notifications.

“You’re somewhere else entirely, aren’t you?” Riko’s voice is soft, barely rising above the bubbling of the pot.

Hokuto blinks, looking up. She’s leaning against the counter, watching him. There’s a clarity in her eyes that catches Hokuto off guard; usually, she seems to look through things, her focus drifting like smoke, but right now she sees him.

“I’m just thinking about school,” he says, offering a small, practiced smile. “There’s a lot of theory work this semester.”

“Is there?” She tilts her head. “You’ve checked your phone three times in the last ten minutes. You usually leave it in your room when you cook.”

Hokuto feels a flush of heat at the back of his neck. He hadn’t realized he was doing it. He hasn't even been consciously waiting for a message—Taiga made it very clear he wanted nothing to do with them, with him, outside conservatory work. But the memory of Taiga’s arm under his hand keeps surfacing.

“It’s fine,” he says, maybe a little too quickly. He turns back to the stove, lowering the heat. “Just a group project. We have a research paper.”

“Hokuto.” Riko says his name gently, but it stops him.

He hesitates. He doesn’t want to worry her. His role here—his role anywhere, really—is to be the one who doesn’t have problems. He’s the one who listens, who fixes, who smooths over the rough edges so everyone else can slide by unharmed. Admitting that he’s distracted, that he’s unsettled, feels like a failure of duty.

But she’s waiting.

“It’s... someone from school,” Hokuto admits, staring at the swirling patterns in the sauce. “A student I’ve been assigned to work with.”

“A friend?”

“I don’t know if I’d use that word.”

He thinks of Taiga’s sharp tongue, the way he looks at the piano like it’s a trap, the defensive set of his shoulders when Juri tries to joke with him. He thinks of how Taiga ran in the rain, terrified of something Hokuto couldn't see. Taiga is abrasive and difficult, and yet, there is a fragility to him that makes Hokuto want to be careful.

“Is it a girl?” She asks it with a hint of a smile, the kind mothers always have when they think they’ve stumbled onto a secret. “Someone special?”

“No,” Hokuto says, and then, realizing that might sound like a dismissal, he adds, “It’s not like that. He’s just...” He pauses, searching for the right word. Useful words like classmate or partner feel insufficient for the strange gravity that Taiga exerts. “He’s complicated.”

Riko hums a low, thoughtful sound. She reaches out, her hand brushing lightly against his arm—a rare gesture of comfort from her. “The good ones usually are,” she says.

“He’s talented,” Hokuto says, watching a bubble rise to the surface of the curry and burst. “Or, at least, he was. Everyone knew his name when we were younger. I remember hearing about him even back here—this frighteningly skilled boy who played Chopin before his feet could reach the pedals.”

He pauses, resting the ladle against the rim of the pot.

“He doesn’t play like that anymore,” Hokuto adds quietly. “He’s angry at the music.”

Riko hums again, reaching for the salt cellar. She sprinkles a pinch over the stew, her movements delicate, almost absentminded. “And you want to help him,” she says. It isn’t a question.

Hokuto hesitates. It would be easy to say yes. It would fit the shape of who he’s supposed to be. That is how the world makes sense to him. If he’s helpful, he’s justified in taking up space.

But with Taiga, it feels… different.

“I don't think he wants help,” he says slowly. “Actually, I think he hates it. He looks at kindness like it’s a trap.” He thinks of the way Taiga recoiled at the intersection, the sheer panic in his eyes when Hokuto’s hands steadied him. It was the reaction of someone who is terrified of being touched, or maybe terrified of needing to be caught.

“Then why worry about him?” she asks. She’s looking at him again, her head tilted, a stray lock of hair falling over her eyes.

“I’m not sure,” Hokuto admits. He lowers his voice, though his siblings are still shouting over their game in the other room. “It’s strange, Mom. When I’m around him, I feel... unsettled. Not in a bad way. It’s just—there’s this sense of recognition. Like when you hear a melody you haven’t thought of in years, and you know how it ends before the notes are played.” He realizes he’s tightened his grip on the ladle. He forces his fingers to relax. “Does that make sense?”

“It makes perfect sense,” she says softly.

Hokuto looks at her, expecting her to praise his empathy or tell him he’s being a good friend. That’s usually how these conversations go. He expresses concern, and she validates his utility.

But she doesn’t say that. Instead, a small, knowing smile touches her lips—a smile that looks too young for her tired face.

“You like him,” she says.

Hokuto blinks, the heat rising sharply in his cheeks. “What? No. I just said he’s complicated. He’s my project partner, that’s all. I barely know him.”

“Hokuto.” She laughs. “You’ve been staring at your phone praying it would beep, and you’re talking about ‘recognition’ and melodies.” She leans in, bumping her shoulder gently against his. “You have a crush.”

“I don’t,” he protest, though his voice lacks conviction. The word crush feels too light, too frivolous for the heavy, magnetic pull he feels when Taiga is in the room. “He’s practically a stranger. And he’s... he’s a lot to handle. He’s intense. And rude.”

“So is your father,” she says simply. Before Hokuto can unpack the comparison, she taps the side of the pot with her knuckles. “It’s done,” she announces, switching off the burner.

The bubbling slows to a stop. The kitchen is suddenly quiet, the rich scent of spices filling the space between us. Hokuto stands there, feeling exposed.

She turns away from him, cupping her hands around her mouth to call toward the living room, her voice regaining that loud, motherly pitch. “Yuina! Masaya! Wash your hands. Set the table!”

“Coming!” Masaya yells back, followed by the thud of feet hitting the floorboards.

“Get the plates, Hokuto,” Riko says, her tone brisk again, the moment of intimacy already evaporating like steam. “And check your phone one more time. Just in case.”

🪈

The water in the sink is hot enough to turn Hokuto’s knuckles pink, but he doesn’t turn the tap down. The heat is grounding. It gives him something to focus on other than the remnants of the conversation hanging in the air.

Within the living room, the television murmurs low, but the real noise is right here at the table.

“You missed a spot,” Masaya says, his voice pitching up with the delight of catching a mistake.

“I didn’t miss it,” Yuina shoots back, snapping the damp cloth against the wood. “It’s a stain, Masaya. It lives there now.”

“It’s soy sauce. If you scrub hard enough, it comes out. You’re just lazy.”

“I’m efficient. There’s a difference.”

Hokuto scrubs the rim of a ceramic bowl, listening to the familiar cadence of their bickering. It’s a rhythm he missed while he was in Tokyo—the mindless, comfortable friction of siblings who know exactly how to annoy each other without causing real damage. It feels safe here.

Riko’s phone rings in the hallway—a shrill, insistent trill that cuts through the noise.

“That’s Grandma,” she says, wiping her hands on her apron as she hurries out of the kitchen. “I’ll take this in the other room. Masaya, don’t terrorize your sister.”

“She started it!” Masaya yells after her.

The sliding back door clicks shut, sealing them in. The atmosphere shifts instantly. Without Mother’s softening presence, the air feels sharper.

Hokuto rinses the bowl and places it in the rack, reaching for the next one. He can feel Yuina’s eyes on his back. She’s too quiet.

“So,” she says, her voice dropping the performative annoyance she uses with Masaya. “Are we gonna talk about the ‘complicated’ piano boy, or are you going to scrub the pattern off that plate?”

Hokuto freezes, the sponge hovering over the surface of the dish. He should have known. Yuina hears everything. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, focusing intently on a speck of curry on the rim.

“Oh, please. The living room and the kitchen don’t have a door, Hoku-nii.” He can hear the smirk in her voice. “You and Mom were practically gossiping.”

“We weren’t gossiping,” Hokuto says, finally turning around. He keeps the plate in his hand like a shield. “We were discussing school.”

Masaya looks up from where he’s aggressively polishing a placemat. His eyes go wide. “Who? Does Hoku-nii have a girlfriend?”

“Boyfriend,” Yuina corrects smoothly, leaning her hip against the table. She crosses her arms, looking entirely too self-satisfied for someone who was just eavesdropping. “Apparently, he’s a ‘frighteningly skilled’ pianist who is ‘angry at music.’” She makes air quotes with her fingers. “Sounds dramatic.”

“He isn’t a boyfriend,” Hokuto says, feeling the heat creep up his neck again. It’s exhausting to defend something that doesn’t even exist. “And it isn’t dramatic. It’s… heavy.”

“Heavy?” Masaya abandons the placemat, scrambling up onto his knees on the chair. “Is he cool? Does he play games?”

Hokuto looks at Masaya—bright-eyed, eager, wanting the world to be simple and fun. Then he thinks of Taiga.

He thinks of the dark circles bruising the skin under Taiga’s eyes, the smell of smoke that clings to his clothes like a second skin, and the way he looked at the piano in the practice room—as if it were a wild animal he expected to bite him. Hokuto thinks of Taiga pushing him away at the intersection, terrified of being steadied.

“I don’t think he plays games,” Hokuto says quietly. “And I don’t think ‘cool’ is the right word. He’s…” He struggles to find language that translates Taiga into something his thirteen-year-old brother can understand. “He’s intense. He doesn’t really like people.”

“He sounds mean,” Masaya decides, wrinkling his nose. “Why do you like him if he’s mean?”

“I didn’t say I liked him,” Hokuto says, turning back to the sink. The warm water feels like a refuge. “I said I recognized him.”

“That’s code for ‘I like him but I’m too repressed to do anything about it,’” Yuina interprets to Masaya.

“I’m not repressed,” Hokuto mutters, plunging his hands back into the suds.

“My point is…” Yuina picks up a stack of dirty chopsticks and walks over to the sink, dropping them into the water with a splash. She leans against the counter next to Hokuto, her voice softening just a fraction. “Serious question, though. Is he actually mean? Or is he just… sad?”

Hokuto pauses. Yuina is smart, sometimes too smart. She knows that he has a habit of collecting stray cats, people who are hurt or broken, because he thinks he can make himself useful by fixing them. She worries about it. He knows she does.

“He’s prickly,” he admits, careful with his words. “He pushes people away before they can get close enough to hurt him. But… he’s kind, sometimes. When he thinks no one is looking.”

He thinks of Taiga sitting in that practice room, terrified of failing, yet still trying because Hokuto asked him to.

“He sounds like a lot of work,” Yuina says. She picks up a drying towel and starts wiping a plate that Hokuto just racked. It’s a small gesture, her way of helping without making a big deal of it.

“Maybe,” he says. “But I don’t mind work.”

“We know,” Masaya chimes in, jumping off the chair. He brings his own small bowl to the sink, standing on his tiptoes to slide it into the water. “But if he’s mean to you, Hoku-nii, I’ll kick his shins.”

Hokuto looks at him, at the fierce loyalty in his younger brother’s face. A sudden, sharp wave of affection hits him, mixed with that familiar, quiet ache of distance. They’re growing up so fast in the house he left behind.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, nudging Masaya’s shoulder with his elbow. “I can handle him. He’s just… lost.”

“Well, don’t get lost with him,” Yuina says. She places the dried plate on the stack, her expression serious for a heartbeat before she flicks Hokuto with the towel. “And invite him over. If he’s gonna make you moody, I wanna judge him personally.”

“He’s not coming to Shizuoka,” Hokuto says, smiling despite myself. “And I’m not moody.”

“You are,” they say in unison.

Hokuto shakes his head, turning off the tap. The water drains away with a gurgle, leaving the sink empty.

The door slides open, but the sound is different this time. When Riko steps back into the kitchen, the air in the room seems to thin out, making it harder to breathe.

She isn’t holding her phone anymore. Her hands are empty, clasped tightly in front of her apron as if she’s trying to keep herself from trembling.

The playfulness that was just bouncing between Yuina and Masaya evaporates. They all feel it. The silence isn’t the comfortable kind we’re used to; it’s the breathless kind that comes right before thunder.

“Can we…” Riko starts, her voice catching on something rough. She clears her throat and tries again, quieter. “Can we sit in the living room? Just for a moment.”

“Is Grandma okay?” Masaya asks, his voice climbing steadily toward panic. He’s already off his chair, his eyes darting between Riko and Hokuto.

“Grandma’s fine, Masaya,” Riko says quickly, offering him a small, brittle smile. “Please. Just sit.”

Hokuto dries his hands on the towel, taking a second longer than necessary just to steady his own breathing. He touches Masaya’s shoulder as he passes a silent, reassuring signal.

They move to the living room, sinking onto the tatami around the low table. The television is still murmuring in the corner, a cheerful variety show host laughing at something banal.

Hokuto picks up the remote and turns it off.

The sudden quiet is deafening.

Riko sits opposite them, her legs folded neatly beneath her. She looks at each of them in turn—Yuina, staring intently at the table; Masaya, leaning into my side; and Hokuto. When her eyes meet his, they are filled with an apology so deep it makes his stomach turn.

“Your father and I have been talking for a long time,” she begins. She isn’t looking at them anymore; she’s looking at her hands, smoothing a wrinkle in her apron over and over again. “We’ve been trying to make things work. You know that. We’ve tried to navigate... everything.”

She pauses. Hokuto can hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchen.

“We’ve decided to divorce.”

The word hangs there. It feels inevitable, like a structure that has been rotting quietly for years finally sagging under its own weight.

Hokuto doesn’t feel surprised. He just feels a heavy, settling exhaustion.

Beside him, Masaya makes a small, confused noise in his throat. “But… Dad is at work.”

“Yes,” Mother says gently. “He’s at work.”

“Does he know?” Masaya asks.

“It was a mutual decision, Masaya. We decided together.”

Yuina hasn’t moved. Her posture is rigid, her back perfectly straight. She doesn’t look at Riko. She looks at the wall, her expression unreadable, though Hokuto can see the muscle in her jaw working. “When?” she asks, her voice devoid of the emotion that Hokuto knows she’s strangling down.

“We’ll submit the papers next week,” Riko says. She finally looks up, her eyes pleading for them to understand, or at least to forgive. “I know this is sudden for you. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want you to worry about us.”

“We were already worrying,” Yuina says sharply.

“Yuina,” Hokuto says softly, a reflex.

“No, Hoku-nii, don’t,” she snaps, though there’s no heat in it, only hurt.

Riko takes a shaky breath. “Your grandmother... she’s going to come stay with us for a while. Just until things settle down. Until you graduate, Yuina, and until I can... until I can find something steady.”

Until I can find work.

Their mother, who has been fragile and withdrawn for as long as Hokuto can remember, is going to have to step out into the world.

And he’s not here to help her. He’s in Tokyo, playing music, while his grandmother comes to fill the space he left behind.

“It’s not about the money,” Riko says quickly. She reaches across the low table, her hand hovering near Masaya’s knee but not quite touching it. “Your father… he’s committed to supporting us financially. He was very clear about that. The school fees, the house… everything stays the same until Masaya finishes college.”

“Where is he going?” Masaya asks. His voice is small, stripped of its usual brightness, sounding much younger than thirteen.

“An apartment near the city hall,” she says, her gaze fixed on the vase in the center of the table. “It’s closer to his office. He said… well, he said it makes sense for his commute. But he’ll visit. Occasionally. On weekends, maybe.”

Yuina lets out a sharp breath—almost a laugh, but colder. She stands up abruptly. “I’m going to study,” she says, leaving no room for argument. She doesn’t look at them as she slides the door open and shuts it with a definitive click.

Hokuto watches her go, feeling the fracture in the room widen.

Masaya looks at Hokuto, his eyes wide and wet, waiting for him to fix it. This is Hokuto’s role. He’s the one who bridges the gaps, who carries the heavy things so they don’t have to.

But he’s in Tokyo, three hours away by train. He’s playing the flute while his mother tries to hold a collapsing house together with trembling hands.

If he hadn’t left—if he were here, managing the moods, softening the edges of his father’s indifference—maybe they wouldn’t have broken.

“I can come back,” Hokuto says.

Riko looks up, blinking. “What?”

“I’ll withdraw from the conservatory,” Hokuto says, and the thought, once spoken, solidifies into a plan. “I can transfer to a local university. Or just find work here. I can help with Masaya. I can help Grandma settle in.” He leans forward. “Tokyo is expensive. The rent, the tuition… if you don’t have to pay for that, it will be easier. I can—”

“Hokuto.” Her voice is startingly firm, stopping him cold. “No.”

“But—”

“No,” she repeats, and this time she reaches out, her hand closing over his on the table. Her skin is cold, but her grip is tight. “You worked so hard to get there. You are not quitting. You are not coming back here to fix this.”

“I don’t mind,” Hokuto lies. It’s his reflex. I don’t mind. I’ll handle it. It’s fine. “Really, Mom, it’s fine. I just want to—”

“I know you want to help,” she says, her eyes searching his, maybe seeing the exhaustion Hokuto tries so hard to hide. “You always want to help. But this is not your fault, and it is not your responsibility.” She takes a shaky breath, straightening her shoulders, trying to inhabit a strength he hasn’t seen in her for a long time. “I’m the parent, Hokuto. I’ll take care of it.”

Hokuto freezes. She has never stopped him from taking the burden before. For years, he’s been the emotional anchor, the mediator, the one who absorbed the silence so she wouldn’t have to. But now, when the walls are actually coming down, she’s pushing him away.

She’s telling him he’s no longer needed.

“You’ll stay in Tokyo,” she says, leaving no room for debate. “You’ll play your flute. You’ll graduate. That is how you help me.”

Hokuto sits there, his hand trapped under hers, feeling completely adrift. He’s spent his entire life believing that his value comes from being useful, from being the one who endures. Be kind. Be steady. Be necessary.

If he’s not saving them, what is he doing?

He looks at Masaya, who has curled into himself, picking at a loose thread on his cushion. He looks at the closed door where Yuina disappeared. He looks at his mother, trying to be strong.

Usefulness was the only currency he had. Without it, he doesn’t know where to put his hands. He doesn’t know what to say.

For the first time, simply being Hokuto doesn’t feel like enough.

🪈

The alarm on Hokuto’s phone chirps at six in the morning, a soft, electronic pulse that usually startles him. Today, he turns it off before the second beat.

The silence in the apartment feels heavy, pressed down by the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint, rhythmic sound of rain beginning to tap against the balcony glass. It’s only been two days since he came back from Shizuoka, but the noise of his family breaking apart still rings comfortably in his ears—louder, somehow, than the silence here in Tokyo.

You’ll stay in Tokyo. You’ll graduate.

His mother’s voice loops in his head in a way that scared him more than her usual fragility. She pushed him out of the blast zone. She wants him safe. 

But lying here, staring at the growing light on the wall, Hokuto doesn’t feel safe. He feels untethered.

He swings his legs out of bed. The floor is cold under his feet.

It’s fine. He just needs to move.

Soon, he’s in the kitchen, tying the strings of his apron. The apartment is still asleep. Jesse and Shintaro have a 9:00 class today, and they’ll need to eat.

He doesn’t have class. He’s meeting Taiga at the library later for their research paper, but that’s hours away.

For now, he can be useful here.

He washes the rice at the sink, swirling through the cold water until it runs clear. The repetition calms him. It’s a simple problem with a simple solution, unlike the problem four hours away in Shizuoka.

He sets the timer on the rice cooker and pulls the mackerel fillets from the fridge. Salt, a little sake to cut the smell, then into the grill pan. The sizzle is immediate, a sharp, grounding sound that cuts through the fog in his brain.

While the fish cooks, he starts the miso soup. The dashi stock warms quickly. He slices green onions into thin, precise circles. The knife taps against the cutting board.

He wonders if Yuina is awake yet. She usually studies before school. Maybe he should text her? 

No—it’s too early, and if he texts her, she’ll know he’s worrying. She’ll tell him to focus on himself. 

Everyone keeps telling him to focus on himself, as if that’s something he knows how to do without feeling a profound, aching guilt.

He opens the small container of pickled vegetables he made over the weekend—cucumbers and turnips. The smell is vinegar-sharp and clean. He arranges them onto three small plates, making sure Shintaro’s portion puts the turnips at the bottom because he claims he hates them, though he always eats them if they’re hidden well enough.

The warm and savory smell of grilled fish begins to fill the small kitchen. It feels like a home, even if it’s a temporary one.

This is what he has to offer right now. He can’t fix his parents’ marriage. He can’t take away the look on Masaya’s face when he realized their father wasn’t coming back for dinner. But he can make sure Jesse and Shintaro start their day with a warm meal.

It’s not enough, but it’s the only thing Hokuto can touch.

Hokuto plates the mackerel carefully, resting the skin-side up so it stays crisp. He wipes a stray drop of miso from the counter. Then he boils hot water in the electric kettle, waiting for the rest of the house to wake up so he can stop thinking.

The sound of a door clicking open breaks the quiet rhythm of the kitchen. Hokuto looks up from the steaming kettle, and Shintaro steps into the hallway fully dressed. He’s wearing a loose white t-shirt and basketball shorts, his hair already ruthlessly towel-dried into a messy, dark halo. It’s barely seven in the morning.

“Morning, Hokkun,” he says, his voice surprisingly clear.

“Good morning,” Hokuto says, turning off the kettle. “You’re up early.”

Shintaro grins, leaning against the doorframe and stretching his arms over his head until his joints pop. “Couldn’t sleep. Too much energy, I guess. Is the fish done? Smells insanely good.”

Hokuto glances past him toward the third bedroom door, which is still firmly shut. “I should wake Jesse before the food gets cold. You two have TGC 101 together this morning, don’t you?”

“Nah, don’t bother,” Shintaro says, waving a hand dismissively as he moves toward the table. He pulls out a chair with a scrape of wood against wood. “Jesse didn’t come back last night. He texted me at like, 2 a.m. Said he was staying at Yugo’s place.”

Hokuto pauses, his hand hovering over the third placemat he set out. He feels a small, selfish flicker of relief—one less person to worry about, one less conversation to manage—followed immediately by a quiet pang of guilt for feeling relieved. “I see,” he says softly. He picks up the third plate and moves it to the counter, then covers it with plastic wrap. “He’ll probably go straight to campus, then.”

“Probably. He’ll look like a wreck, though. I’ve seen Jesse’s collarbone one sleepover, and damn, Yugo was thorough.” Shintaro laughs as he sits down.

Hokuto brings the kettle over. As he reaches to pour for him, Shintaro’s hand darts out, intercepting the kettle before Hokuto can tilt it.

“I got it, I got it,” Shintaro says, taking the handle from Hokuto. His fingers are warm. “You cooked everything, Hokkun. Sit down.”

“It’s fine,” Hokuto says automatically.

But Shintaro is already pouring the tea, a little too quickly, splashing a few drops onto the wooden table. “Sit,” he insists, grinning. “Or I’ll eat your fish.”

Hokuto sits. It feels strange to be served, but he supposes it’s kind of Shintaro. He watches the younger one blow on the steam rising from his cup, his legs bouncing under the table, a restless, kinetic energy that never seems to leave him.

“How was your Golden Week?” he asks, picking up his chopsticks. He keeps his tone light, careful not to pry too deep, though he knows Shintaro went back to Kanazawa. “You haven’t mentioned it since you got back.”

“Oh, you know. Kanazawa is Kanazawa,” Shintaro says through a mouthful of rice. He swallows, and his smile doesn’t falter, though his eyes drift toward the window for a split second. “Great seafood. Saw my brother. My dad is still... well, he’s still waiting for me to ‘get this dance thing out of my system.’” He uses air quotes around the last part, punctuating it with a chuckle that sounds just a little too loud for the quiet morning.

Hokuto pauses, noticing the way Shintaro’s knuckles are white as he grips his chopsticks. “They’re still not convinced?”

“Nope!” Shintaro stabs a piece of pickled turnip. “Dad thinks I’m just playing around in Tokyo. He keeps asking when I’m going to apply for ‘real’ university programs. But it’s fine. I just told him, ‘Watch me.’ I’ll make him see it eventually, right? Once I’m famous.” He beams at Hokuto, the expression radiant and practiced.

“It must be hard,” Hokuto says quietly, “feeling like you have to prove you belong here.”

Shintaro stops chewing for a moment. He looks at Hokuto, surprised, as if he hadn’t expected him to actually hear what he was saying underneath the joke. 

Then he shrugs, diving back into his breakfast with renewed vigor. “Everyone has to prove it, right? Even you, Hokkun.” He glances at Hokuto, his dark eyes sharp with sudden, disarming honesty. “But at least the food is good. Seriously, this mackerel is amazing.”

Hokuto nods slowly, lowering his gaze to his own meal. “I’m glad you like it.”

Shintaro’s hiding his hurt so well that Hokuto almost envies him. He wonders if he looks the same when he tells people he’s fine—if the cracks are this visible, or if he’s just better at staying quiet.

Shintaro picks up another piece of mackerel, expertly separating the flesh from the bone with his chopsticks. He eats with a gusto that usually makes Hokuto smile, but today it just emphasizes the knot in his stomach.

“So,” Shintaro says, not looking up from his bowl. “What about you, Hokkun?”

Hokuto looks down at his own bowl. The steam rising from the miso soup is thinning out. He traces the rim of the lacquered wood with his thumb.

“Everything okay?” Shintaro asks. His voice has lost that performative brightness he uses when talking about his father. He’s perceptive—more than people give him credit for. It makes lying difficult.

He considers saying It’s fine or Just tired. But the quiet in the kitchen feels vast, and the exhaustion of carrying the secret alone for 48 hours is suddenly too heavy to hold.

“My parents are getting divorced,” he says.

Shintaro stops chewing. He lowers his chopsticks slowly to the chopstick rest. “Oh,” he says softly. “Hokkun.”

“It’s not… sudden, really,” Hokuto says, and he’s surprised by how steady his voice sounds. “They’ve been unhappy for a long time. It’s probably for the best. My mother seems relieved, in a way.”

“But it still sucks,” Shintaro says.

“I tried to stay,” Hokuto admits, the words tumbling out now that the dam has cracked. “I offered to leave the conservatory. To go back home and help. Yuina has her exams coming up, and Masaya’s only thirteen—he shouldn’t have to handle the fallout alone. I should be there.”

He looks out of the window, where the rain is blurring the view of the skyline. “I feel like I ran away. I’m sitting here in Tokyo while my brother and sister are back in that house, watching it fall apart.”

It feels selfish. His whole life here feels selfish. The flute, the classes, the freedom to make his own tea in the morning—it all feels like something he stole from his family.

There’s a shift in the air, a warmth leaning into his space. Shintaro has leaned forward across the table, his elbows resting near Hokuto’s bowl. Shintaro’s looking at him with an intensity that catches Hokuto off guard.

“Did your mom tell you to stay?” Shintaro asks.

“Yes. She said I have to graduate.”

“Then you’re not running away,” Shintaro says firmly. “You’re doing what they need you to do. You think going back and being miserable would help them? Your family would hate that. They want you to be here.”

He reaches out, his hand hovering for a second before he taps his fingers lightly against the back of Hokuto’s hand. His touch is warm and grounding.

“You take care of everyone, Hokuto,” Shintaro says, dropping the nickname for a moment. His voice is quieter than Hokuto’s ever heard it, stripped of all his usual jokes. “You always make sure our plates are full. You make sure we’re okay. But you’re allowed to have a life that’s just yours. It doesn’t make you a bad brother.”

Shintaro looks at him then, a gaze so open and fond it makes Hokuto blink. There’s a softness in his expression, a kind of vulnerability that Hokuto doesn’t quite understand. It looks almost like Shintaro’s waiting for something, or maybe offering something that Hokuto doesn’t know how to name. It reminds him of how Masaya looks at him when he’s scared, but... deeper.

“You’re a good kid, Shin,” Hokuto says gently, pulling his hand back to pick up his chopsticks.

Shintaro’s expression falters for a fraction of a second—something flickering in his eyes like a light being dimmed—but then he blinks, and the easy grin returns, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes this time.

“Not a kid,” he mutters, leaning back in his chair. “But thanks.”

“Thank you,” Hokuto says, and he means it. The guilt hasn’t vanished, but the knot in his chest just loosened just enough to breathe. “Finish your breakfast. We shouldn’t let it go to waste.”

“Yeah,” Shintaro says, picking up his bowl again. “Let’s eat.”

Hokuto takes a bite of the grilled mackerel. It’s cold now, but he eats it anyway so that Shintaro won’t worry.

🪈

The library has a quiet that feels heavy, pressing against Hokuto’s eardrums, but at least the quiet serves a purpose.

He adjusts his glasses, running his thumb along the wire frame. Across the wooden table, Taiga works with a terrifying kind of focus.

Juri is currently suffering through Professor Tsurubaya’s Ear Training II class, so it’s just the two of them. They’re reviewing the bibliography, filtering out what is relevant for their paper on Gluck.

Or rather, Taiga is filtering, and Hokuto is trying to keep up with his discard pile.

“Useless,” Taiga mutters. He shoves a biography of Marie Antoinette toward the edge of the table. “This focuses entirely on the politics of the French court. It barely touches on the orchestration adjustments in the Paris version.”

“Juri probably thought the context would be helpful,” Hokuto suggests softly. He picks up the rejected book, smoothing the cover. “Maybe for the introduction?”

“It’s filler,” Taiga says, not looking up. He’s already scanning the next abstract, his finger hovering over the text. “We need musical analysis, not gossip about royalty.“

Hokuto doesn’t argue. He just places the book in the ‘maybe’ pile he’s started on his left. 

Taiga’s prickly today, but maybe it’s just his way of focusing. Or maybe he’s tired. There are shadows under his eyes that look like bruises in the harsh library lighting.

Hokuto wonders if he slept last night. He didn’t.

It sounds like you have a crush, Hokuto.

His mother’s voice drifts into his head. Hokuto bites the inside of his lip, staring at the stack of books.

He’s sure it isn’t a crush. A crush implies something light, something hopeful. What he feels when he looks at Taiga—this strange, magnetic pull, this sense of recognition—feels closer to worry. It feels like watching someone walk too close to a ledge.

He just wants to make sure that Taiga doesn't fall. That is just who he is; he worries about people. He wants to be useful.

But then, the light from the high windows shifts, catching the side of Taiga’s face.

He’s wearing black again, a graphic t-shirt that hangs loosely on his frame, making him look even thinner than he is. He’s leaning forward, his chin resting in his hand, his dark hair falling into his eyes. He looks impatient.

He’s also, Hokuto realizes with a sudden, startling clarity, beautiful.

It’s an objective observation. Taiga’s skin is pale, almost translucent against the dark wood of the carrel. His eyelashes are long, casting tiny shadows on his cheekbones. There is a delicacy to him that contradicts the blunt, harsh way he speaks—a fragility that makes Hokuto want to soften his voice, to move carefully, as if a sudden noise might shatter him.

Hokuto finds himself watching the way Taiga’s finger taps a silent, restless rhythm against the desk.

He wonders what Taiga is hearing in his head. He wonders if Taiga would tell him if he asked.

Taiga shifts abruptly. His head turns, his gaze snapping up from the text.

Panic flares in Hokuto’s chest. He looks away immediately, his eyes fixing on the spine of a book about Baroque performance practice. He pushes his glasses up his nose, his heart beating a frantic, uneven rhythm against his ribs.

“This one is okay,” Taiga says flatly.

He doesn’t know if Taiga caught him staring. He hopes he didn’t. Hokuto breathes out slowly, trying to force the heat out of his face.

“Okay,” he says, his voice sounding a little too thin to his own ears. “I’ll add it to the list.”

By the time they finish sorting the bibliography, Taiga looks drained. He hasn’t complained—not directly, anyway—but the tension in his shoulders has pulled tight, rendering his posture rigid. He rubs his temples, a small sigh escaping him that sounds more like a hiss of frustration.

“We should put these back,” Hokuto says, gathering the stack of rejected books. “I can do it, if you want to rest.”

“I’m not an invalid,” Taiga snaps, though there’s no real bite in it. He stands up, grabbing half the stack from Hokuto’s hands before he can protest. “Let’s just get it over with.”

They walk toward the stacks in silence. The library is nearly empty, the air smelling of old paper. Hokuto likes it here; it feels safe, encased in a stillness that asks nothing of him.

Taiga, however, seems to vibrate against the quiet, his steps quick and impatient.

They reach the history section, and Hokuto starts sliding a biography of Gluck back into place.

“Do you know the original myth well?” he asks softly. “Orpheus and Eurydice.”

Taiga shoves a book onto the shelf with a little more force than necessary. “I know enough. Orpheus is a musician who goes to the underworld to save his wife. Hades gives him one condition—don’t look back—and he fails.” He pauses, his expression turning sour. “It’s a stupid story.”

Hokuto blinks. “Stupid?”

“He had one job,” Taiga says, leaning against the metal shelving unit. He crosses his arms, looking at the floor. “Just walk forward. That’s it. But he couldn’t do it. He threw away her second chance because he couldn’t control himself.”

“I don’t think it was about control,” Hokuto says, his voice hesitating. He adjusts his glasses, thinking about the terrifying, yawning silence of being alone. “I think… maybe he was just scared.”

Taiga looks up, his dark brows knitting together. “Scared of what?”

“That she wasn’t there,” Hokuto admits. “Imagine walking through the dark, hearing nothing behind you. Not a footstep, not a breath. You have to trust that someone is following you, but you can’t check. You can’t reach out.” He lowers his gaze to his hands. “I think looking back wasn’t selfish. It was… human. He needed to know he wasn’t alone.”

“It was weak,” Taiga counters. His voice has dropped, but the intensity in it sharpens. “If he really loved her, he would have trusted the deal. Instead, he made his anxiety more important than her life. He looked back to make himself feel better, and she paid the price for it.”

He steps closer, his eyes locking onto Hokuto’s. They are unyielding and unexpectedly bright.

“That isn’t love, Matsumura,” Taiga says, almost accusingly. “Love isn’t about reassurance. It’s about endurance. Orpheus didn’t have the guts to endure the silence.”

“Maybe,” Hokuto says, his voice quieter now. “But have you ever loved someone so much that the thought of losing them again became unbearable? Even the possibility of it?”

“That’s not—”

“Shh!”

The sharp sound cuts through the air. A librarian glares at them from the end of the aisle, her finger pressed aggressively to her lips.

Taiga flinches, his mouth snapping shut. He looks at the librarian, then back at Hokuto, and for a fleeting second, the harsh lines of his face soften into something like embarrassment. 

He looks young. He looks unguarded.

And in the silence that follows, Hokuto’s stomach drops.

It isn’t a heavy, dreadful feeling. It’s soft, like stepping off a curb he didn’t see.

Hokuto look at Taiga—the messy hair, the defensive posture, the way he cares enough about a dead mythical figure to argue with Hokuto in a whisper—and he realizes, with a sinking, terrible certainty, that he’s in trouble.

Oh, he thinks, watching Taiga turn away to hide his face. She was right.

He genuinely, helplessly likes Kyomoto Taiga.

🎹

The lobby of the Shibuya Arts Academy is loud with a hundred different instruments. A trumpet blasts a fractured scale near Taiga’s left ear. Somewhere to the right, a violin screeches against the bridge.

Taiga hates it immediately.

“Cheer up, Kyomo,” Juri says, bumping his shoulder against his. He’s wearing a blazer over a graphic tee, looking like he dressed in the dark but somehow pulled it off. He holds two visitor passes like they’re golden tickets. “Think of it as community service. You’re shaping the future.”

“I’m babysitting amateurs,” Taiga mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Mori-sensei didn’t have to send you.” He watches a girl with a cello case almost take out a potted plant. “I know how to find a recital hall.”

“He didn’t send me,” Juri lies, adjusting his earring. He flashes that easy, practiced grin at a passing group of high school girls, who instantly giggle and whisper behind their hands. “I volunteered. I love listening to fresh talent. It’s inspiring.”

“It’s noise.”

They weave through the crowd. It’s humiliating, honestly. He should be practicing. Or sleeping. Instead, he’s wading through a sea of polyester uniforms and panic attacks.

A boy near the water fountain is hyperventilating into a paper bag while his friend pats his back. Another kid is pacing in tight circles, muttering rhythm counts under his breath like a prayer.

They’re terrified.

Taiga stops for a second, watching a flutist check her keys with shaking fingers. Her hands are trembling so bad he doubts she’ll get a clean tone out of the instrument.

He doesn’t get it. When he was their age, he didn’t shake. He didn’t need paper bags. He remembers standing in lobbies like this and feeling nothing but a cold, sharp certainty. The piano wasn’t a monster to be tamed; it was a machine, and Taiga was the operator. Nerves were for people who didn’t practice.

He wasn’t like them. He was better.

Now, looking at the flutist, Taiga feels a prick of irritation in his chest. They treat this like it’s life or death. They don’t know yet that the real death happens slowly, after you realize the talent you banked on isn’t enough.

“Excuse me?”

Taiga snaps out of it. A woman in a charcoal suit is standing in front of them, clutching a clipboard against her chest. She looks harassed, her hair flyaway, eyes darting between Juri and Taiga.

“Are you the student judges from Tokyo Global Conservatory?”

“That’s us,” Juri says, stepping forward before Taiga can open his mouth. He activates the charm, bowing slightly. “Tanaka Juri and Kyomoto Taiga. Sorry if we’re late—got stuck behind a tuba pile-up near the entrance.”

The woman sighs, the tension in her shoulders dropping an inch. “Thank goodness. We had a cancellation on the strings panel, so we’re reshuffling. I’m Seto, one of the coordinators.” She gestures toward a set of double doors down the hallway, away from the chaos. “The other judges are in the waiting room. If you’ll follow me, I can get you briefed before the first block starts.”

“Lead the way,” Juri says. He glances back at Taiga, raising an eyebrow as if daring him to bail.

Taiga clicks his tongue, adjusting the strap of his bag. “Whatever,” he mutters, and follows them away from the noise.

The waiting room is quieter than the lobby, but the air is thrice as stale. A handful of local music teachers are already huddled around a long table, marking up score sheets with the kind of aggression usually reserved for blood sports.

Taiga drops into a chair near the window, keeping his bag on his lap as a shield.

Mrs. Seto places a stack of programs on the table. “Here is the lineup for the morning block,” she says, tapping the glossy cover. “Solo Flute begins in ten minutes in Hall B. We expect strict adherence to the rubric.”

Juri grabs a program, flipping it open with that infuriatingly casual flick of his wrist. “Rubrics,” he mutters. “My favorite.”

Taiga takes one just to have something to look at that isn’t the other judges. He skims the list of names—endless rows of unfamiliar names, kids trying to prove they matter before they’ve even finished puberty.

Division I: High School Wind Instruments.

He scans down the list. It’s boring. Standard repertoire. Bach, Mozart, Fauré. Safe choices for safe players.

His eyes snag on Entry 14.

Performer: Yoshikawa Junko (Year 2)

Piece: Debussy - Clair de Lune

Advisor: Matsumura Hokuto (Tokyo Global Conservatory)

Taiga’s hand stops.

The name sits there innocuously in black ink.

For a second, the stale air of the waiting room vanishes. He’s back at the intersection, the sound of traffic roaring in his ears. He feels the sudden shift of gravity, the lurch of falling backward, and then—the catch.

He remembers Hokuto’s smell, the way the world stopped spinning for a split second, anchored by the arm around his waist. It felt terrifyingly secure. Like he didn’t have to hold himself up for once.

Taiga’s fingers tighten on the program, crumbling the edge of the page.

It was just physics. He tripped; Hokuto caught him.

But seeing Hokuto’s name here, printed next to a high schooler’s, makes Taiga’s stomach turn over. He’s here. In this building. Probably fixing someone’s collar or offering tissues to a nervous breakdown in the hallway.

Taiga looks up.

Juri is watching him. There’s a distinct lack of surprise in his expression. He’s tapping a pen against his chin, eyes bright with amusement.

He knew.

“You’re unbelievably annoying,” Taiga tells him.

Juri blinks, feigning innocence. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You knew he was coming.”

“I might have heard Hokuto mention he was helping a student today,” Juri admits, shrugging. “It’s a small world, Kyomo. Coincidences happen.”

Taiga tosses the program onto the table. The paper slides, hitting the edge of a water pitcher. The thought of running into Hokuto—of having to look him in the eye after Taiga practically threw himself out of his arms that day—makes the room feel suddenly claustrophobic.

He stands up. The chair scrapes loudly against the floor.

“Where are you going?” Mrs. Seto asks, looking up from her clipboard with a frown. “We start in five minutes.”

“Fresh air,” he snaps, swinging his bag over his shoulder. “Before the noise starts.”

The air outside is cleaner than the stagnant oxygen in the waiting room, but it still smells like regulation. He pushes the heavy double doors shut behind him, creating a seal against the noise of tuning instruments and hyperventilating teenagers.

Taiga’s hand goes to his pocket instinctively. His fingers brush the sharp corner of his lighter, but he stops before he pulls the pack.

Right. High school.

He clicks his tongue, letting his hand drop. Of course there’s nowhere to smoke. Just manicured lawns and walkways designed to keep students moving in efficient, obedient lines.

He should go back inside. Juri is probably charming the staff, making excuses for why he walked out, spinning some story about his “artistic temperament.“ The thought annoys him enough to make him stay put.

Taiga looks around. The courtyard is disturbing in its perfection. Two identical rows of ginkgo trees flank a concrete path that cuts straight down the center. The shadows fall in sharp, parallel bars. No organic mess. No chaotic overgrowth. It’s rigid.

He likes it.

He swings his bag around, the weight of the Samsung NX1 hitting his hip. It’s a reflex now. When the world gets too loud, he puts a frame around it. 

Taiga unzips the bag and pulls the camera out, the magnesium alloy body cold against his palm. It feels like a tool, not an instrument. It doesn’t ask for emotion; it just captures light.

He lifts it, toggling the power switch. The viewfinder flickers to life.

His thumb hovers over the shutter.

Taiga’schest tightens. The last time he looked through this glass, he saw things that didn't exist. A shrine in 2030. A proposal in a living room he’s never been to. A man who looked like Hokuto, with wire-rimmed glasses and a gaze that made Taiga want to tear his own skin off to escape the intimacy of it.

He lowers the camera a fraction.

Maybe he’s losing his mind. Maybe the sensors are fried. Or maybe he’s just so desperate for an escape that his brain is hallucinating entire timelines just to get himself away from a keyboard.

He stares at the symmetrical path through the digital display. It’s just concrete. Just trees.

If he puts the camera away now, he’s admitting that he’s scared of a piece of glass. He’s admitting that the hallucinations meant something.

Taiga grits his teeth. He’s not doing that.

He raises the camera again, finding the perfect center where the vanishing point meets the horizon. He frames the shot. Focus.

He presses the shutter.

The shutter clicks. It’s a clean, mechanical sound, usually the only thing that calms Taiga down.

But the viewfinder doesn’t freeze.

The image inside the glass ripples. The cold gray of the courtyard bleeds out, overwhelmed by an aggressive, sickly pink. The sharp lines of the ginkgo trees twist and soften, exploding into clouds of petals.

Taiga’s stomach drops. Not again.

He blinks, pulling the camera away from his face, but the world doesn’t snap back. The air is warmer. It smells of damp earth and too many flowers. The silence of the empty courtyard is replaced by the distant hum of traffic and the chatter of students who aren’t there.

A date flashes in his mind. April 2025.

Taiga’s standing near the main gate of the Shibuya Arts Academy. Except he’s not holding a camera. He’s holding a hand.

He looks down. His hand—older, veins slightly more prominent—is interlaced with someone else’s. A silver band glints on his ring finger. It matches the one on the other hand.

He looks up, already knowing who it is.

Matsumura Hokuto.

He looks older. Not by much, but the angles of his face have settled. He’s wearing a sensible trench coat and a lanyard with an ID card swinging from his neck. He looks ridiculous. He looks happy.

“Stop fidgeting,” Future-Hokuto says. His voice is maddeningly calm. “You’re going to be late for rehearsal.”

Future-Taiga scuffs the toe of a polished dress shoe against the pavement. “I’m not the one starting a new job today.”

“It’s just teaching, Taiga.”

“It’s high schoolers,” Future-Taiga counters. “They’re feral.”

Hokuto laughs. It’s a quiet, breathy sound that makes the hair on Taiga’s arms stand up. “They’re students. And I’m looking forward to it.”

Present-Taiga watches this performance with a tight chest. It feels staged. Nobody is this domestic at eight in the morning.

Future-Taiga shifts his weight, squeezing Hokuto’s hand. The gesture looks automatic. 

Three years of marriage. The knowledge settles in present-Taiga’s skull. They’ve been married for three years.

“You really don’t miss it?” Future-Taiga asks. His voice drops, losing the biting edge. “The orchestra?”

Present-Taiga stiffens. The Tokyo Philharmonic. He knows this fact instantly, just like he knows the date. Hokuto was a flutist there. A chair in a top-tier orchestra is a war trophy. No one just walks away from it.

Hokuto shakes his head. The movement catches the sunlight on his glasses. “No.”

“You quit the Phil to teach high-schoolers,” Future-Taiga presses, searching his face. “That’s insane.”

“I quit the Phil because the touring schedule was incompatible with my life,” Hokuto corrects him gently, stepping closer. “And because I wanted to be here. With you.”

“I can take care of myself,” Future-Taiga mutters, looking away. “I’ve been playing professionally for eight years. I don’t need a babysitter.”

Eight years.

The number hits present-Taiga harder than the marriage. Eight years. That means he didn’t quit. That means he went back. The thought makes his hands sweat.

“I know you don’t need one,” Hokuto says. He reaches up, fixing the collar of Future-Taiga’s coat. His fingers brush against the skin of his neck. “But I want to support you. Let me support you.”

It’s pathetic. It’s terrifying. The look in Hokuto’s eyes isn’t pity—it’s something worse. It’s devotion. He gave up a career for this? For him?

Future-Taiga doesn’t pull away. He leans into the touch, exhaling a breath he’d been holding. “Fine,” he says, sounding defeated in the best possible way. “Go teach. But if you come home smelling like teenage angst, you’re sleeping on the couch.”

“Love you too,” Hokuto says, closing the distance.

The kiss is brief, chaste, and so casually intimate it makes present-Taiga want to look away. But he can’t. He’s trapped in the lens. He feels the ghost of the warm and steady pressure on his own mouth.

Hokuto pulls back, smiling that rare, small smile, and turns toward the building.

Future-Taiga stays there, watching him go, touching his lips like he’s trying to preserve the sensation.

Taiga gasps, stumbling back as the pink petals vanish, replaced instantly by the stark, gray concrete of 2015.

His hands are shaking. He grits his teeth and grips the camera body tighter until the vibration stops, forcing his breathing to even out.

He checks the display. Nothing. Just the live view of a ginkgo tree. No data error. No timestamps from a decade away.

Taiga lowers the camera, his chest heaving.

April 2025.

The math hits him like a kick to the ribs. Playing professionally for eight years. That means he didn’t quit. That means somewhere in the next two years, he crawls back to the piano, he fixes what broke in London, and he becomes someone worth hiring again.

He should feel relieved.

He doesn’t. He feels trapped.

And the ring. Taiga rubs his thumb against the base of his left ring finger. The phantom weight of the silver band is still there, choking the circulation.

But that’s not the part that makes bile rise in his throat.

I quit the Phil.

Taking a chair at the Tokyo Philharmonic is the endgame. It’s the summit. Musicians kill for those seats. They practice until their fingers bleed and their marriages fall apart just for a shot at an audition.

And he had it. In this sick version of the future, Matsumura Hokuto had it.

And he threw it away.

He quit the most prestigious orchestra in the country to play nursemaid to Taiga’s ego. To teach high schoolers

He looked happy about it, too. That’s the worst part. He looked at Taiga like he was worth the trade.

It’s disgusting.

Taiga leans back against the tree, the rough bark digging into his shoulder. This is exactly what he was afraid of. If he stays, he doesn’t just fail himself. He drags everyone else down with him. He turns gold into lead.

His phone buzzes against his thigh. He fishes the phone out.

Juri [09:15]: where did u go? first kid is about to play n he looks like he’s gonna puke. need backup

Taiga stares at the screen. The mundane reality of Juri’s text is almost grounding. No future timelines. Just bad flute playing and a scholarship student covering his ass.

He shoves the phone back into his pocket. He grabs the camera, zipping it into the bag with more force than necessary.

“Fine,” he mutters to the empty courtyard.

He pushes off the tree and heads back toward the double doors.

🎹

The thirteenth contestant finally stops. He bows, sweaty and shaking, clutching his flute like a weapon he doesn’t know how to use, and hurries off stage left.

Taiga looks down at his score sheet. Intonation: Flat. Phrasing: Nonexistent.

He scribbles a “5” in the box. It’s generous. In London, they wouldn’t have let him finish the first movement. They would have cut him off with a polite, devastating cough and a gesture toward the door, leaving him to pack up his shame in silence.

He knows that silence. It’s louder than applause.

“You’re brutal,” Juri whispers, leaning over to peek at Taiga’s paper. “The kid’s fifteen.”

“He’s pitchy,” Taiga mutters, not looking up. “Age doesn’t fix tone deafness.”

Juri sighs, scratching something positive on his own sheet. Probably points for spirit or some other participation trophy nonsense that ruins real musicians.

Mrs. Seto stands up at the announcer’s podium, smoothing her skirt. “Entry 14. Yoshikawa Junko.”

The name pricks at him. The girl from the program. Hokuto’s project.

He doesn’t want to look, but his eyes aren’t listening to him. They drift past the stage, toward the heavy velvet curtain of the wings.

He’s there.

Hokuto is crouching in the shadows, half-hidden by a lighting rig. He’s watching a girl with thick glasses who looks like she’s about to pass out. He isn’t checking a watch. He isn’t lecturing her on posture or terrorizing her about tempo. He’s just… staying there. A solid, dark shape against the backstage clutter.

He catches her eye, nods once, and offers that small, terrifyingly gentle smile that Taiga saw in the courtyard vision.

The girl—Junko—takes a breath. It looks like it physically hurts her to inhale. She walks out onto the stage.

She looks smaller under the lights. She raises the flute, her elbows tucked too tight against her ribs.

Bad stance, Taiga thinks automatically. Constricted diaphragm. She’s going to choke the high notes.

She starts. Clair de Lune.

It’s shaky at first. The opening notes tremble, losing their center. It’s technically weak. A professor at the conservatory would tear it apart in three measures.

But then she settles.

The music shifts. It stops sounding like marks on a page and starts sounding like… something else. It sounds like fear being wrestled into submission. It’s raw. Unpolished. Frantic—but honest.

And completely annoying, because Taiga can’t stop listening.

He glances back at the wings.

Hokuto hasn’t moved. He’s watching her with an intensity that makes the back of Taiga’s neck itch. He’s not critiquing her. He’s not wincing at the missed accidental in bar twelve or checking his nails.

He looks proud. He looks like she’s playing at Carnegie Hall instead of an auditorium in Shibuya.

The hallucinatory image from the courtyard flashes behind Taiga’s eyelids—future-Hokuto in a trench coat, telling future-Taiga he quit the Philharmonic because he wanted to teach.

But looking at present-Hokuto now, watching a mediocre student blunder through Debussy with a look of absolute devotion on his face, Taiga realizes he got it wrong.

Hokuto likes this. He likes the mess. He likes standing in the dark, pushing someone else into the light.

Taiga’s grip on the pen tightens until the plastic bites into his skin.

He never had a teacher look at him like that. His father looked at him like an investment in the family brand. Professor Mori looks at him like a broken antique he can’t figure out how to glue back together. Even in London, the instructors just looked at their watches, calculating if he was worth their tenure.

Nobody ever looked at the mistakes and smiled.

“Kyomo.”

Juri’s elbow digs into his ribs.

Taiga startles, the pen slipping from his fingers and clattering onto the table. He blinks. Junko is bowing, her face flushed red, clutching her flute against her chest.

She finished. He missed the ending.

“Write something down,” Juri hisses out of the side of his mouth, clapping politely with his free hand. “You’re staring.”

Taiga snatches the pen back, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looks down at the blank score sheet, seeing nothing but the memory of Hokuto’s face in the dark.

“Whatever,” he mutters, and circles a number he didn’t calculate.

🎹

The ceremony drags. Mrs. Seto loves the sound of her own voice almost as much as she loves cheap cardstock certificates. By the time she gets through the honorable mentions, Taiga’s already packed his bag, vibrating with the need to be anywhere else.

“And finally,” she chirps, beaming at the sea of polyester uniforms, “thank you all for sharing your art with us.”

The applause is polite, muffled by the carpeted walls. Taiga is up before the clapping stops.

“Kyomo, wait up!” Juri hisses, scrambling to grab his jacket. “We have to say goodbye to the staff. It’s basic etiquette.”

“You handle the etiquette,” Taiga says, already moving toward the side exit. “I have a headache.”

He doesn’t, actually. He has a lingering, sick feeling in his stomach that has nothing to do with dehydration and everything to do with the fact that had possibly stared at his own future marriage through a camera lens. He needs nicotine. Or a train ride where nobody talks to him.

Taiga shoves open the heavy double doors, stepping into the lobby. It’s crowded now—parents swarming their kids, flowers being thrust into hands, the chaotic noise of relief. He keeps his head down, cutting a path toward the glass doors at the front.

He almost makes it.

He’s ten feet from freedom when a figure steps out from behind a pillar, blocking his path.

Taiga stops short, his sneakers squeaking against the tile. She’s still clutching her flute case against her chest like armor. 

And standing next to her, looking annoyingly calm amidst the chaos, is Matsumura Hokuto.

Taiga’s instinct is to turn around. To physically run. The sight of him—his wire-rimmed glasses, the stupidly gentle tilt of his head as he listens to her—sends a jolt of panic through his chest. It’s too close to the vision. It’s too real.

But Juri crashes into his back.

“Oof—Kyomo, why did you stop?” Juri straightens up, then spots them. His face lights up with a grin that makes Taiga want to hit him. “Hokuto! You survived.”

Hokuto looks up. His eyes land on Juri, friendly and soft, and then slide to Taiga.

The air leaves the room as Hokuto looks at him. It’s a guarded, heavy look, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle that Taiga didn’t ask him to pick up.

“Juri,” Hokuto says, nodding. Then, quieter, “Kyomoto.”

Taiga grits his teeth. “Matsumura.” He shifts his weight, preparing to step around them and vanish.

But the girl steps forward. She looks terrified. Her glasses are sliding down her nose, and she’s trembling slightly, but she plants her feet in front of him.

“Um,” she squeaks. She clears her throat. “Excuse me. You were… you were one of the judges, right?”

Taiga looks down at her. She’s tiny. “Yeah.”

“I saw you writing during my set,” she says, the words rushing out. “When I played Clair de Lune. You looked… angry.”

Taiga blinks. Beside him, Juri makes a noise like he’s choking on a laugh. “I wasn’t angry,” he says flatly. “I was listening.”

“Oh.” She swallows. “Could—could you tell me what you thought? Please. I know I messed up the middle section, and my breathing was shallow, but—”

“Your breathing was terrible,” he interrupts.

Hokuto stiffens. Out of the corner of Taiga’s eye, he see Hokuto’s hand twitch, likely an instinct to protect her from him.

Taiga ignores him, focusing on the girl. “You choked the high notes because you were terrified,” he tells her. “Your tempo was unstable. You rushed the arpeggios like you wanted to get them over with so you could run off stage. Technically? It was a mess.”

Junko flinches, her shoulders hunching. Juri inhales sharply, ready to do damage control.

“But,” Taiga says, cutting through the silence.

She looks up, blinking behind her lenses.

“I didn’t look away,” he says. It comes out rougher than he intends. “Most of the kids in there played like robots. They hit the notes, they counted the time, and they were boring as hell. You weren’t.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets, looking at the floor. The memory of the performance—the struggle, the raw panic wrestling with the melody—is still irritatingly vivid.

“You played like you actually felt it,” Taiga mutters. “That’s harder than scales.”

Junko stares at him, her mouth slightly open. A flush creeps up her neck, but it’s not shame this time.

Taiga looks up, and his gaze inadvertently snags on Hokuto.

He’s not looking at Junko. He’s looking at Taiga. His expression is unreadable, stripped of the usual polite veneer. He looks surprised. And underneath that—something quieter.

It makes Taiga’s skin crawl. It makes him feel exposed, like he’s seeing past the leather jacket and the bad attitude to the person who stood in a damp courtyard seeing visions of a life he doesn’t deserve.

He looks back at the girl. He needs to leave. Now.

“You’re lucky,” Taiga says, his voice tight.

“Huh?”

Taiga gestures vaguely toward Hokuto without looking at him again. “You’re lucky to have someone who understands that music isn’t about perfection,” he says, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. “It’s about truth.”

The silence that follows is heavy. It rings in his ears, louder than the lobby noise.

Junko stares at him for another second, blinking like an owl exposed to sudden daylight. Then, slowly, a smile breaks across her face. It’s not the polite, terrified grimace she wore on stage. It’s genuine. It crinkles the corners of her eyes behind those thick glasses.

“Thank you, Kyomoto-sensei!” she says, bowing so sharply that Taiga worries she might headbutt his sternum. “I’ll—I’ll keep working on my breathing. Thank you!”

“Yeah. Whatever,” he mutters, looking away. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

She bows again to Hokuto—a softer, more conspiratorial gesture—before clutching her flute case and darting off toward a group of girls waving near the vending machines.

Good. She’s gone. The air feels slightly less suffocating.

Taiga turns, ready to finally make his escape, but the universe apparently hates him today.

“Hokuto!”

The shout cuts through the ambient noise of the lobby like a trumpet blast. It’s loud and unmistakably familiar.

Taiga freezes.

Hokuto turns toward the auditorium doors.

Walking out—no, bouncing out—are three very familiar people.

At the center is Yugo. He’s wearing that patient, long-suffering expression he reserves for herding cats, though his hand is firmly interlocked with Jesse’s. 

Jesse is beaming, his free arm swinging wide as he practically drags Yugo across the tile.

And flanking them is the tank top guy from the izakaya. The Summer Boy.

“We made it just in time to see her run out!” Jesse announces, coming to a halt in front of them. He releases Yugo’s hand only to slap Hokuto on the shoulder with enough force to stagger a lesser man. “She looked happy, man! How is she feeling?”

“She did well,” Hokuto says. His voice is quiet, a stark contrast to the energy radiating off Jesse. He adjusts his glasses, looking relieved. “She found her footing.”

Yugo spots Taiga then. His eyebrows shoot up. “Taiga? You were watching?”

“I was a judge, Yugo. I couldn’t exactly leave during the intermission,” Taiga snaps, crossing his arms.

“Kyomo was terrifying,” Juri chimes in, leaning against a pillar with that lazy smirk of his. He looks delighted by the chaos. “He made a kid cry. Metaphorically.”

“I gave constructive criticism,” Taiga corrects.

The tank top guy steps forward then, bypassing the pleasantries. He’s wearing shorts. In a public arts center. In May. He vibrates with an energy that makes Taiga tired just looking at him.

“I don’t think we’ve met properly,” he says, grinning at Juri and then shifting his gaze to Taiga. His eyes are dark, lively, and completely devoid of the usual hesitation people have when approaching him. “I’m Shintaro. Morimoto Shintaro. First-year Dance.”

“Tanaka Juri. Piano,” Juri says, offering a fist bump that Shintaro accepts with enthusiasm.

“Kyomoto Taiga,” Taiga says, not offering anything.

Shintaro doesn’t seem to embrace the silence. He just nods, rocking back on his heels, before turning his attention fully to Hokuto. He leans in, invading Hokuto’s personal space with the ease of a golden retriever.

“You looked so stressed in the wings, Hokkun,” Shintaro says, poking Hokuto’s arm. “You were hugging that clipboard like it was gonna run away.”

Hokkun.

The nickname is childish. It sounds like something you’d name a pet, or a stuffed animal. It implies a level of familiarity, of ownership, that makes Taiga’s skin prickle.

Taiga looks at Hokuto. He doesn’t flinch or pull away. He just lets out a small, resigned sigh, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a barely-there smile.

“I wasn’t stressed, Shintaro. I was focusing.”

“Sure, Hokkun. Whatever you say.” Shintaro laughs, loud and bright, and throws an arm around Hokuto’s shoulders, pulling him into the group’s orbit.

Taiga’s jaw tightens.

He knows it’s irrational. He doesn’t know this Shintaro, doesn’t want to know him. But seeing Hokuto—the guy from the vision, the one who looked at him with almost two decades of history in his eyes—being pulled into this tight, warm circle of nicknames and physical touch is… irritating.

It’s wrong. The framing is off.

In the vision, Hokuto was settled. He was Taiga’s. Here, he’s Hokkun, the caretaker friend of a loud dance major.

“Right,” he says, the word cutting sharp through their banter.

The group quiets down, looking at him. Yugo gives him a warning look, sensing the mood shift.

“I’m leaving,” Taiga states, gripping the strap of his bag. “It’s too loud in here.”

“Not so fast,” Yugo says. 

He doesn't grab Taiga. He doesn't have to. He just uses that tone—the one that sounds like a suggestion but weighs like an anchor.

“We’re gonna get yakiniku,” he says, stepping smoothly into Taiga’s path. “I made a reservation.”

“I’m busy,” Taiga lies. “I have photos to edit. And Anzu needs to walk.”

“Anzu-chan can hold it for two hours,” Yugo counters, unbothered. “You have to eat, Taiga. I bet you skipped lunch.”

Of course he noticed.

“And Tanaka-kun looks like he hasn't seen a balanced meal in three days,” Yugo adds, gesturing to the pianist beside Taiga.

Juri perks up shamelessly. “Just Juri is fine. I eat. technically. But if you're offering real meat...”

“It’s a celebration!” Jesse booms, throwing his free arm up. “For Hokuto’s student! For the arts!”

“For the beef,” Shintaro adds, clapping his hands together. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet again. “Please tell me it’s all-you-can-eat. I could eat a cow. Like, the whole cow.”

Taiga loathes this. The group dynamic is a chaotic mess of energy that he doesn’t have the battery life to match. He opens his mouth to deliver a final, cutting refusal—

“My treat,” Yugo says, answering the unspoken calculation in Juri’s eyes.

Juri turns traitor immediately. “I’m in. Kyomo, you’re coming.”

“I didn’t agree to—”

“You need food,” Juri says, reaching for Taiga’s elbow. “You look like a ghost from Edo. It’s depressing to look at.”

Taiga yanks his arm before Juri can make contact. “Don’t touch me.”

But the momentum has shifted. The gravity of the group is too strong. They’re already moving, a current of loud voices and confident strides, and he’s caught in the wake.

Taiga glances to the side.

Hokuto is watching him again. He hasn’t said a word during the negotiation. He stands slightly apart from the chaos of Jesse and Shintaro, hands in his pockets, looking like he’d rather be reading a book.

But his gaze is fixed on Taiga. He’s just waiting. Like he knows that Taiga’s not actually going to run.

“Fine,” Taiga snaps, adjusting his strap until it digs into his shoulder. “One hour. Then I’m gone.”

Yugo smiles a victorious, crinkle-eyed look that irritates Taiga more than it should.

🎹

The air inside the restaurant is thick enough to chew. It smells of searing fat, charcoal, and cheap beer—a density that coats the back of Taiga’s throat the moment they step through the sliding doors. He hates it immediately.

“Reservation for Kochi,” Yugo tells the host, his voice cutting through the roar of frying meat and shouting salarymen. He looks entirely too comfortable, standing there with Jesse draping an arm over his shoulder like he’s a piece of furniture.

The host guides them to a booth in the back. It’s tight. Designed for intimacy or suffocation, depending on who you’re with.

Taiga aims for the edge, but Juri slides in first, grinning like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Shintaro dives for the far side, bouncing into the upholstery. Yugo and Jesse claim the other end.

That leaves the middle.

Taiga sits, stiff-backed, pulling his legs in so that his knees don’t brush against anyone. 

A second later, Hokuto slides in beside him. 

He takes up less space than Taiga expected. He sits with his shoulders drawn inward. He places his menu on the table with deliberate precision, aligning the corners with the edge of the wood.

It’s irritating. It’s too neat for a place where the floor is slick with grease.

Opposite him, Shintaro is practically vibrating.

“Three orders of beef tongue,” Yugo says to the waiter without looking at the menu.

“Salt, not sauce,” Jesse adds instantly, not looking either. He’s scanning the drink list. “And the spicy soup. The big one.”

“We’ll also need four orders of kalbi,” Yugo says. “Shintaro’s here.”

“Right. Make it five.” Jesse grins at the waiter. “And two pitchers. Asahi.”

They operate like a single organism. It’s efficient and nauseating. They don’t even have to ask each other; they just know.

Taiga looks away, focusing on the metal grate of the unlit grill in the center of the table.

“That was insane,” Shintaro says, leaning forward over the table. “Did you see her hands? That violin girl? She was shaking so bad I thought she’d drop the bow.”

“She recovered,” Taiga mutters, picking at a splinter on the table edge. The wood feels rough under his thumbnail.

“It wasn’t just recovery!” Shintaro insists, his eyes wide and bright. “It was... raw. Like she just decided to bleed out on stage. Boom! Guts everywhere.” He gestures wildly, nearly knocking over the soy sauce cruet.

Taiga stares at him. Shintaro’s loud and unrefined. He talks about performance like it’s an action movie.

But underneath the noise, there’s that look—the terrifying, stupid belief that what happens on stage matters. That if you pour enough blood into the instrument, the world will actually give a shit.

Taiga used to have that look. Before London. Before he realized that 'guts' don't count for extra credit when he misses the tempo.

It makes him want to smoke.

“Junko did well,” Hokuto says softly beside me. His voice is low, barely carrying over the restaurant noise.

Shintaro snaps to attention like a dog hearing a whistle. “Because of you, Hokkun!” He beams. The nickname sounds ridiculous. “You calmed her down. I saw you back there. You were like... a monk. Or a Jedi.”

Taiga snorts. He can’t help it.

Hokuto shifts slightly, adjusting his glasses. He looks embarrassed. “I just told her to breathe, Shintaro.”

“Nah,” Shintaro insists, his voice dropping an octave, losing the manic edge and turning into something softer. He stares right at Hokuto, ignoring Taiga and the others. “It’s your vibe. You make people feel safe. It’s... really cool.”

The air at the table changes faster than the temperature when the grill turns on.

Taiga sees Juri smirk into his water glass. Across the table, Jesse kicks Yugo under the table, and Yugo presses his lips together to suppress a smile.

They all know.

It’s painted all over Shintaro’s face. He’s looking at Hokuto like he’s the only person in the room, like he’s ready to carve his heart out and serve it alongside the kalbi.

Taiga glances at Hokuto. He’s pouring tea for everyone, brow furrowed in concentration, completely oblivious. He doesn’t see the look. He thinks Shintaro is just being loud.

Pathetic.

The waiter drops a basket of glowing charcoal into the center of the table. The heat hits Taiga instantly, a dry, aggressive wave that makes the air shimmer. He leans back, pressing his spine against the booth’s vinyl, trying to put inches between himself and the fire.

Shintaro doesn’t flinch. He grabs the tongs like he’s wielding a weapon.

“Hokkun, you like the tongue rare, right?” he asks, already slapping slices of meat onto the mesh. They hiss violently. “Wait, no. Medium? You got sick that one time from the chicken at the convenience store.”

“It’s beef, Shintaro,” Hokuto says. He’s staring at the meat with polite interest, hands folded in his lap. “And I’m fine with whatever.”

“No way. I’ll watch it. I’ve got the timing down.” Shintaro grins, sweat already beading at his hairline. He looks ridiculous and entirely devoted.

Taiga stares at Hokuto’s profile. The wire-rimmed glasses catch the glare of the overhead light.

For a second, the noise of the restaurant drops out. The smell of grease vanishes, replaced by the phantom scent of rain on pavement and old incense.

The visions. The glitches. Whatever the hell is happening to his brain when he looks through a viewfinder.

October 2030. A phone call. Died on impact.

April 2025. A conversation. I’m quitting the Philharmonic.

In both visions, Taiga’s there. He’s the variable.

If Hokuto’s with Taiga, he quits the orchestra. He gives up the thing he’s actually good at to become a high school teacher. Just to support them. To support Taiga.

And five years after that, he ends up dead on a train track.

The sequence is linear. Cause and effect. Taiga’s the cause.

The meat flares up, smoke billowing toward the vent. Shintaro yelps, deftly flipping the strips before they burn, laughing as the smoke hits Jesse in the face.

“Nice reflexes,” Yugo comments, nursing his beer.

“I’m telling you! Dancer reflexes!” Shintaro beams, dropping a perfectly cooked piece of beef onto Hokuto’s plate. “Eat up, Hokkun. You’re too skinny.”

Hokuto blinks, startled, then offers a small, quiet smile. “Thank you, Shintaro.”

It’s a polite smile. It’s not the intense, heavy look from the library stacks. It’s safe.

If Hokuto’s with Shintaro, he doesn’t end up with Taiga.

The logic clicks into place. If the timeline where Taiga marries him leads to Hokuto’s stagnation and death, then the timeline where he dates the loud, energetic dancer who worships the ground he walks on must lead somewhere else.

Shintaro wouldn’t make Hokuto quit the Philharmonic. Shintaro barely seems to have a brain for logistics; he’d probably just cheer loudly from the front row while Hokuto toured Europe. He certainly wouldn’t turn Hokuto into a teacher or a corpse.

It’s annoying. But it’s exactly what Hokuto needs to survive.

Taiga picks up his chopsticks and shoves a handful of rice in his mouth. The appetite he didn’t really have is gone, replaced by a grim resolve.

He’s not doing this because he cares. He’s doing this because he doesn’t want a ghost haunting him. He doesn’t want to be the reason some talented idiot throws his life away.

If the universe is showing him a train wreck, Taiga’s changing the switch.

“Morimoto,” Taiga says. His voice sounds rougher than he intended.

Shintaro looks over, surprised that Taiga’s speaking to him. “Yeah?”

Taiga nods at the grill. “Keep feeding him. He forgets to eat when he’s stressed.”

Hokuto stiffens beside him. “Kyomoto, I—”

“He’s right!” Shintaro interrupts, his face lighting up like Taiga just handed him the keys to the city. “See? Even he noticed! I got you, Hokkun.” He dumps three more pieces of beef onto Hokuto’s plate, piling them high.

Hokuto sighs, defeated, but he starts eating.

Good.

Taiga reaches for his water, ignoring the strange, tight feeling in his chest. 

It doesn’t matter. None of this matters, as long as the future changes. He’ll make sure they happen. He’ll push Hokuto and Shintaro together until the picture shifts, until the glitch disappears.

And Taiga can finally get back to worrying about his own ruined life instead of Hokuto’s.

🪈

The apartment is never this quiet. Usually, the air is filled with Jesse’s humming or the thud of Shintaro practicing footwork in the hallway.

But tonight, the stillness feels heavy, settled deep into the floorboards like dust.

The digital clock on the microwave is a harsh green in the dim kitchen, but here in the living room, the light is warmer. They have dragged the low table into the center of the rug, burying its surface under a graveyard of papers. Week 4’s notes on Handel’s oratorios are currently sliding off the edge, threatening to spill onto the floor, but Hokuto doesn’t move to catch them.

He’s too busy watching Taiga breathe.

Taiga is sprawled on the opposite side of the table, his chin resting in his palm, dark brows furrowed as he glares at the opened anthology score of a Vivaldi concerto. He looks exhausted. There are shadows under his eyes, and he keeps running his hand through his hair, messing up the strands until they stick up in every direction.

He looks softer like this.

“The ritornello form makes no sense in this context,” Taiga mutters. He doesn’t look up, just aggressively circles a measure with a red pen. “If the soloist is supposed to drive the modulation, why does the orchestra keep interrupting with the tonic? It’s redundant.”

Hokuto smiles a little, reaching for the bag of strawberry chocolates Juri left behind. “I think it’s about stability,” he says quietly. “The orchestra is the anchor. The soloist wanders, but they always have somewhere to come back to.”

Taiga snorts, tracing the ink line on the page. “It’s suffocating. It doesn’t let the melody breathe.”

Hokuto wants to tell Taiga that anchors aren’t always bad, that sometimes it’s nice to know the ground will be there when you land, but he bites the inside of his lip instead.

His phone vibrates against the table, a jarring buzz that breaks the silence.

Taiga flinches, his pen skidding across the page. He clicks his tongue and goes back to reading, but his shoulders have tensed up again.

Hokuto picks up the phone, dimming the screen so the light doesn’t bother Taiga.

Shintaro [10:04]: done w/ group stydy !!!! brain is fried

Shintaro [10:04]: thinking rokurinsha. u up?

Shintaro [10:05]: jesse’s at yugo’s so it’d be just us. treat u to extra noodles?

Hokuto stares at the messages. He can picture Shintaro perfectly—standing outside the conservatory, probably, bouncing on his heels, phone clutched in both hands, grinning at the screen.

He should go. All he’s eaten these past few hours are snacks, and Shintaro hates eating alone.

But then Taiga sighs across the table. He reaches for one of the jelly candies, unwrapping it with careful, precise fingers, and pops it into his mouth. He doesn’t look at Hokuto, but he shifts his leg, his knee brushing against Hokuto’s under the table for a fraction of a second.

The contact burns, just a little.

“Shintaro wants to go grab dinner,” Hokuto says softly, placing the phone face down on the table. “It’s just near the station. You should come with us.”

Taiga freezes. For a moment, he looked like he might actually consider it. Then he exhales, a sharp, dismissive sound through his nose. “Pass,” he says flatly. He shuts the anthology with a thud that sounds too loud in the quiet room. “I have a dog that needs feeding.”

“We can be quick,” Hokuto offers, though he can already feel the walls going up around the pianist. “Or we could get takeout and bring it back—”

“No.” Taiga cuts him off, finally looking up. His eyes are dark, unreadable, but there’s a strange tightness at the corner of his mouth. “You go. Morimoto is waiting for you.”

The way he says Shintaro’s name is heavy.

“It’s late,” Hokuto says, hesitating. “You should eat dinner.”

“I’m not hungry,” Taiga lies. Hokuto can tell it’s a lie because Taiga shifts in his seat, turning his body away as if to physically block Hokuto’s concern. He gestures vaguely toward the door with his chin. “Go on. He’s... eager. He’s always eager when it’s you. You shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

There it is again. It feels like Taiga’s trying to hand him over, like Hokuto’s a parcel he’s decided he can’t afford to keep.

It stings, a quiet, dull ache in Hokuto’s chest. He wants to ask why Taiga sounds so angry about it, why Taiga looks at him like he’s walking into traffic, but Hokuto knows Taiga well enough by now to know he won’t answer.

“Okay,” he says, because arguing usually just makes Taiga retreat further. “I’ll go.”

He starts gathering the loose sheets of music scattered across the low table, stacking them into neat piles. The strawberry chocolate wrappers are crinkled and bright against the dark wood, seeming almost too loud for the quiet room, so he collects them in his palm.

Taiga reaches for his red pen at the same moment Hokuto reaches for the anthology score.

Their fingers brush—just the barest graze of skin against skin.

Taiga jerks his hand back as if Hokuto has burned him. His hand curls into a fist against his chest, shielding it. He doesn’t look at Hokuto, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the grain of the table, but Hokuto sees the way his throat works, a sharp swallow that betrays him.

Hokuto’s own hand hovers in the air for a second before he slowly pulls it back. “Sorry,” he murmurs, keeping his voice low so it doesn’t startle Taiga further.

Taiga doesn’t answer, just shoves his notebook into his bag with jerky, forceful movements.

They walk to Ueno Station in a silence that feels heavier than the air before a storm. The night outside is cool, a relief after the stuffiness of the apartment.

Taiga walks with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket, his strides long and quick. Hokuto keeps pace easily, falling into step beside Taiga without trying to close the distance between them.

When they reach the station, the noise of the trains overhead vibrates through the pavement. The crowd is thinner now, mostly late-night salarymen and students.

Taiga stops near the entrance, where the white fluorescent lights hum overhead. He turns to Hokuto, shuffling slightly on his feet. He looks like he wants to run, but he forces himself to stay put.

“Matsumura,” he says.

“Yes?”

Taiga looks at his shoes, then somewhere over Hokuto’s left shoulder. “Thanks. For the… the midterms prep.” He pauses. “And for being patient. I know barely anyone would put up with… this.” He gestures vaguely at himself.

Hokuto blinks and shakes his head, a small smile touching his lips before he can stop it. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

“Juri wouldn’t have the patience,” Taiga mutters, almost to himself.

“I’m not Juri,” Hokuto says gently. He steps a little closer, just enough to be heard over the rumble of a passing train. “I don’t mind the waiting, Taiga. You’re worth the effort.”

Taiga’s eyes snap to his, wide and startled. For a second, the mask slips completely. He looks terrified. His mouth opens slightly, but no sound comes out.

Then, the shutter comes down. He blinks rapidly, taking a half-step back.

“Right,” Taiga manages, his voice rough. “I—I have to go. My dog.”

He turns on his heel and disappears into the station without looking back, merging into the stream of commuters until Hokuto can’t distinguish his dark jacket from anyone else’s.

🪈

The dipping noodles sit heavy and warm in Hokuto’s stomach, a comfortable weight that anchors him against the cool night air. It’s almost midnight, but the streets of Ueno are still awake, humming with the quiet, electric energy of the city that never fully settles.

Beside him, Shintaro is doing a complex series of hop-steps over the cracks in the pavement. He has been talking non-stop since we left the restaurant, his voice a steady, rhythmic current that requires nothing from Hokuto but a nod or a soft hum of agreement.

“—and then the instructor was like, ‘More extension, Morimoto, more reach!’ and I was like, dude, my leg is literally detached from my hip right now, look at this!” Shintaro demonstrates a high kick that nearly clips a vending machine, landing with a grin that takes up half his face. “But I felt it, you know? That snap? It was awesome music.”

Hokuto smiles, adjusting his collar. “That sounds painful.”

“Pain is just weakness leaving the body, Hokkun!” Shintaro chirps, clapping Hokuto on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble a little. The younger one keeps his hand there for a second longer than necessary before letting it drop. “If you’re not sore, are you even living?”

“I think I’d prefer to live without the soreness,” Hokuto says softly.

Shintaro laughs, a bright, barking sound that echoes off the shuttered storefronts. It’s easy to be around him. He fills all the empty spaces that Hokuto usually doesn’t know how to occupy.

But even with Shintaro’s chatter filling his ears, Hokuto’s mind drifts backward.

You’re worth the effort. He meant it. He doesn’t know why he said it—it felt too intimate, too raw for the sidewalk outside a train station—but seeing Taiga’s shock was… startling. It was like seeing a crack in a frozen lake.

“Earth to Hokuto,” Shintaro sings, waving a hand in front of his face. They are stopped at a crosswalk, the red light bleeding onto the wet asphalt.

Hokuto blinks. “Sorry. I was thinking.”

“About Kyomoto?” Shintaro asks. His voice loses a fraction of its bounce, leveling out into something more observant. He doesn’t look at Hokuto, staring instead at the red man in the signal box.

“A little,” Hokuto admits. He doesn’t want to lie to Shintaro. “He looked… tired tonight.”

“He always looks tired. It’s his aesthetic,” Shintaro says, kicking at a loose pebble. “Brooding artist. Very trendy.”

Hokuto shakes his head slightly. “I don’t think it’s a trend, Shin. I think he’s just unhappy.”

Shintaro hums, a non-committal sound deep in his throat. The light turns green, and they start walking again. The rhythm of their footsteps falls into sync.

They pass a convenience store, the automatic chime dinging as someone exits, and Shintaro seems to shake off the mood like a dog shaking off water. He glances at Hokuto sideways, his expression shifting, softening.

“So,” he starts, and the sudden gentleness in his voice makes Hokuto brace himself. “How’s… Shizuoka?”

He asks it casually, but Hokuto knows what he means. He hasn’t even told Jesse yet, mostly because Jesse would try to fix it with optimism, and some things can’t be fixed with a smile. Shintaro, for all his loudness, understands that sometimes things just break.

Hokuto tucks his hands deeper into his pockets. “It’s okay,” he says. “I called Yuina on Tuesday.”

“Yeah?”

“Mom got a job.” It feels good to say it out loud, to release the information into the air where it feels less heavy. “At a flower shop near the station. It’s not… it’s not a lot of money, but she likes flowers. She sounded calmer.”

“That’s good,” Shintaro says nodding vigorously. “Flowers are good. Peaceful.”

“And Grandma is moving in next week,” Hokuto continues. “She’s… formidable. She won’t let the house fall apart. She’s already organizing everything, making sure Masaya does his homework.”

“Grandmas are the best,” Shintaro agrees. “Does she make good food?”

“The best katsudon,” Hokuto says. “I think… I think they’re going to be alright. Better than I thought.”

He doesn’t mention the guilt that still claws at his throat in the quiet moments—the feeling that he’s escaping, that he’s sitting in Tokyo eating delicious noodles while his mother learns to work a register for the first time in twenty years. He doesn’t mention how his father’s silence on the phone feels like an accusation.

Shintaro stops walking.

Hokuto takes two more steps before realizing Shintaro isn’t beside him, and he turns back. The younger one is standing under a streetlight, looking at me him a seriousness that sits strangely on his face.

“And you?” he asks.

“Me?”

“You’re checking on them,” Shintaro says, pointing a finger at Hokuto. “You’re worried about Yuina, and Masaya, and your mom, and your grandma, and probably the neighbor’s cat, too. But who’s checking on you, Hokkun?”

Hokuto blinks. “I’m fine, Shin. I really am.”

“Are you eating? Sleeping? Not just… staring at the wall worrying?”

Hokuto smiles, a genuine, small thing. “I just ate two servings of dipping noodles because you insisted. I’m definitely eating.”

Shintaro stares at me for a second longer before his face breaks into a relieved grin. “Okay. Good. Because that was the deal, right? You stay here, you graduate, you take care of yourself. That’s how you help them.”

“I know,” Hokuto says quietly. “I’m trying.”

They resume their pace, slower now as they near their apartment building. The familiarity of the street—the vending machine with the flickering light, the smell of damp concrete—feels grounding.

“Thank you,” Hokuto says, the words feeling necessary.

Shintaro glances at him, tilting his head. “For the noodles? Dude, I had a coupon, don’t make it weird.”

“No,” Hokuto says. “For listening. For… knowing.” It’s a relief he hadn’t realized he needed—having one person who knows the secret he’s carrying. It makes the weight of it feel shared, balanced between two pairs of shoulders instead of one.

He looks at Shintaro—his messy hair, the strong line of his jaw that he’s still growing into, the way he vibrates with energy even when he’s trying to be serious. They’re so different. Hokuto is quiet water, and Shintaro is a wave that never breaks.

“It really helps,” Hokuto says, feeling the swell of gratitude in his chest. “Having you, and Jesse, and Yugo. But especially you, lately. You remind me of Masaya sometimes.”

Shintaro stumbles. It’s slight—just a catch of his toe against the pavement—but he recovers quickly. “Masaya?”

“My little brother,” Hokuto says fondly. “He has this… energy. He looks up to me, but he’s actually much braver than I am. Being with you feels like that. Familiar. Like family.”

He looks at Shintaro, expecting the younger one to make a joke, to preen at the compliment. Being family is the highest praise Hokuto knows how to give. It means safety. It means permanence.

But Shintaro isn’t smiling.

He has stopped walking again, just outside the entrance to our building. His face is in shadow, but Hokuto sees his mouth open slightly, then close. The brightness in his eyes has dimmed, replaced by something confused, almost hurt. His shoulders, usually pulled back with dancer’s posture, look suddenly heavy.

“Like a… little brother,” Shintaro repeats. His voice is flat. The musicality is gone.

Hokuto frowns. “Did I say something wrong? I meant it as a compliment, Shintaro. Masaya is—”

“No!” Shintaro interrupts, too loudly. He forces a laugh, but it sounds tinny, scraping against the quiet air. “No, no, it’s cool. Totally cool. Brothers are… great. Masaya sounds like a legend.”

He turns away from Hokuto quickly, fumbling with the keypad to the building’s entrance. He won’t look at him.

“Shin?” Hokuto reaches out, his hand hovering near the younger one’s arm.

“Man, I am sweating though,” Shintaro says, talking fast, words tumbling over each other in a desperate rush. “Ramen sweats. It’s a real condition. I need a shower immediately. Like, ice cold. Maybe I’ll sleep in the bathtub.”

The door buzzes open, and he practically dives into the lobby, putting distance between them.

“Shin, wait—”

“Race you to the elevator!” Shintaro shouts over his shoulder, not waiting for a response. He jabs the button aggressively.

Hokuto stands on the sidewalk for a moment. The air feels suddenly colder without Shintaro standing right next to him. He replays the conversation in his head and tries to find the sharp edge that cut the younger one, but he can’t find it. He thought he was offering Shintaro closeness.

Maybe Shintaro doesn’t want the responsibility of being compared to family. Hokuto asks too much of people, burdens them with his sentimentalities.

He sighs, the sound lost in the hum of the city, and follows Shintaro inside. He’ll make tea alter. That usually fixes things.

🪈

The air in the practice room is stale, recycled through the vents until it feels thin against his skin, but Hokuto doesn’t mind. It’s a quiet kind of suffocation.

He raises his flute again, the silver warming under his fingers. His reflection in the dark glass of the door looks tired, posture slightly rounded, but he corrects it—spine straight, elbows lifted just enough to let the air move freely.

Beethoven’s Eroica. The third movement.

Hokuto takes a breath, feeling it expand into his lower back, and begins.

The Scherzo is fast, a rhythmic pulse that demands agility, but today he’s trying not to chase the tempo. During his private lesson, Professor Shimada had tapped his pen against the music stand, stopping him mid-phrase.

“Matsumura-kun, you are playing the notes, but you aren’t playing the joke. It’s too polite. Beethoven wasn’t polite.”

Too polite. It’s a critique he hears often, not just in music.

He tries again. This time, he leans into the articulation, letting the tongue strike the roof of his mouth a little sharper, cutting the air. It feels risky, but the sound that comes out has a texture he hasn’t found before. It’s brighter.

Hokuto pauses, lowering the instrument to rest it on his knee. His fingers thrum with the resonance.

It is strange to think that ten years ago, he didn’t know this feeling existed. He was nine years old in Shizuoka, sitting in a drafty school gymnasium, waiting for a meaningless assembly to end, when a high school student walked onto the stage. He played Mozart’s Concerto in G Major.

He remembers the dust motes dancing in the shafts of light from the high windows, the smell of floor wax. But mostly, he remembers the sound. It wasn’t loud like a trumpet or demanding like a violin. It was… liquid. It sounded like a silver thread being pulled through the air.

It felt like a voice that didn’t need words to be understood.

For a quiet child who spent most of his time reading the moods of his parents to keep the peace, that sound was a revelation. It was a way to speak without the danger of saying the wrong thing.

Hokuto realizes he’s been staring at the acoustic paneling on the wall for too long. He shakes out his left hand, which is starting to cramp, and brings the flute back up.

His first year here, he treated every measure like a minefield. He thought if he played perfectly—if his intonation was exact, if his rhythm was mathematically flawless—he would be safe. He thought perfection was the price of admission to this life.

But perfection helps no one if it’s hollow.

Hokuto closes his eyes and plays the phrase again. He lets the dynamic drop to a pianissimo that teeters on the edge of breaking.

Last week, during chamber rehearsal, there was a moment in the Dvořák quartet. The strings were swelling, a thick, warm wave of sound from the cello and viola, and his entry was just a single sustained note held above them.

He didn’t try to lead them. He didn’t try to shine. He just… slipped into the harmony.

It felt as if his sound didn’t stop at the end of his flute but dissolved into theirs. He wasn’t Matsumura Hokuto, the brother who worries, the student who apologizes too much, the friend who hides his resentment. He was just part of the chord. Necessary, but invisible.

He finishes the run, the final B-flat hanging in the dry air of the practice room. It wasn’t perfect—he rushed the triplet at the end—but it felt real.

He stands there for a moment, letting the silence settle over him like a fine dust. It feels different this time—less like an emptiness he needs to fill and more like a space he’s allowed to inhabit.

Hokuto exhales, a long, slow breath that seems to carry the last of the day’s tension with it.

Carefully, he dismantles the flute. The metal is warm from his hands and his breath. He runs the cleaning cloth through the body, swabbing away the condensation. He packs each piece into the velvet-lined case, snapping the latches shut one by one.

His phone buzzes against the wood of the bench.

Shintaro [5:29 pm]: TACOS??? Y/N? jesse is holding two boxes of shells and looking crazy. yugo says we need cilantro but cilantro is soap. vote now.

A small smile tugs at the corner of Hokuto’s mouth. He can picture them in the supermarket aisle—Jesse loud and taking up too much space, Shintaro vibrating with sugar energy, Yugo trying to maintain order while secretly enjoying the chaos.

He types back: Tacos sound good. Get the cilantro for Yugo. I don’t mind chopping it.

He hesitates, then adds: I’m on my way.

Hokuto shoulders his bag and steps out of the practice room. The hallway is dimmer than before, the overhead lights humming with a frequency that always makes his teeth ache a little.

It’s quiet, but it’s a heavy, pressurized quiet. Midterms are next week, and the air in the conservatory feels thick with it.

As he walks toward the exit, he passes a cellist slumped on a bench, head in hands, her bow dangling precariously from her fingers. Further down, near the vending machines, a group of first-years are arguing in hushed, frantic whispers about chord progressions.

The stress is palpable, a static charge that pricks at the skin. He feels a habitual urge to stop, to offer tea or a reassuring word, but he keeps walking. He’s learning slowly that he can’t fix everyone.

The automatic doors slide open, and the evening air hits him—cool and smelling faintly of rain and exhaust. It’s refreshing after the recycled atmosphere of the towers.

Hokuto turns toward the gate, intending to head straight, but movement in the courtyard catches his eye.

The central green is mostly empty, except for a figure near the edge of the grass.

It’s Taiga.

Hokuto stops, shrinking back slightly into the shadow of a pillar. He shouldn’t watch—it feels like an intrusion—but he can’t make his feet move.

Taiga is crouching in the grass, his camera held loosely in one hand. In front of him, a small dog—a Yorkshire Terrier with a glossy coat—is bounding through the clover, chasing nothing in particular.

Hokuto remembers Taiga mentioning a dog yesterday.

Taiga lifts the camera, peering through the viewfinder, but he doesn’t take a shot immediately. He lowers it again, and then, he smiles.

It isn’t the sharp, defensive smirk he wears in the hallways, or the tight, polite expression he offers professors. It’s entirely unguarded. The tension that usually tightens his shoulders is gone, dissolved by the simple, frantic joy of the small animal running toward him.

He looks younger. He looks soft.

Taiga laughs—Hokuto can’t hear it from where he is, but he sees the way Taiga’s head ticks back—and reaches out to ruffle the dog’s ears when it tumbles into his lap.

Something in Hokuto’s chest pulls tight, a sudden, sharp ache that surprises him.

He watches Taiga for another second, captivated by the rare glimpse of light in someone who tries so hard to stay in the dark.

That’s what it is—that’s the thing that draws him to Taiga. Not his talent, or his reputation, or even his sharpness. It’s this. The capacity for softness that he hides away like a secret, as if he’s afraid the world might ruin it if it knew.

Maybe he’s right to be afraid.

Taiga shifts his weight and lifts the camera again. This time, he doesn’t aim it at the grass or the dog. He tilts the lens upward, toward the Practice Towers rising behind them, their dark glass reflecting the bruised purple of the twilight sky.

The shutter clicks. It’s a dry, mechanical sound that carries easily across the quiet courtyard.

Usually, a photographer lowers the camera immediately to check the screen, or adjusts the lens for another angle. But Taiga doesn’t move. He stands frozen, the camera still pressed to his face, his body rigid in a way that feels sudden and wrong. It isn’t the stillness of concentration. It looks more like he has been caught in a current he can’t escape.

Hokuto takes a step forward, concerned, his hand lifting slightly from his side. “Kyomoto?” he whispers, though he knows he can't be heard from this distance.

Taiga keeps staring into the viewfinder. The air around him feels heavy, charged with a strange static, or maybe that is just Hokuto’s own anxiety projecting onto the scene.

Ten seconds pass. Twenty. It feels like a long time to look at a still image of a building they see every day.

Taiga looks… lost. Not lost in thought, but physically absent, as if the person standing there is just a shell and the real Taiga has gone somewhere far away where the air is too thin to breathe.

Hokuto worries, briefly, that Taiga might faint. He wonders if I should go to him.

Before he can decide, the little Yorkshire Terrier stops its circles in the grass. It perks its ears, listening to something he can’t hear, and then turns its head sharply toward the pillar where he’s standing.

It barks—a high, sharp sound that shatters the silence.

Taiga jolts. The camera drops from his eye, swinging on its strap to hit his chest with a dull thud. He stumbles back a half-step, gasping, his hand flying up to clutch at the silver tag around his neck. His face is pale, drained of blood, his eyes wide and unfocused as they frantically scan the ground, the sky, his own hands.

He looks terrified.

Then, his gaze snaps to Hokuto.

The transition is instantaneous. The moment he realizes he isn’t alone, the vulnerability evaporates. The soft, unguarded laughter that Hokuto saw moments ago, the raw terror of a second ago—it all vanishes behind a wall of cold, sharp indifference.

Taiga’s shoulders hunch up, defensive. His expression hardens into the familiar, prickly mask he wears in the hallways.

Hokuto feels a sudden, sharp pang of guilt. He has stolen something from Taiga just by being here.

“I…” he starts, stepping out from the shadow of the pillar, his voice sounding too loud in the quiet air. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Taiga doesn’t speak. He just stares at Hokuto, his hand still gripping his dog tag, his breathing uneven. He looks ready to run, or maybe to tell Hokuto to get lost.

“I was just leaving,” Hokuto adds quickly, dipping his head in a small bow. “It’s fine. You don’t have to…”

He turns toward the gate, intending to disappear before he makes this any more awkward for Taiga. He just wants to give Taiga his space back.

But there is a scrabbling sound on the pavement, a quick rhythm of claws against stone.

Hokuto looks down just as the dog reaches him.

It doesn’t bark again. Instead, it trots right up to his boots and sniffs the hem of his trousers, its tail wagging in a slow, tentative arc. It looks up at him with bright, expectant eyes, entirely unbothered by the tension hanging in the air.

Hokuto freezes, one foot raised to take a step away. He can’t just walk off. It feels rude to ignore a creature asking so politely for attention.

“Her name is Anzu,” Taiga says. His voice is quieter now, the sharp edge of panic earlier smoothed down into something weary. He steps closer, though he keeps a careful distance. “I figured she needed to… run. She’s cooped up in my apartment too much.”

Hokuto looks down at the small creature at his feet. She’s practically vibrating with energy, her tail a grey blur against the darkening pavement. It feels rude to stand over her like a tower, so he crouches down, balancing on the balls of his feet to bring himself to her level.

“Hello, Anzu-chan,” he says softly, offering his hand for her to sniff.

He expects her to be cautious. Small dogs are often nervous, especially around strangers who loom over them in twilight courtyards.

But Anzu doesn’t hesitate. She bypasses Hokuto’s hand entirely and presses her small, warm body directly against his shins, letting out a soft, contented whine that sounds almost like a sigh.

When Hokuto tentatively scratch behind her ears, she leans into the touch with such force she almost topples over. She looks up at him—her eyes dark and wet and incredibly trusting—and for a moment, he has the strangest sensation that she isn’t greeting a stranger at all.

“She likes you,” Taiga says. The words come out sounding baffled.

Hokuto glances up. Taiga is watching them with a furrowed brow, his head tilted slightly to the side. The defensive tension in his shoulders has loosened, replaced by genuine confusion.

“She’s usually… difficult,” Taiga admits, shifting his weight. “She barked at Jesse at first. But she doesn’t usually do this.”

“Maybe I smell like groceries,” Hokuto suggests, trying to offer a logical explanation so Taiga doesn’t feel the need to analyze it too deeply. He doesn’t want Taiga to think he’s doing anything special. “I think I have some leftover scent of grilled fish on my coat.”

Taiga snorts—a soft, almost imperceptible sound—but he doesn’t argue.

Anzu rolls onto her back, exposing her soft, pink belly to the cool air, her paws paddling expectantly. Hokuto obligingly rubs her stomach, and her eyes flutter shut. She’s warm and solid under his hand, a simple, uncomplicated presence in a day that has felt heavy with unspoken worries. It is nice to be useful, even if it is just for this.

Click.

The sound is sharp—a mechanical shutter snapping shut—and it cuts through the quiet air like a cracked branch.

Hokuto freezes, his hand still resting on Anzu’s fur.

He look ups.

Taiga has the camera raised again, the lens pointed directly at him. He isn’t hiding behind it this time; he holds it slightly away from his face, looking down at the small screen on the back.

Hokuto braces himself for the shift he saw earlier—the sudden pallor, the wide-eyed terror of someone seeing a ghost. He waits for Taiga to drop the camera or stumble back.

But the fear doesn’t come.

Taiga just stares at the image he’s captured. His expression is intense, focused, but there is no panic. Instead, he looks… puzzled. He frowns slightly, his thumb hovering over a dial as if he wants to adjust something but isn’t sure what.

A few seconds pass, save for Anzu’s soft breathing.

Then, he seems to remember that Hokuto is there. Taiga lowers the camera abruptly, the strap catching on his sleeve. His gaze darts away from Hokuto’s, fixing on a spot somewhere near the fountain.

“Sorry,” Taiga mutters. He brings a hand up to rub the back of his neck. “I didn’t ask. It’s just… she looked happy.” He gestures vaguely toward Anzu with his free hand.

“It’s fine,” Hokuto says quickly, wanting to relieve Taiga of the apology. He doesn’t mind. If anything, he’s relieved that Taiga saw something happy in the frame, considering how heavy everything else seems to be for him lately. “You don’t have to apologize. She’s… very photogenic.”

Anzu lets out a small yip as if in agreement, and for the first time in weeks, the silence that settles between them feels light.

Taiga holds the camera out tentatively, the strap wound tight around his wrist as if he thinks Hokuto might snatch it away. The screen is small, glowing blue-white in the deepening twilight, but the image is sharp.

It captures the exact moment Anzu rolled onto her back. The focus is soft, lingering on the texture of her fur and the blur of the clover beneath her, but the light catches the side of Hokuto’s hand where it rests against her ribs.

He looks… calm. In the photo, he doesn’t look like someone worrying about his parents’ divorce whether he’s taking up too much space. He just looks like a part of the quiet.

“It’s… really good,” he says, leaning in slightly, careful not to invade Taiga’s personal space. “The way you caught the light—it feels very honest.”

Taiga stares at the screen for a second longer, then withdraws the camera, letting it bounce softly against his chest. “It’s just a snapshot. The aperture was too wide.”

“No,” Hokuto says, shaking his head. “It doesn’t feel like just a snapshot. You have a wonderful eye, Kyomoto. You see things clearly.”

Taiga blinks, and then, to Hokuto’s surprise, a flush of color rises high on his cheeks, visible even in the dim light. The pianist looks down at his shoes, scraping the toe of his sneaker against the pavement. It’s such a human reaction—so different from the sharp, jagged edges he usually presents—that Hokuto feels a sudden, fierce need to protect it.

“Whatever,” Taiga mutters, though there is no bite in it. “It’s fine.” He clears his throat, the sound rough, and drops into a crouch to retrieve the leash from where he’d looped it over his arm. "Come on, Anzu. Time to go." He snaps the clip onto her collar with a metallic click.

Anzu, however, has other plans. She shakes herself, the little metal tag jingling, and then immediately presses her side against Hokuto’s ankle again, sitting down with a defiant huff.

Taiga gives the leash a gentle tug, but she remains immovable, looking up at Hokuto with expectant, dark eyes.

“Anzu,” he sighs, a thread of exasperation entering his voice. He tugs again, harder this time. “Don’t be difficult.”

She whines a high, pitiful sound and paws at Hokuto’s trouser leg.

Hokuto feels a pang of guilt. He’s become an obstacle. Taiga wanted a quiet evening with his dog, and now Hokuto has intruded, and his dog is disobeying him because of him.

“I’m sorry,” Hokuto says, shifting his weight as if to step back, though Anzu is effectively anchoring him in place. “I think I might have… spoiled her a little too quickly.”

Taiga runs a hand through his hair, messing up the dark strands. He looks tired, and the last thing Hokuto wants is to make his night harder.

Hokuto checks the time on his phone. He really should be getting back to the apartment, but maybe he can fix this small knot he has created.

“I was actually heading back home,” he offers gently, gesturing vaguely toward the main gate. “We can do a quick walk through the park. If… if you’re walking that way, maybe she’ll come if I walk with you?” He adds a quick qualifier, just in case Taiga wants to be alone. “Only if you want. I don’t want to intrude.”

Taiga looks at him, then down at Anzu, who is currently resting her chin on the toe of Hokuto’s boot. “Fine,” he says, standing up and adjusting his camera strap. He doesn’t look at Hokuto, but his shoulders lower an inch.

“Okay,” Hokuto says, relieved that he hasn’t made things worse. “Let’s go, Anzu-chan.”

The moment he starts moving, Anzu happily trots alongside them, her tail high and victorious.

They walk out of the conservatory gates in silence. It isn’t the comfortable, easy silence he shares with Shintaro, nor is it the heavy, suffocating silence of his parents’ house. It feels fragile and tentative, like holding a breath.

The streetlights of Ueno have flickered on, casting long, amber shadows across the sidewalk. The air smells of rain and grilled yakitori from the stalls near the park entrance. Hokuto matches his pace to Taiga’s, keeping a respectful distance so their elbows don’t brush.

He looks over at Taiga once. The pianist is watching the ground as he walks, his expression guarded, but he isn’t rushing to get away from Hokuto this time.

Anzu stops to inspect a cluster of hydrangeas near the park entrance, her leash pulling taut. They stop with her, the sudden halt in momentum leaving them standing awkwardly close under the hum of a streetlamp. Taiga shifts his weight, sliding his hands into his pockets, while Hokuto watches the small dog bury her nose in the leaves.

“You’re good with her,” Taiga says abruptly. He doesn’t look at Hokuto, keeping his gaze fixed on the darkness of the park beyond the gate. “Do you have any? Pets, I mean.”

Hokuto shakes his head, though Taiga isn’t watching to see it. “No. I haven’t... well, I haven’t had the chance.” He adjusts his collar, feeling the cool air against his neck. “I always wanted a cat. A black one, I think. Something quiet that would just sit nearby while I practiced. But there was always something taking priority—my sister’s cram school fees, or my brother’s allergies, or just... the timing never felt right to add another responsibility to the house.”

It feels like a small, foolish admission—that he has arranged his life around avoiding inconvenience for others, even down to the hypothetical cat he never got.

Taiga kicks lightly at a loose paving stone. “Anzu was a high school graduation gift,” he says, his voice flat, stripping the sentiment out of the words. “My parents are always traveling. Business trips, galas, that sort of thing. They didn’t want me to sit in an empty apartment by myself while I was at the conservatory. They thought a dog would fill the space.”

He says it with a cynicism that makes Hokuto’s chest ache.

“Does she?” Hokuto asks gently. “Fill the space?”

Taiga finally looks at her, and his expression softens, losing that sharp, defensive edge. “She makes noise,” he admits quietly. “It helps.”

Anzu gives a final, decisive sniff to the flowers and trots forward again, her tags jingling—a bright, metallic sound in the quiet night. They fall back into step.

“What’s it like?” Taiga asks after a moment. “Having siblings?”

Hokuto smiles fondly. “It’s... loud. Chaotic. But in a good way, usually.” His smile fades as the reality washes over him again. “Though right now... it’s difficult. My parents filed for divorce last week. Just days after Golden Week ended.”

He doesn’t know why he told Taiga. He hasn’t even told Jesse yet. Maybe it’s because Taiga feels removed from it all.

“I’m sorry,” Taiga says. It’s stiff, automatic, but not unkind.

“It’s fine,” Hokuto says quickly, the reflex to reassure him rising instantly. “I mostly worry about them. Masaya is thirteen. It’s a difficult age to watch your world split down the middle. And Yuina is studying for exams... I worry I’m not there to buffer it for them. Being in Tokyo feels—selfish, sometimes.”

They stop at the crosswalk. The red light reflects in the wet asphalt, a blur of crimson. Taiga turns to look at Hokuto, and his gaze is piercing, stripping away the polite veneer that Hokuto usually keeps in place.

Taiga studies his face. “You talk about them like they’re your kids,” he says. “Not your siblings.”

Hokuto opens his mouth to correct him, to explain that it’s just what you do when you’re the oldest, but the words die in his throat. Taiga isn’t wrong.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” Taiga asks, his voice barely audible over the sound of a passing taxi. “Being needed all the time?”

The question hangs in the air between them, startlingly direct. Hokuto wants to say no. He wants to say it’s his job, or he doesn’t mind, or it’s fine. Those are the answers he has practiced for years.

But standing there in the damp night air, with his dark, intelligent eyes watching me, he feels the weight of the truth pressing against his ribs.

“I think…” Hokuto starts, then stops. He exhales slowly. “I think I don’t know who I would be if I wasn’t.”

The signal light changes, but neither of them moves immediately.

He expects Taiga to offer a platitude. That is the social script, after all. When someone admits they feel hollow without their burdens, you are supposed to tell them that they’re valued, or that they’re kind, or that their family is lucky to have them. Hokuto has given those assurances to others a thousand times. He’s ready to accept one now so they can move past the awkwardness of his honesty.

But Taiga doesn’t do that. He sharply pulls a hand from his pocket and scratches the back of his neck, looking not at Hokuto but at the neon signage of a pachinko parlor down the street.

“Sounds exhausting,” he says flatly.

It isn’t an insult. It sounds more like a disconnected observation of a structural flaw in a building.

Hokuto lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “I guess it is. Sometimes.”

“If you stop carrying it,” Taiga says, finally glancing at him, his eyes dark and unreadable, “the world isn’t gonna end. People just… figure it out.”

He speaks with the authority of someone who has dropped everything and watched the world keep spinning without him. Hokuto doesn’t know if he finds that comforting or terrifying. For Taiga, stopping meant losing his music. Hokuto can’t afford to lose the people he holds up.

“Maybe,” he says softly, because he doesn’t want to argue. “But I think I’d worry more if I wasn’t doing anything. Usefulness is… stabilizing.”

Taiga snorts, a derisive sound, but he starts walking across the street. “Whatever. Sounds like a trap to me.”

They stop in front of the façade of Hokuto’s apartment building. The automatic doors are just a few meters away, the sensor blinking a faint red in the darkened entryway, waiting for someone to step close enough to wake it up.

This is the part where people say goodbye. It is a practiced social choreography—a nod, a wave, a murmured “get home safe”—but neither of them moves.

Taiga stands with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his posture slightly hunched against the night air. He’s looking at the pavement, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against a crack in the concrete, while Anzu sits calmly between them, panting softly.

The silence isn’t heavy, exactly. It feels suspended, like the moment in a piece of music right before the resolution, where the tension holds the listener’s breath.

Hokuto thinks he should say something. He should tell Taiga that it’s fine to leave, that Hokuto doesn’t expect him to linger, but he finds himself reluctant to break the stillness. It’s rare to stand next to someone and not feel the need to fill the air with noise.

Then, the noise comes to them.

“—and I’m just saying, if you buy the cilantro, you have to chop the cilantro. That’s the rule of the kitchen, babe, I don’t make the laws!”

“Jesse, you are literally the one who wanted tacos,” a calmer, more exasperated voice counters. “I wanted hot pot.”

Hokuto turns to see them rounding the corner. Jesse is leaning heavily against Yugo as they walk, draped over him like a very large, expensive coat. Yugo, despite carrying two full bags of groceries, seems entirely unbothered by the weight of his boyfriend hanging off his shoulder. He adjusts his grip on the bags and nudges Jesse fondly with his elbow.

Shintaro trails behind them, tossing a bag of tortilla chips in the air and catching it. He spots them first. “Hokkun!” Shintaro shouts, his voice echoing off the nearby buildings. “You beat us! And—whoa, is that a dog?”

The spell of quiet between Hokuto and Taiga shatters.

Jesse straightens up immediately, his eyes widening as he locks onto Anzu. “No way!” he breathes, dropping his melodramatic posture instantly. “Taiga, you brought the princess out to see us?”

He rushes forward, abandoning Yugo and the groceries. Anzu, to her credit, doesn’t back down. She stands her ground, letting out a sharp, inquisitive bark as Jesse crouches down, keeping a respectful distance but vibrating with excitement.

“She’s so small!” Jesse coos, grinning. “Look at her! She’s like a little dynamo.”

“She’s so cute!” Shintaro says, wandering over to peer down at her. His expression softens, losing some of its frantic energy. “Man, I miss Shelly. My mom sent me a picture of her yesterday sleeping on my bed. Shelties are the best, but Yorkies have that attitude, right?”

“Shelly the Sheltie?” Taiga asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t laugh,” Shintaro says, pointing a finger at Taiga. “I was six when I named her. It’s a classic.”

Yugo joins them, setting the bags down on the pavement with a heavy sigh. He looks between Hokuto, Taiga, and the dog, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well,” he says, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Since everyone is here, and Anzu-chan seems to have adopted Hokuto…”

He gestures down. While Jesse was cooing and Shintaro was reminiscing, Anzu had quietly moved back to Hokuto’s side, pressing her flank against his ankle as if claiming territory. She looks up at him, tail wagging slowly.

Taiga tugs gently on the leash. “Anzu, come on.”

She doesn’t budge. She lets out a huff and leans harder against Hokuto’s leg.

“Looks like you’re stuck,” Jesse laughs.

Yugo steps in, his voice taking on that smooth, diplomatic tone he uses when he’s managing us. “Taiga, why don’t you just come up? We bought enough food for an army. Jesse insisted on buying three boxes of taco shells because he ‘didn’t want to run out of crunch.’”

“It’s a valid concern!” Jesse interjects.

Taiga stiffens, his gaze darting toward the apartment entrance and then back to Yugo. Hokuto can see the refusal forming on his tongue—the “I’m busy,” the “I’m tired,” the retreat to safety.

“You don’t have to,” he says softly, before Taiga can feel trapped. “It’s loud upstairs. I know you like quiet.”

Taiga looks at him. He sees the out being offered—the easy exit where he doesn’t have to be the rude one because Hokuto has already made the excuse for him. He looks down at Anzu, who is currently trying to chew on Hokuto’s shoelace, and then at Yugo, who is waiting with a patient, open expression.

Taiga sighs, a short, sharp exhale through his nose. He runs a hand through his hair, messing up the dark strands. “I have to give Anzu water,” he mutters, looking away. “And I’m not eating cilantro.”

“No cilantro for the pianist, got it,” Shintaro cheers, turning to head inside.

“I’ll carry Anzu-chan in the elevator,” Hokuto offers, crouching down to pick her up so she doesn’t get stepped on in the chaos of grocery bags and boys. She settles into his arms instantly.

As they walk into the lobby, Taiga falls into step beside Hokuto. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t pull away, either.

Hokuto feels a small, quiet bloom of happiness in his chest. It’s nice to not be the only one holding things together for a night.

🎹

The trill in the fourth measure comes out like gravel in a blender.

Taiga stops. The silence in the room rushes back in.

His right hand hovers over the keys, fingers curled into a claw. Tension. He can feel it pulling all the way up to his elbow.

“Again,” he mutters.

Taiga resets. First position. Handel’s Suite in A Major. It’s not difficult. Technically, it’s beneath him. Or it should be. His nine-year-old self could have played the Allemande while sleeping, creating lines so fluid they sounded like water.

He presses the keys.

The phrasing is dead. There’s no breath in it. Sure, he’s hitting the notes, but he’s not playing music. He’s typing. It’s mechanical, dry, and utterly boring.

Whatever.

Taiga forces his way through the next sixteen bars. It’s sloppy. His thumb is dragging on the crossovers, creating a micro-delay that ruins the rhythm. It sounds amateur.

He stops again, slamming his hands down on his knees.

Tomorrow is the midterm. Professor Mori is going to sit there with his pen poised over his clipboard, that look of patient disappointment etched onto his face, and Taiga’s going to give him this. A rigid, soulless rendition of a piece that requires elegance.

It’s pathetic.

Taiga glares at the sheet music as if the notes are personally insulting him. They stare back indifferently, black ink on white paper.

A soft whuff comes from under the piano bench.

Taiga looks down. Anzu is lying there, chin resting on her front paws, watching him. Her eyes are dark, unblinking. She doesn’t look impressed either.

“Don’t start,” he tells her.

She tilts her head, her ears perking up. The tag on her collar makes a tiny ting against the floorboards.

Taiga sighs. The frustration is a physical weight in the room, pressing against the acoustic foam on the walls. It’s suffocating. He can’t fix the trill if he can’t relax the wrist, and he can’t relax the wrist because he wants to put his fist through the drywall.

“Fine. Break.”

He stands up, the bench scraping loudly against the floor. Anzu scrambles up immediately, her claws clicking on the wood as she trots after him to the kitchen.

The light coming through the balcony doors is shifting, turning that hazy, late-afternoon gold that usually looks nice in photos but right now just highlights the dust on the floor.

Taiga grabs the bag of biscuits from the counter. It curls at the edges—stale, maybe.

He doesn’t check. He tosses one into the air.

Anzu snaps it out of the sky with the precision of a shark. She crunches it loudly near the fridge.

“Good job,” he says flatly. “At least one of us has halfway decent technique.” He leaves her to the crumbs and slides the glass door open.

The air outside is warm, smelling of exhaust and heated concrete. Bunkyo is waking up for the evening rush. He leans against the railing, digging the pack of Seven Stars out of his pocket. The lighter flares a quick, jagged spark, and he inhales.

Acrid and grounding smoke fills his lungs. He holds it for three seconds, then lets it out in a thin gray stream that dispels instantly in the wind.

His hands are still shaking. Just a little. No one would see it unless they were looking for it. It’s not nerves. It’s the adrenaline of failure. The feeling that the connection between his brain and his fingers has been severed, the wire cut, leaving him stranded in this body that remembers how to be great but can’t execute it.

Taiga taps ash onto the balcony floor. He should get an ashtray.

He looks back inside. His desk is a mess. Papers, empty coffee cups, cables. And the camera.

The Samsung NX1 sits on top of a stack of staff paper, the lens cap off.

Taiga hasn’t touched it since the taco night. Since he walked with Hokuto and let his friends ambush him with loud voices. He hasn’t looked at the photos.

He shouldn’t look at them.

But the itch is there. A stupid, self-destructive curiosity.

Taiga crushes the cigarette out on the metal railing, leaving a black smudge, and steps back inside. The apartment is quiet. Anzu is drinking water, the lap-lap-lap sound rhythmic and wet.

He picks up the camera. It’s heavy and familiar in his hand.

He flicks the power switch. The screen hums to life.

It’s already on the playback screen. The practice towers.

Taiga stares at the LCD screen.

The image flickers.

His stomach drops—that lurching, vertigo sensation like missing a step on a staircase. He tries to look away, to drop the camera, but his hands lock up. The edges of the apartment blur, the sound of Anzu drinking water stretches into a low, distorted drone, and then—

Snap.

The silence is artificial. It’s the hush of a bureaucratic office.

He’s standing under harsh, fluorescent lights. The air smells like copy toner and floor wax.

It’s a counter. A long, laminate counter with a glass partition. There’s a number on a digital display overhead: 204.

Taiga looks down at his hands. They aren’t shaking. They’re resting on a piece of paper.

Marriage registration.

The ink is fresh. The kanji for Kyomoto is written in the first box. His handwriting. Small, slanted, precise.

He looks to his right.

Hokuto.

He’s wearing a coat that’s too nice for a Thursday afternoon—beige wool, structured collar. His hair is slightly longer, darker maybe. He’s holding a pen, but he isn’t writing. He’s staring at the paper like it’s a religious text.

“It’s done,” the clerk says. A woman. Bored voice. She stamps the document, red ink sealing the deal.

Hokuto lets out a breath that sounds like a sob breaking loose.

Taiga recoils. “Don’t,” he hears himself say. His voice—future-Taiga’s voice—is rough. “You’re making a scene.”

But there’s no bite in it. It sounds... fond. It sounds weak.

Future-Hokuto turns to him. His eyes are wet. Actually wet. Tears are clinging to his lashes, magnifying them. It’s humiliating. Who cries at a ward office? It’s paperwork. It’s logistics.

“I’m not,” he laughs, but the sound is thick. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small velvet box. He fumbles it open.

Two bands. Simple. Gold.

Future-Hokuto takes future-Taiga’s hand. His fingers are warm—too warm. They’re trembling. He slides the ring onto future-Taiga’s finger, over the knuckle. It fits perfectly. It feels heavy, like a shackle, like an anchor.

“I promise,” future-Hokuto whispers. He’s not looking at the ring; he’s looking at future-Taiga’s face. His gaze is terrifyingly open. There’s no guard up. He looks at future-Taiga like he’s something fragile that he’s terrified of dropping. “I’m going to make you happy, Taiga. Every day.”

Taiga feels a stinging sensation in his eyes.

No.

He fights it. He tries to blink it away, to sneer, to pull his hand back. But the body doesn’t obey. Future-Taiga stands there, paralyzed. Everything feels tight—his throat, his chest.

A tear spills over. He feels it track hot down his cheek.

Then another.

He’s crying. He’s standing in a public government building, wearing a ring put there by a man he barely knows in the present, and he’s crying. Not out of anger. Not out of frustration.

It’s relief. It’s a sickening, overwhelming wave of relief. As if he’s been holding his breath for ten years and finally let it go.

Taiga looks at future-Hokuto, and he doesn’t see the annoyance. He doesn’t see the threat. He sees the only solid thing in the room.

“You better,” Future-Taiga chokes out, his voice cracking. He wipes at his eyes aggressively with his sleeve, sniffing. “If you mess this up, I’m keeping the apartment.”

Hokuto laughs again, and he steps close—ignoring the clerk, ignoring the people waiting in the plastic chairs behind them—and pulls him in. His arms go around future-Taiga’s shoulders. He smells like cedar and old books.

Future-Taiga leans into future-Hokuto. He buries his face in his neck. He hides.

Stop it, present-Taiga screams internally. Stop being so pathetic.

But future-Taiga doesn’t. He stays there, clinging to future-Hokuto, letting the latter hold him up.

The fluorescent lights flare brighter. Whiter. Blinding.

Snap.

Taiga gasps. He stumbles back, his hip checking the edge of the desk.

“Fuck.”

He’s panting. His heart is hammering against his ribs, a frantic, erratic rhythm that has nothing to do with Handel.

He swipes a hand across his face. His cheek is wet.

He stares at his fingers. A single drop of moisture smears against his skin.

Taiga rubs it off furiously against his jeans. “No,” he hisses.

The apartment is exactly as he left it. The dust motes are still floating in the afternoon sun. Anzu is back on her bed, chewing on the fringe of the rug. She pauses, looking up at him with mild concern.

Taiga stares at the camera sitting on the desk. The screen has gone blank.

He picks it up again.

His hands are steady now. The panic from the vision is receding, replaced by a cold, sharp curiosity.

Taiga presses the playback button.

The screen flashes.

Anzu.

It’s a shot he took a week ago. She’s sleeping on his bed, buried in the duvet. He stares at it, bracing himself for the lurch, the vertigo, the shift in reality.

Nothing happens. The image stays static.

Taiga scrolls back. Another one of Anzu. Then one of Jesse, blurred because he wouldn’t stop moving, taken when he forced his way into Taiga’s space last week.

Nothing.

He keeps scrolling, faster now. Yugo drinking coffee. Static. Juri browsing through sheet music. Static.

Then, the shrine.

Flicker.

Taiga slams the playback forward immediately, heart skipping a beat. He doesn’t let the vision take hold.

Okay.

He exhales, the breath hissing through his teeth. The pattern is emerging. The glitch—the hallucination, whatever the hell this is—doesn't trigger on living things. It triggers on objects. Places. Things that stay still long enough to anchor a timeline. The shrine. The piano. The building.

People are safe. Animals are safe.

Taiga stops on the final photo he took ten days ago.

Hokuto is crouching on the pavement. Anzu is a blur of gray fur against his legs, but he is sharp. Perfect focus.

Taiga zooms in.

Hokuto’s smiling. It’s not the polite, customer-service smile he usually gives, or the thin, tight smile he uses when Juri is being annoying. It’s small, but it changes the entire architecture of his face. His eyes are crinkled at the corners. He looks soft.

He looks like he belongs in the frame.

A strange sensation ripples through Taiga’s chest. It’s not pain, exactly. It’s warmer. A sudden, uncomfortable tightening behind his ribs, like a chord struck too hard on a piano that hasn’t been tuned in years. It lingers, buzzing in the hollow of his throat.

He stares at the curve of Hokuto’s mouth on the screen.

In the vision—the office, the registry—future-Hokuto was crying. He looked at future-Taiga with that terrifying openness, promising to make him happy. promising to take care of him.

And in 2030, he dies. Because of Taiga. Because he quit the Philharmonic. Because he stood on a platform waiting for a train he shouldn’t have been catching.

The warmth in his chest turns sour.

Whatever this feeling is—this pull, this stupid, weak desire to keep looking at Hokuto’s face—it has to be crushed. It’s clumsy. It’s messy. It leads to a funeral.

He thinks of Morimoto Shintaro. Loud, obnoxious, uncomplicated Morimoto Shintaro. Watching him grill beef for Hokuto like it was a sacred duty. Calling him "Hokkun."

That’s the fix.

Shintaro is loud enough to drown out the quiet parts of Hokuto that attract trouble. Shintaro is safe. If Hokuto is with him, he stays on the ground. He doesn't marry a washed-up pianist. He doesn't die.

Taiga snaps the lens cap back on. The screen goes blank, taking Hokuto’s smile with it.

He sets the camera back down on the desk and turns back to the piano. The Handel score is still sitting on the stand, waiting to be butchered.

His wrist still hurts. The trill is still going to sound like gravel.

Taiga sits down on the bench. He rolls his shoulders back, feeling the tension snap and crackle in his neck.

“Again,” he says.

He slams his fingers onto the keys.

🎹

The door to the practice room is heavier than it looks. Taiga shoves it open with his shoulder, the latch clicking shut behind him with a dull thud that seals the air conditioning in.

Professor Mori is already there. He’s sitting on the small bench in the corner, a score resting on his knees, looking like he hasn’t moved in a decade. He doesn't check his watch, which irritates Taiga more than if he had.

“Kyomoto-kun,” he says with that pleasant tone he uses for frightened first-years.

“Sensei.” Taiga drops his bag near the door. He walks to the piano and stands there for a second, running a hand through his hair. His fingers catch a tangle.

“What do you have for me?” Professor Mori asks.

Taiga sits on the bench. It’s still warm from whoever was in here before him. He shifts, adjusting the height, making a show of checking the pedals. “Handel. Suite in A Major.”

Professor Mori pauses. His eyebrows lift, just a fraction. “The A Major,” he repeats. He closes the score on his lap. “You played that at the Minato Ward Junior Competition. You were nine.”

“I was.” Taiga’s voice is flat. He doesn’t need the history lesson. He remembers the suit scratching his neck.

“You played it too fast then,” Professor Mori says, a faint smile touching his lips. “You were in a hurry to get to the Gigue.”

“I’m not nine anymore.”

“Let’s see.”

Taiga hovers his hands above the keys. The opening chord of the Prelude is simple. A rolled A major. It’s not Rachmaninoff. It’s not the heavy, bleeding-heart romanticism that everyone here seems obsessed with. It’s structured. Clean.

He presses down.

The sound is bright, bouncing off the acoustic panels. The acoustics here are too dry, but today the notes seem to snap into place before he can critique them.

He moves into the Allemande.

Usually, by the third bar, his brain starts dissecting. Too loud. Uneven weight on the fourth finger. The phrasing is derivative. The critic in his head rarely shuts up; he has a British accent and sounds like the professors in London who looked at him with pity.

But the Handel is relentless. It rolls forward.

His fingers find the patterns without him telling them to. It’s muscle memory, but older. Deeper. It’s the memory of hands that haven’t been broken by failure yet.

Taiga hits the Courante, and the tempo jumps.

For a second, the room blurs. He’s not staring at the black lacquer of the Yamaha fallboard. He’s seeing the dust motes floating in the spotlight of a district hall. His feet are dangling, barely brushing the pedals. He doesn’t feel the stiffness in his shoulders. He doesn’t feel the weight of the last three years.

There’s a run in the right hand—a fast, climbing scale. Taiga rushes it. His thumb slips, clipping a B-flat that shouldn't exist.

A mistake.

Normally, his jaw would clench. He’d stop. He’d apologize. He’d freeze up, waiting for the ruler to slap his wrist or the sigh of disappointment.

He doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t care.

The error dissolves into the rhythm. Taiga pushes the tempo harder, chasing the melody. It’s reckless. It’s sloppy. It’s the kind of playing that gets points deducted for “lack of discipline,” but the vibration coming up through the keys feels good. It feels like sprinting until his lungs burn.

He’s grinning. He feels it in the corners of his mouth—a sharp, involuntary twitch. It’s stupid. It’s just Handel. It’s just scales and chords. But the logic of it is perfect.

He tears into the Gigue. The final movement. The left hand jumping, the right hand answering. It’s a conversation—an argument.

Taiga slams the final chord.

The sound hangs in the dead air of the practice room, ringing in his ears. His chest is heaving. His hands are hovering over the keys, trembling slightly.

The nine-year-old ghost vanishes. The walls of the practice room rush back in. The silence is heavy again.

Taiga drops his hands into his lap. He doesn’t look at Professor Mori. He stares at the keys, waiting for the critique. Sloppy. Rushed. Immature.

Professor Mori adjusts his glasses. He looks at Taiga, then at the music stand, then back at Taiga.

“That was refreshing,” he says.

Taiga blinks. He almost asks the professor if his hearing aid is broken, but he bites the inside of his cheek instead. “I rushed the Courante.”

“You did,” Professor Mori agrees. He leans back, the wood of the bench creaking under him. “You also clipped the B-flat in the scale run, and your left hand was heavy in the Allemande. Technically, it was a mess.”

“So—”

“So,” Professor Mori interrupts, shifting his weight. “It was the most honest thing I’ve heard you play since you came back from London.”

Taiga’s hands curl into fists on his lap. He doesn’t want to be honest. He wants to be precise. Precision doesn’t leave room for people to stare at him with that soft, invasive look that Professor Mori is giving him right now.

“You looked like you were enjoying yourself,” the professor adds.

Taiga stiffens. The sweat on the back of his neck feels immediately cold. “I wasn’t.”

“No?” He raises an eyebrow. “You were smiling, Kyomoto-kun.”

He touches the corner of his mouth then drops his hand instantly. “It was adrenaline. I was just trying to get through the piece.”

“Whatever you want to call it.” Professor Mori picks up a pen and scribbles something on his clipboard. The scratching sound is loud in the quiet room. He caps the pen with a sharp click. “I’m giving you an A.”

Taiga’s jaw drops. He snaps it shut. “An A?”

“Startling, isn’t it?” Professor Mori smiles, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “If you hadn’t butchered the scale, it would have been an S. But I can’t ignore the missed notes entirely.”

“I don’t deserve an A,” Taiga says bluntly. “It was sloppy.”

“It was alive,” Professor Mori counters. His voice drops, losing the playful edge. It becomes the voice of the man who trained Taiga when he was six—serious, demanding, seeing too much. “I will take five minutes of genuine feeling over a hundred hours of perfect, dead technique. You’ve been playing like a machine lately. A broken one. Today, you played like a musician.”

Taiga stares at the keys. The white ivory looks yellow under the fluorescent lights. He feels nauseous. This is pity disguised as praise. Professor Mori’s grading on a curve because Taiga’s the damaged student who failed abroad.

“However,” Professor Mori says, standing up. He smooths out his trousers. “Midterms are one thing. Finals are another. You can’t rely on adrenaline for the jury. They’ll want the polish back.” He walks over to the window, looking out at the Practice Tower’s gray façade. “Can you manage it? The polish and the feeling?”

Taiga grips his knees. His knuckles turn white. Professor Mori’s asking if he can be the prodigy again, minus the fear.

He doesn’t know the answer. But his pride answers before his brain does. “I can manage,” he says.

Professor Mori turns back. He studies Taiga for a long second, his eyes searching for a crack.

Taiga holds his gaze, keeping his face blank.

“Good enough for now,” the professor finally says. He waves a hand toward the door. “That’s what trying is for. Accompanying properly, playing with intention—it’s all practice for living, isn’t it?”

Taiga doesn’t have a response to that pseudo-philosophical nonsense. He grabs his bag from the floor, swinging it over his shoulder.

“You’re dismissed,” Professor Mori says.

Taiga doesn’t bow. He just nods sharply and quickly and heads for the door.

The latch gives way with a heavy metallic clack. He steps out into the hallway and lets the heavy door slam shut behind him to cut off the sound of his mentor’s approval.

The hallway of the Practice Tower is a sensory nightmare. The moment the heavy door clicks shut behind him, the silence of the practice room is replaced by the panicked frequency of midterms week. It sounds like a zoo where the animals are being graded on pitch. Somewhere down the corridor, a soprano is screeching high C’s in a way that suggests she’s being murdered, and the air smells like stale coffee and desperation.

Taiga weaves through the crowd of students huddled near the vending machines to head to the stairway. They’re all clutching scores like holy scripture, murmuring tempos and key signatures with manic looks in their eyes.

He keeps his head down. He doesn’t need to see the panic. He doesn’t need anyone asking him how his session with Professor Mori went.

“Taiga!”

The voice booms over the noise of tuning violins.

Taiga cringes before he even turns around.

Jesse is leaning against the wall near the stairwell, looking obscenely energetic for someone who just finished an exam. He’s wearing a bright orange bomber jacket that hurts Taiga’s eyes.

“You look like you saw a ghost,” Jesse says, grinning. “Or did Mori actually eat you this time?”

“I survived,” Taiga says, keeping his stride. He doesn’t mention the A, the adrenaline, or the way the Handel felt under his fingers. That’s his. “You done with Acting for Singers?”

“Crushed it.” Jesse falls into step beside him, his long legs eating up the distance effortlessly. “Did a monologue from The Glass Menagerie. Sensei said my ‘yearning’ was palpable. Can you believe that? Palpable.”

“Congrats on the yearning,” Taiga mutters.

“We heading to Yugo?”

“He’s finishing Conducting.” Taiga checks his watch. “If he didn’t drop the baton, he should be out in five minutes.”

They head downstairs and to the second floor. The crowd thins out slightly as they move, but the tension in the air is still thick. Jesse hums something under his breath—probably a pop song—completely immune to the stress radiating off everyone else. It’s exhausting just being near him.

“So,” Jesse says, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper that isn’t quiet at all. “Speaking of yearning.”

Taiga looks at him sideways.

“You’ve seen it, right? The way Shintaro looks at Hokuto?”

Taiga feels a sharp, sudden knot tighten in his stomach. It’s probably indigestion. He skipped lunch. “Everyone has eyes, Jesse. Shintaro isn’t exactly subtle.”

“Subtle? The kid practically vibrates whenever Hokuto walks into the room. It’s like a puppy seeing a treat.” Jesse laughs, scratching the back of his neck. “Juri and I have a pool going. We’re betting on when Shin’s finally gonna crack and confess.”

Taiga’s jaw tightens. “You’re betting on them?”

“Harmless fun. Juri thinks Shintaro is gonna drag it out for two months. Says he’s too scared to ruin the roommate dynamic. I put my money on the summer break. Summer Boy, summer romance, right?”

“That’s stupid.” The words come out harsher than he intended.

“Oh, come on! Don’t be a buzzkill.” Jesse nudges Taiga’s shoulder. “What’s your take? You’re observant. When does the dam break?”

Taiga looks straight ahead. The image of the two of them—Shintaro grilling beef for Hokuto, Hokuto’s soft, tolerant smile—flashes in his mind. It irritates him. It’s annoying how perfectly they fit, how simple it would be.

And it needs to happen. That’s the logic.

So why does the thought make Taiga want to punch a wall?

“Next week,” he says, his voice clipped.

Jesse stops walking. He stares at Taiga, eyes wide. “Next week? You’re insane. Shintaro is terrified.”

“Shintaro has zero filter,” Taiga says, forcing a shrug. He ignores the heat rising under his collar. “He’s loud, he’s impulsive, and he’s incapable of keeping a secret. He’ll blurt it out by accident before the ink dries on his exam paper.”

“Bold prediction.” Jesse grins, looking impressed. “If you’re right, you win the pot. Five thousand yen.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“Too bad. You’re in.” He claps Taiga on the back, hard enough to make him stumble a step. “Let’s go save Yugo before he orchestrates his own funeral.”

They stop in front of Studio 212. The hallway is clogged with composition majors, most of them looking like they haven’t slept since the semester began.

“He’s in there with Iino-sensei,” Jesse whispers, though for him, a whisper is just a shout with slightly less diaphragm. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I heard Iino is tough. He eats key signatures for breakfast.”

“If Yugo messed up, he’ll know it,” Taiga says, leaning against the wall. He keeps his bag slung over one shoulder, gripping the strap. “He doesn’t need a cheerleader.”

“Everyone needs a cheerleader, Taiga. Even you.”

Taiga ignores that.

The door to the studio swings open. Three students stumble out first, clutching their scores and looking shell-shocked. Then Yugo steps into the hallway. He looks pale, his button-up shirt slightly wrinkled at the elbows, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand that Taiga knows is calloused from leatherwork, not just piano keys.

He takes a deep breath, scanning the crowd. Before he can even focus, Jesse launches himself off the wall.

“Yugo!”

Jesse wraps his arms around Yugo, ignoring the spectral stares of the composition zombies around them, and practically lifts him off the floor. Yugo stiffens for a split second and then melts. His shoulders drop. He leans into the bright orange bomber jacket like it’s the only structural support in the building.

“I’m alive,” Yugo mumbles into Jesse’s shoulder.

“You crushed it,” Jesse says, pulling back just enough to grab Yugo’s face, looking at him with an intensity that borders on ridiculous. “I know you did. You’ve got that ‘I just conducted a masterpiece’ face.”

“I have my ‘I nearly dropped the baton in 4/4 time’ face,” Yugo corrects, but he’s smiling. That real smile, the one where his eyes almost disappear.

Taiga watches them, feeling like an intruder in his own line of sight.

It’s hard to reconcile this with the first time he met Jesse. It was two years ago, back when he was still riding the high of being the “prodigy” before London chewed him up. Yugo had dragged him to a café in Shibuya, acting nervous, which was rare for him.

Then this kid walked in—seventeen, lanky, wearing mismatched sneakers and laughing at something on his phone.

“This is Jesse,” Yugo had said. “My boyfriend.”

Taiga remembers staring at the kid. He was loud. He was American. He was a child. He looked at Yugo, nineteen and serious, the guy who packed emergency kits for hiking trips, and he thought his best friend had lost his mind. He thought, What the hell do you talk about? Does he even understand half of what you worry about?

Taiga gave it a month. Maybe two.

He was wrong.

Watching them now, amidst the noise of the conservatory hallway, the logic of it clicks into place. Yugo carries the weight of the world—his family, his expectations, Taiga—and he starts to sink under it. Jesse is the buoyancy. Jesse doesn’t just tolerate Yugo’s heaviness; he doesn’t even seem to notice it. He just grabs on and pulls him up for air.

And Yugo... Yugo gives Jesse a place to land.

It works. It’s irritatingly perfect.

Jesse is still talking, hyping up Yugo’s genius to anyone within a five-foot radius, and Yugo is laughing, looking lighter than he has all week.

Taiga looks away, staring at a scuff mark on the linoleum floor. There’s a tightness in his chest that has nothing to do with the Handel he just played. It’s envy. Not because he wants Jesse—God no, he doesn’t have the energy for that much noise—but because of the ease of it. The safety.

Yugo is damaged in his own way—anxious, overprotective—but he found someone who fits into the cracks.

Taiga shifts his weight, adjusting his bag. He’s jagged edges and burnt bridges. He pushed everyone away after London. He treats compliments like threats. He has hallucinations of a future where love apparently ends in a train wreck because he’s a curse to anyone who gets close.

People like Yugo get safe harbors. People like Taiga get storms. That’s just the hierarchy.

He squashes the thought immediately.

“Hey,” Yugo calls out, finally extricating himself from Jesse’s grip. He looks at Taiga, his expression softening into that protective, ‘mom-friend’ concern. “You look tired, Taiga. How was Mori?”

“Fine,” Taiga says, pushing off the wall. He forces his face into neutral. “Let’s just get out of here.”

“Celebratory ice cream,” Yugo announces. He says it like he’s prescribing medication. “In Harajuku. There’s that place that stacks the scoops like the Tower of Pisa.”

Taiga stops walking. The hallway traffic flows around them, a river of violin cases and exhausted students. “Harajuku?” he repeats, staring at his best friend. “It’s 3 PM. The tourists will be swarming. It’ll be loud.”

“It’ll be delicious,” Jesse chimes in, bouncing on his heels. “Come on, Taiga. You survived Mori. You should be popping champagne, or at least eating pure sugar.”

Taiga’s first instinct is no. It’s always no. Going to Harajuku means crowds, noise, and watching Jesse and Yugo feed each other in public. It means pretending that he’s not the third wheel on a unicycle. His apartment is quiet. That’s where he should be.

But then he thinks about the apartment. The silence there isn’t just quiet anymore; it’s heavy. It’s the kind of silence where he starts thinking about train accidents and wedding rings and a future he has to dismantle.

Taiga shifts his weight, looking past Yugo’s hopeful expression. “I’m not going without Anzu.”

Yugo blinks. Jesse freezes mid-bounce.

“I have to go back to the apartment to get her,” Taiga says, crossing his arms. “She’s been alone since this morning. If we’re gonna walk around Harajuku, she comes with me. Take it or leave it.”

Jesse’s face splits into a grin so wide it looks painful. He opens his mouth, probably to shout something embarrassing, but Yugo elbows him sharply in the ribs.

“Sounds fair,” Yugo says, his voice carefully neutral. “We can swing by your place first. Jesse can help carry the carrier down the stairs.”

“I got it,” Jesse says, saluting. He’s vibrating with suppressed energy, looking like a golden retriever commanded to stay.

“Fine,” Taiga mutters. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”

They head toward the exit, the glass doors of the main building sliding open to let in the humid air. The streets are busy, but the noise feels distant compared to the chaos inside the conservatory. Taiga walks with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched slightly against the humidity.

Yugo lets Jesse trot a few paces ahead—something about spotting a vending machine with a rare soda flavor—and falls into step beside Taiga. His stride is easy, matched to his. He doesn’t say anything for a block, just letting the rhythm of their footsteps settle.

“You’re actually saying yes,” he says.

Taiga doesn’t look at him, focusing on a crack in the pavement. “It’s ice cream, Yugo. It’s not a marriage proposal.”

The words taste sour as soon as they leave his mouth. Marriage proposal. His brain flashes—a living room, a silver band, Hokuto’s face soft with a promise he didn't earn. He grits his teeth.

“You know what I mean,” Yugo says, ignoring Taiga’s tone. “A month ago, you would have bailed. You would have gone home, shut the blinds, and ignored my texts until the next morning. Now you’re going to dinners. You’re studying in groups. You’re… here.”

“I made a deal,” Taiga says defensively. “I told you I’d try until July. This is me trying.”

“Is it?” Yugo glances at him. The corners of his eyes crinkle—that knowing look he gets that makes Taiga want to punch him and thank him at the same time. “It feels like something else. You seem… present.”

“Don’t read much into it,” Taiga snaps. “I just want Anzu to get some fresh air. That dog is spoiled; she gets depressed if she doesn’t see people.”

“Right. It’s for Anzu-chan.”

“Drop it.”

Yugo chuckles softly and speeds up to catch Jesse, who is currently debating the merits of melon soda with a lamppost.

Taiga lingers a few steps behind them. He hates that Yugo’s right. He is saying yes. He’s walking toward a crowded train station instead of running away. It feels unnatural, like wearing a shirt that’s two sizes too small, but he’s doing it.

And he knows exactly why.

“Taiga! Hurry up!” Jesse yells from the corner, waving his arms like a windmill.

“I’m coming,” Taiga mutters. “Shut up.”

He picks up his pace. It doesn’t matter. As long as he keeps moving, he doesn’t have to think about why the ghost of a wedding ring feels heavier on his finger than the A on his scorecard.

🎹

The sound of six beer glasses colliding is sharp enough to crack a tooth.

Foam sloshes over the rim of Jesse’s mug and splashes onto his hand, but he doesn't care. He’s shouting something about freedom. Shintaro is cheering along with him, vibrating with that endless energy that makes Taiga want to lie down on the floor.

“To barely surviving midterms!” Jesse yells.

“To sleep!” Shintaro adds.

“Cheers!”

Taiga takes a long drink. The beer cuts through the grease of the yakitori they haven’t even ordered yet.

The air in the izakaya is thick, a haze of cigarette smoke and burnt soy sauce clinging to the low ceiling. His clothes are going to smell like charcoal for a week.

He hates crowded places. He hates the noise. But staying in his apartment would mean staring at the Samsung on his desk and wondering what vision of a life he doesn’t deserve he’ll see, so he’s here.

“We shouldn’t celebrate yet,” Juri says, leaning back against the wooden booth. He’s got that lazy smirk plastered on. “Grades aren’t posted until Monday. I definitely failed Theory.”

“You always say you failed,” Yugo says, passing a menu down the table. “And then you get a B-minus.”

“A B-minus is a failure of character,” Juri shoots back. “But hey, June is here. New month, new disasters.”

Jesse slams his empty mug down. “Birthday month!”

Taiga cringes. Of course.

“Gemini season, baby!” Jesse says, pointing a finger at Juri, then himself, then Hokuto. ”Juri’s the fifteenth. I’m the eleventh. And Hokuto is the eighteenth, right?”

Hokuto nods. He’s sitting across from Taiga, sipping his beer slowly. He looks tired—dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes—but his shoulders are looser than they were yesterday.

Shintaro is practically sitting in Hokuto’s lap, eagerly pushing a plate of edamame toward the flutist. “We have to do something huge,” Shintaro says, his mouth full. “A triple party!”

“I’m broke,” Juri says.

“I’ll cook,” Hokuto offers quietly.

“No!” Jesse and Shintaro yell in unison.

“It’s your birthday!” Shintaro insists, looking offended on Hokuto’s behalf. “You don’t work on your birthday. That’s the law. I’ll buy you a cake! A massive one.”

Taiga watches them. Shintaro is doting on Hokuto. It’s good. It’s exactly what needs to happen to keep the timeline from collapsing into tragedy.

“What about you, Kyomo?” Juri kicks his foot under the table. “Did Mori chew you up and spit you out?”

Taiga stares at the condensation sliding down his glass. “I got an A.”

Jesse chokes on a bean. Yugo stops chewing.

“Seriously?” Juri asks, his smirk dropping for half a second.

“Whatever,” Taiga mutters, swirling the beer. “He said the technique was garbage. But he liked the… instinct. Or something.”

“An A is an A,” Yugo says, sounding relieved. It’s annoying.

“That’s amazing, Taiga!” Jesse reaches over to high-five him.

Taiga dodges him.

Then he feels it. The weight of a gaze.

He glances up.

Hokuto is looking at him. He’s not joining the noise. He’s just sitting there, watching Taiga over the rim of his glass. His expression is soft, unguarded. The corners of his eyes are crinkled.

He looks proud.

It’s disgusting. It makes Taiga’s chest tighten, a sharp, hot pressure behind his ribs that feels like panic. He doesn’t want Hokuto pride. He doesn’t want Hokuto looking at him like he did something special. It’s dangerous.

Taiga looks away, scowling at the menu. “Order more meat,” he snaps at Shintaro. “You’re slacking.”

Shintaro salutes and starts yelling for the waiter, breaking the moment.

Taiga drains his glass, trying to wash the feeling away.

🎹

Two hours later, the table looks like a battlefield.

Empty pitchers clutter the center, surrounded by the carcasses of edamame and yakitori skewers. The air is thick enough to chew on.

Taiga’s on his third whiskey highball—the large size—and he feels nothing. The ice clinks against the glass, mocking him.

Just his luck. He can’t even drown out the noise in his own head.

Jesse is fine, too. Maybe it’s the American genes, or maybe his metabolism burns alcohol simply by vibrating at a high frequency. Shintaro is knocking back beers like water, his laughter shaking the booth.

The others are a disaster.

Yugo has melted. That’s the only word for it. He’s completely slumped against Jesse’s shoulder, his usual composure dissolved into a puddle of clingy affection. Jesse looks thrilled, petting Yugo’s hair like he’s a golden retriever who finally caught the ball.

Juri is worse. He’s sprawled sideways, balancing a skewer on his nose and muttering something about Chopin being a “sentimental hack.”

Then there’s Hokuto.

He’s quiet, but it’s a sloppy quiet. His elbows are propped on the table, face flushed a deep, alarming pink that runs all the way down his neck. His glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose. He looks... loose. Soft edges where there used to be walls.

He blinks slowly, like a cat in the sun. It’s irritating. It’s irritating because he looks harmless, and Taiga knows for a fact that he isn’t.

“Hokkun, drink water,” Shintaro says, shoving a glass into Hokuto’s hand. “You’re swaying.”

Hokuto giggles. A soft, breathy sound that has no business coming out of a grown man. “I’m not swaying. The room is swaying.”

“Yeah, sure. Drink.” Shintaro brushes a strand of hair out of Hokuto’s eyes. His hand lingers on Hokuto’s forehead.

Taiga grips his glass until his knuckles turn white. Good, he tells himself. This is the plan.

He takes a long drink, ignoring the way his chest feels tight, like he’s swallowed a stone.

Suddenly, Hokuto turns his head. He finds Taiga across the table. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, but they lock onto his with terrifying intensity.

“Kyomoto,” he says. He slurs Taiga’s name, dragging out the vowels.

“Don’t talk to me,” Taiga says. “You’re drunk.”

“You’re so...” He gestures vaguely with one hand, nearly knocking over the soy sauce. “You’re always so angry. But you’re here.”

“I was bribed,” Taiga snaps.

“I like it,” Hokuto murmurs. He leans forward, chin resting precariously on his palm. He’s looking at Taiga like he’s a piece of music he’s trying to figure out. “Everyone else is so... loud. Or moving too fast. But you stay still. It’s grounding.”

The noise of the izakaya fades into a dull roar. Grounding. He has no idea. Taiga’s not grounding him; he’s trying to cut the rope. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, his voice rough.

“I do,” Hokuto insists softly. The flush on his cheeks deepens. “I think I could really...”

He trails off. His eyes widen. The soft expression vanishes, replaced by a distinct shade of green.

Hokuto clamps a hand over his mouth.

“Oh shit,” Shintaro says.

Hokuto scrambles out of the booth, stumbling over Juri’s legs, and bolts toward the exit.

Shintaro is up in a second. “I got him! I got him!” he yells, chasing after Hokuto like a dedicated bodyguard.

Taiga watches them go. The door swings shut behind them, cutting off the view of the rainy street.

He sits there, staring at the empty space where Hokuto was just sitting. His hand twitches—a reflex, an instinct to move, to follow, to be the one rubbing his back while he heaves up everything he ate.

The impulse makes him sick.

Taiga stands up abruptly, startling Yugo out of his stupor.

“Taiga?” Jesse asks, blinking. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” Taiga says. He throws a handful of bills onto the table—probably too much, but he doesn’t care to count it. “I’m done.”

He walks out before they can stop him, stepping into the cold night air, intentionally turning in the opposite direction of where Hokuto and Shintaro went.

🪈

The morning light doesn’t break gently; it feels more like an intrusion, a sharp, white demand that Hokuto opens his eyes before he’s ready.

He groans, the sound vibrating unpleasantly in his chest, and rolls over. The pillow is warm, but his head feels like it’s been packed with wet sand. There’s a dull, rhythmic throb behind his eyes that syncs perfectly with his heartbeat.

11:09 am.

He stares at the digital clock on his bedside table, watching the minute change. He rarely sleeps this late. He rarely lets himself lose control like this.

Fragments of last night drift back to him. The smell of charcoal smoke. The clatter of beer glasses. The way the room tilted sideways, sliding out of focus. He remembers the cold air of the alleyway, the damp pavement under his knees, and Shintaro’s hand patiently rubbing circles on his back, unbothered by the mess that he was making.

Guilt settles in Hokuto’s stomach, heavier than the nausea. He made Shintaro take care of him. He was supposed to be the older brother, the responsible, and instead, he was the one who needed to be guided home.

And before that.

His memory stutters. He was looking at Taiga. He remembers the heat in his face, the way the noise of the izakaya seemed to face when he focused on the pianist. Taiga looked angry—he almost always looked angry—but he hadn’t left.

He said something.

But he can’t remember what.

Hokuto squeezes his eyes shut, trying to remember the conversation, but it slips away like water through fingers. He remembers the sensation of wanting to lean forward, of wanting Taiga to know that his presence felt like an anchor in a room full of drift, but the specific words are gone.

He hopes he didn’t say anything too strange. He hopes he didn’t burden Taiga with feelings he clearly doesn’t want.

Taiga probably thinks he’s pathetic. The drunk flute player who couldn’t handle his beer and had to be dragged home by his roommate.

“Ugh.” Hokuto pushes himself up. The room spins once, then settles.

He needs water. He needs to apologize to Shintaro.

Hokuto swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands up. His body feels brittle, as if one wrong move might snap something essential. He grabs his glasses from the nightstand, sliding them on. The world sharpens, which helps with the dizziness.

He steps out into the hallway.

Voices drift from the living room. One is loud, entirely too cheerful; the other sounds like a dying animal.

He rounds the corner and stops.

Yugo is slumped on the couch, looking less like a person and more like a pile of laundry that someone forgot to fold. His head is thrown back against the cushion, one arm draped over his eyes, shielding them from the balcony light. He looks gray.

Jesse is standing over him, vibrating with energy that feels oppressive even from here. He’s holding a large, neon-blue bottle of sports drink like it’s a holy relic.

“C’mon, babe!” Jesse booms, his voice bouncing off the walls. “You gotta hydrate! The electrolytes are the key. It’s science!”

“Lower,” Yugo croaks. “Your volume. Please.”

“Chug! Chug! Chug!” Jesse starts chanting, thrusting the bottle toward Yugo’s chest.

Yugo cracks one eye open, looks at the sloshing blue liquid, and immediately gags. He claps a hand over his mouth, turning green.

“Whoa, okay! No chug! No chug!” Jesse panics, pulling the bottle back as if it’s a grenade. “Breath through the nose! Happy thoughts! Think about camping!”

Hokuto should help. He should step in and mediate, maybe tell Jesse to give Yugo some space, but his own headache pulses violently at Jesse’s shouting.

He moves to the single armchair near the window, moving as quietly as he can, and sinking into it. He feels useless, but the idea of speaking feels like lifting a heavy weight.

“Morning,” Shintaro says.

Hokuto flinches. He didn’t hear the younger one come up beside him.

Shintaro is standing there, looking annoyingly fresh. He’s wearing basketball shorts and a loose t-shirt, his hair messy in a way that looks intentional. He’s holding a glass of water and a small, gold bottle—Ukon no Chikara. The turmeric drink for hangovers.

“Here,” he says, shoving them toward Hokuto.

Hokuto takes them, his fingers brushing against his warm hand. “Thank you,” he whispers, his voice rough. “For this. And… for last night.”

Shintaro waves his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. You were heavy, though. Dead weight. I felt like I was dragging a sack of potatoes through Ueno.”

He’s joking, but the guilt flares again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Drink the turmeric, Hokkun,” he interrupts, but his tone is soft. He sits on the arm of Hokuto’s chair, looking down with a critical eye. “You look terrible.”

“I feel terrible.”

“Good. That means your liver is working.” He glances over at the couch, where Jesse is now gently dabbing Yugo’s forehead with a damp towel, whispering apologies at a frantic speed. Shintaro snorts. “At least you’re not as bad as Yugo. He tried to fight a recycling bin on the way to the station. The bin won.”

Hokuto manages a weak smile. The movement pulls at his dry lips. “I missed that part.”

“You were busy trying to apologize to the pavement,” Shintaro says.

Hokuto unscrews the cap of the gold bottle and downs it in one go. It tastes earthy and medicinal, but he welcomes it. He chases it with the water, feeling the cool liquid hit his empty stomach.

“I need to make food,” Shintaro announces, slapping his knees. “Miso soup. Maybe some rice porridge. Something that doesn’t require chewing.”

“You don’t have to,” Hokuto says instinctively. “I can make something later. You’ve done enough.”

“Sit down,” Shintaro orders, pointing a finger at him. “If you stand up, you’re gonna faint, and I am not catching you twice in 24 hours. My back can’t take it.” He turns and heads for the kitchen.

Hokuto watches Shintaro go, listening to the familiar sounds of him rummaging through the cupboards. He’s humming.

He sinks deeper into the chair, clutching the empty glass.

Across the room, Yugo groans again. “I’m dying,” he whispers. “Jesse, I’m dying. Leave me here. Save yourself.”

“You’re not dying!” Jesse says, looking genuinely distressed now. He crouches down, his large hand encompassing Yugo’s shoulder. “I got you! I’m gonna fix this. I’ll build you a... I don't know, a recovery shrine! I’ll close the curtains.”

He scrambles up and yanks the curtains shut, plunging the room into a merciful semi-darkness.

“Better?” Jesse asks, hovering.

“A little,” Yugo breathes.

Hokuto closes his eyes, letting the dimness soothe the throbbing in his temples. It does little to settle the churning in his stomach. The silence has returned—fragmented only by the sound of Yugo’s labored breathing and Shintaro humming in the kitchen—but his mind won’t settle.

The memory of the izakaya is a smear of yellow light and loud voices, but Taiga’s face remains sharp in the center of it. He remembers the way Taiga looked at him. Not with his usual prickliness, not with the defensive walls he constructs so carefully, but with something else. Confusion? Concern?

And then Hokuto spoke.

The anxiety pricks at his skin, sharper than the headache. He needs to know. He can’t leave it as a blank space in his head, filling it with worst-case scenarios where he said something unforgivable.

“Yugo?” he asks, his voice sounding thin in the quiet room.

Yugo lifts a hand from where it’s draped over his eyes, waving it weakly in the air. “Don’t,” he whispers. “Talking hurts.”

“I just…” Hokuto hesitates, chewing on the inside of his lip. “Last night. Before I… before I had to leave. Did I say something to Kyomoto?”

Yugo manages to crack one eye open. It’s bloodshot and unfocused. He looks at Hokuto with a profound lack of comprehension. “You talked to him?” he manages, the words slurring together. “I thought you just... fell over.”

He doesn’t remember. Of course he doesn’t. Yugo was already leaning on Jesse like a crutch when Hokuto spoke.

Hokuto sinks back, disappointed but also slightly relieved. If Yugo doesn’t remember, maybe it wasn’t loud enough for everyone to hear. Maybe it was just a quiet, embarrassing stumble that only Taiga witnessed.

“Oh, you talked to him alright!” Jesse’s voice booms through the room.

Hokuto winces, the sound driving a fresh spike of pain through his temples.

Jesse is standing by the window, peeking through the gap in the curtains he just closed. He turns around, a wide, mischievous grin plastered on his face. “You don’t remember?” he asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Man, it was like a scene from a drama. A really blurry, low-budget drama.”

Hokuto feels the heat creeping up his neck. “What did I say?”

Jesse clears his throat. He slumps his shoulders, letting his jaw go slack, eyes drifting half-shut. He looks ridiculous, but the accuracy of the mimicry makes Hokuto’s stomach drop.

“Kyomoto,” Jesse drawls, pitching his voice lower, softening the edges until it sounds unnervingly like Hokuto. He waves a hand vaguely in the air. “Everyone else is so... loud. Or moving too fast. But you stay still. It’s grounding.”

The air leaves Hokuto’s lungs. He grasps the armrests of the chair, his knuckles turning white. He said that. He remembers the feeling of it now—the sensation of Taiga being the only stationary point in a spinning room. He remembers wanting to hold onto that stillness.

But Jesse isn’t done.

He leans forward, clasping his hands together, staring intensely at an invisible point in the air. “I think I could really...” He trails off, eyes wide, before clapping a hand over his mouth and making a gagging noise. “End scene!” He bows playfully.

Hokuto stares at the floor, mortification washing over him in a cold, heavy wave. He told Taiga he could really... something. Like him? Rely on him?

It doesn’t matter what the end of the sentence was. He stripped away the polite distance he’s been trying to maintain, the careful boundaries he knows Taiga needs, and he just... dumped it on him.

“I didn’t,” Hokuto whispers, though he knows he did.

“It was sweet!” Jesse insists, dropping the act. He walks over and pats Hokuto’s shoulder. “Honest. A little messy at the end there, sure, but sweet. You guys have a vibe.”

“It wasn’t sweet,” Hokuto says, closing his eyes. “I made him uncomfortable.”

Taiga hates exposure. He hates being perceived, hates emotional expectations being placed on him without his consent. And Hokuto sat there, drunk and sloppy, and told Taiga he was important to him. He burdened Taiga with his admiration when he’s barely comfortable with his acquaintance.

“Where is he?” Hokuto asks, looking up at Jesse. “After I… left. What did he do?”

Jesse’s smile falters, just for a second. He scratches the back of his neck, looking away. “Well. You know Taiga.”

“Jesse.”

“He sort of... bailed,” Jesse admits. “Right after Shintaro dragged you out. Didn’t even finish his drink. Just threw a bunch of cash on the table—way too much, actually, he covered half the bill—and walked out. Fast.”

The guilt is heavier than the nausea now. Taiga ran. Hokuto pushed him, and he ran.

Hokuto ruined it. They were making progress—sharing notes, eating together, the moment with Anzu in the courtyard where Taiga looked at him without that sharp, defensive glare. And in one selfish, uninhibited night, Hokuto undid it all. He scared Taiga off.

“I need to apologize,” he says.

He pushes himself up from the armchair. The room tilts dangerously to the left. He stumbles, catching himself on the side table. His legs feel like they don’t belong to him.

“Whoa, hey!” Jesse says, reaching out to steady Hokuto. “Sit down, Hokuto. You’re gonna topple.”

“I need my phone,” Hokuto insists, brushing Jesse’s hand away gently. “If I text him now... if I explain that I wasn’t thinking, that I didn’t mean to put pressure on him...”

It’s a lie. He meant it. He meant every word. But he can’t let Taiga know that. He has to frame it as drunkenness. He has to give Taiga an out, a way to dismiss it so he feels safe coming back to class.

He takes a step toward the hallway, intending to go to his room, but the floor feels like it’s vibrating.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Shintaro blocks the doorway to the kitchen. He’s holding a wooden tray with two steaming bowls of miso soup and a small plate of pickled plums. He looks solid, his expression suspended somewhere between annoyance and care.

“My phone,” Hokuto says, swaying slightly. “I need to call Kyomoto.”

“You are not calling anyone,” Shintaro says firmly. He walks into the room, maneuvering around Yugo’s legs with practiced ease, and sets the tray down on the coffee table. “You can’t even stand up straight. What are you gonna say? You’re just gonna slur at him again.”

“I’m sober,” Hokuto lies.

“You’re pale as a sheet and you’re vibrating,” Shintaro counters. He points to the armchair that Hokuto just vacated. “Sit. Now.”

“Shintaro, please. He left because of me. I have to fix it.”

“You can’t fix anything on an empty stomach,” Shintaro says. He grabs Hokuto’s arm—his grip gentle but firm—and guides him back to the chair. The younger one pushes him down until he’s seated again. “Eat. The soup will help. Then, if you can walk in a straight line from here to the kitchen without holding onto the wall, you can text whoever you want.”

Shintaro picks up one of the bowls and shoves it into Hokuto’s hands. The warmth of the ceramic seeps into his cold palms. The smell of the dashi is rich and grounding.

“Taiga is fine,” Shintaro adds, his voice softening as he looks at Hokuto. He crouches down so he’s at eye level, the younger one’s dark eyes searching his. “Just... give him a minute. Give yourself a minute, Hokkun.”

Hokuto looks down at the dark, cloudy soup. He feels small. He feels like a burden to Shintaro, who shouldn’t have to be taking care of him, and a burden to Taiga, who shouldn’t have to deal with his messy emotions. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Shut up and drink the soup.”

But Shintaro stays there, his hand resting on the arm of the chair, watching Hokuto to make sure that he does.

🪈

The afternoon light has shifted when Hokuto opens his eyes again, stretching long, slanted shadows across the floorboards of his room. It is a heavier, dustier light than the sharp glare of the morning—golden and full of suspended motes of dust.

He lies still for a moment, waiting for the room to spin, but the ceiling stays where it belongs. The pounding in his head has retreated into a dull, manageable hum behind his eyes, and his stomach no longer feels like it is trying to turn itself inside out.

The silence in the apartment is profound. It feels thick, like a blanket drawn up over the world.

He pushes himself up, grateful that his limbs feel less like brittle glass and more like his own again. He reaches for his phone on the nightstand, his fingers brushing against the cool metal of his glasses first. He slides them on, the world snapping into focus.

3:47 PM. He stares at the time, blinking. He has slept through the worst of the day.

However, the anxiety didn’t sleep. It was waiting for Hokuto right there on the lock screen, sitting heavy in his chest the moment consciousness returned.

He unlocks the phone, his thumb hovering over the green messaging icon. He has to do it. He has to fix the fracture he caused last night before it hardens into something permanent. Taiga is already so prone to running away; if Hokuto lets the silence stretch too long, Taiga might convince himself that leaving is the only option he has left.

He opens their chat history. It is painfully sparse—mostly logistics about the research paper, brief exchanges about meeting times. The last message is from Taiga, two days ago: “Fine.”

He stares at the cursor blinking in the text box.

Hokuto, you talk too much when you’re nervous. Keep it simple.

He types out a sentence, then backspace. He types another.

“I promise I didn’t mean what I said.”

No, that’s a lie. He did mean it. And saying he didn’t mean it makes it sound like Taiga’s presence isn’t grounding, which is an insult in itself.

“I was drunk, ignore me.”

Too dismissive. It invalidates the moment, and while Hokuto wants to erase the awkwardness, he doesn’t want to erase the connection entirely.

Hokuto bites the inside of his lip. He needs to take the blame. He needs to make it clear that the discomfort is his own fault, so Taiga doesn’t feel pressured to reciprocate feelings he doesn’t have.

Finally, he types out the words that feel the most honest.

“I’m really sorry about last night. I know I was embarrassing and put you in an uncomfortable position. Could we meet up later so I can explain myself properly? I promise I’ll be coherent this time.”

He reads it three times. It sounds apologetic enough. It gives Taiga an out if he wants to say no.

Hokuto presses send before he can talk himself out of it.

The message bubble appears. Hokuto places the phone face down on the mattress, as if hiding it will make the waiting easier.

The vibration against the wooden nightstand makes a hollow, buzzing sound that seems louder than it should be in the quiet room. He picks up the phone, his heart doing a strange, nervous flutter against his ribs.

It was too fast. Hokuto expected Taiga to ignore him, to let the message sit unread for hours while he decided whether Hokuto was worth the effort of a response. But the screen is already lit up, the notification banner cutting across the locked image of a rainy street in Shizuoka.

“You don’t need to apologize. I’m busy today anyway.”

The words are sharp and pragmatic. Classic Taiga.

And then, a second later, another bubble pops up, as if Taiga realized that the first one wasn’t quite enough to bury the awkwardness completely.

“You were drunk. People say things they don’t mean when they’re drunk. Don’t worry about it.”

Hokuto stares at the text, reading it over and over until the words start to blur. It’s an exit strategy. Taiga has built a neat, logical door for Hokuto to walk through, a script he wants him to follow. “Yes, you’re right, I was drunk. I spoke nonsense. Let’s pretend it never happened.”

It would be the kind thing to do. It would be the easy thing. If Hokuto agrees with him, they can go back to how we were—the tentative study sessions, the awkward but polite silences, the safety of being just classmates who occasionally tolerate each other. He could smooth the ripples he caused, let the water settle back into glass, and Hokuto wouldn’t have to worry about losing Taiga.

He hates being a burden. He hates the idea that his emotions are something heavy he has to carry around, shifting his weight to accommodate.

But as Hokuto lies there, watching a speck of dust drift through a shaft of afternoon light, something inside him rests.

Maybe it’s the residual effects of the alcohol, stripping away the usual layers of hesitation. Or maybe it’s just exhaustion—the tiredness of always swallowing the truth to make things digestible for everyone else.

He didn’t lie last night. When he looked at Taiga in the izakaya, amidst the smoke and the clatter and the crushing noise of everything, he was the only thing that made sense. He is grounding. His anger, his jagged edges, his refusal to be fake—it makes the world feel real again when Hokuto feels like he’s dissolving into whatever people need him to be.

If he take the out that Taiga’s offering, Hokuto’s lying to him. And maybe Taiga deserves better than that.

Hokuto sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His fingers hover over the keyboard. His thumb trembles, just a little.

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. It’s selfish to push when Taiga’s clearly uncomfortable.

But it’s the truth.

He takes a breath, holds it, and types it before he can talk himself out of it.

“What if I told you I did mean it?”

Send.

Hokuto puts the phone down on the mattress again, face up this time. He can’t look away. He pulls his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, trying to make himself smaller.

He watches the screen.

Nothing.

A minute passes. Then two.

He starts to feel the cold creep of regret. He pushed too hard. He crossed the line from honest to demanding. He imagines Taiga staring at his phone, that little crease appearing between his eyebrows, his mouth pressing into a thin line of irritation. Or maybe panic. Hokuto imagines Taiga throwing the phone onto his couch and walking away, deciding that Hokuto’s too much trouble, too intense, too weird.

Then—

Three grey dots appear.

Taiga’s typing.

Hokuto’s breath catches as the dots ripple. Taiga’s writing something. Then they disappear. He’s deleted it.

They appear again. Long enough for a sentence. Disappear again.

Hokuto’s chest ache as he feels Taiga’s hesitation. The pianist is struggling with this. He’s trying to find the words to let Hokuto down, or maybe to ask Hokuto why he’s doing this, or maybe he’s typing something cruel to make Hokuto stop.

He’s paralyzed Taiga. He’s taken Taiga’s Sunday afternoon, which he probably wanted to spend in peace with Anzu, and turned it into a crisis.

I’m sorry, he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. I’m sorry I’m making this hard.

The phone buzzes.

Hokuto looks down.

“Matsumura, don’t.”

The words hit Hokuto with a soft, dull thud.

Don’t.

It stings—of course it stings—a quiet, hollow feeling opening up in his stomach. It feels like reaching out a hand and having it gently, firmly pushed back down to his side. Taiga doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to be needed in that way, or admired in that way.

But underneath the sting, there is understanding.

Taiga’s afraid. Hokuto sees it in the way Taiga keeps everyone at arm's length, guarding his failures and his fears like treasures. If Hokuto pushes now, if he demands that Taiga acknowledge his feelings, Hokuto will lose him completely. Taiga will run, just like he ran from the izakaya.

His own hurt doesn't matter as much as Taiga’s safety. If Taiga needs him to stop, he’ll stop. If Taiga needs him to be just a classmate again, he can do that. Hokuto has spent his whole life reshaping himself to fit the spaces people leave for him. He can do it one more time.

He picks up the phone. His fingers feel heavy, but he makes them move.

“Okay,” he types. “I won’t push. But if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here.”

He sends it.

Hokuto watches the screen for a few more seconds, wondering if Taiga will reply. But he knows that he won’t. That’s the end of the conversation.

The room feels darker now, though the sun hasn’t moved much. The silence isn’t peaceful anymore; it feels lonely. Hokuto lets himself sit in it for a moment longer, breathing through the tightness in his throat.

It’s fine. It really is fine. He tried, and he was honest, and now he knows where the line is.

He stands up. His legs are steadier now.

Taking a deep breath, he smooths down his rumpled t-shirt and runs a hand through his hair. He needs to check on Yugo, thank Shintaro again, and pretend that his heart isn't bruising slowly inside his chest.

The living room is bathed in a dusty, late-afternoon amber when Hokuto finally steps out of the hallway. The frantic energy of the morning has dissolved, leaving behind a stillness that feels heavy, like the air before a storm, or maybe just the calm after one.

Yugo is on the couch. He isn’t slumped in the shapeless pile he saw earlier; he is sitting upright, though his posture suggests a fragile truce with gravity. He clutches a mug of tea with both hands, staring into the middle distance with the expression of a man who has made peace with his own mortality but is still deeply disappointed by the paperwork involved.

He looks up as Hokuto enters, moving as if turning his head too fast might cause the world to shear apart. “Hey,” he whispers, his voice a ghost of its usual warmth.

“Hey,” Hokuto replies softly, keeping his own voice low out of solidarity. He looks around the room. The curtains are pulled back now, letting the sun expose the dust motes dancing in the air, but the room feels strangely empty. The sheer volume of presence that usually fills this apartment is absent. “Where are they?” he asks, gesturing vaguely toward the silence.

Yugo takes a small, careful sip of his tea before answering. “Jesse,” he says, wincing slightly at the name, though his eyes crinkle with a faint, tired fondness. “Some friends from the vocal department were gathering in Yoyogi. He decided he needed fresh air. And he took Shintaro with him.”

Hokuto blinks, leaning against the doorframe for support. “They went? After... everything?” Shintaro had been cooking, cleaning, and practically carrying him this morning. The idea that he had enough reserve battery to go socialize in Yoyogi Park seems physically impossible.

“I don’t know how they do it,” Yugo murmurs, shaking his head. “They’re freshmen. Their organs are brand new. They probably just drank Pocari Sweat and rebooted.”

“It’s terrifying,” Hokuto admits. The thought alone makes him want to lie down on the floor. “I feel like I’ve aged ten years since yesterday.”

“Only ten?” Yugo manages a dry chuckle, which turns into a cough. “I’m pretty sure I’m eighty.”

Hokuto pushes himself off the doorframe and drift toward the kitchen. The kettle is still warm—Shintaro, ever the caretaker, must have left it ready.

He moves through the motions of making tea with a kind of sacred slowness. He measures out the Earl Grey leaves, watching them steep, the dark ribbons unfurling in the hot water. The smell of bergamot rising with the steam grounds him. It’s a small comfort, but right now, he’s building himself back up with small comforts.

He carries the steaming mug back to the living room and sinks into the armchair opposite Yugo. He tucks his legs up slightly, curling in on himself.

For a long time, they don’t speak. They just sit there, two shipwrecks washed up on the shore of a Sunday afternoon, nursing their tea and their regrets. Hokuto watches the steam curl off his tea, listening to the distant sound of traffic from the street below. It’s peaceful.

He thinks about the text message he sent. I won’t push. It feels like a promise he has to keep, even if it leaves a hollow space in his chest.

“So,” Yugo says eventually. He isn’t looking at Hokuto; he’s tracing the rim of his mug with a thumb.

“So,” Hokuto echoes guardedly. “Last night.”

“Jesse did a very dramatic reenactment.”

“He did.” Hokuto sighs, staring into the dark liquid of his tea. “I’m sorry, Yugo. I know I made a mess of things. I shouldn’t have put him in that position.”

Yugo doesn’t brush it off. He watches Hokuto, his expression unreadable. “Do you really feel that way?” he asks. “Or was it just the alcohol talking?”

It would be so easy to lie. Yugo is Taiga’s best friend; his loyalty lies firmly with the person that Hokuto scared off. If he tells Yugo it was just a drunken ramblings, Yugo might warn him to stay away, but he wouldn’t look with that pitiable concern.

He could save face. He could pretend that he’s just a confused student who had too much beer.

But Hokuto remembers the library. He remembers the way Taiga looked when he talked about Orpheus. He remembers the way Taiga stood in the rain.

If he lies to Yugo, he’s lying to the one person who actually understands Taiga. And somehow, that feels like a betrayal of the connection he’s trying so hard not to sever.

“I wasn’t lying,” Hokuto says quietly. He focuses on the reflection of the window in his tea. “It’s... complicated to explain. Since I met him, it’s felt strange. Like remembering something instead of learning it. He’s prickly, and he’s defensive, and he tries so hard to make everyone dislike him.” He pauses, a small, sad smile touching his lips. “But he’s honest. He doesn’t pretend. In a place like this conservatory, where everyone is performing all the time... he’s the only thing that feels real.”

He looks up to find Yugo watching him. He doesn’t look angry. He looks resigned, maybe a little sad.

“So yes,” Hokuto admits. “I have feelings for him.”

The silence stretches between them. He watches Yugo’s face, searching for the judgment he expects—the protective instinct of a best friend, the warning to stay away from someone already fragile. His fingers tighten around the mug, the ceramic warm against his palms.

Yugo takes a slow sip of his tea. Then he sets it down on the coffee table with a soft clink. “Good,” he says.

Hokuto blinks. “What?”

“Good,” Yugo repeats, and there’s something in his voice—relief, maybe, or a kind of tired hope. “I’m glad.”

Hokuto doesn’t know what to do with that response. “You’re... glad? That I have feelings for your best friend who clearly wants nothing to do with me?”

Yugo leans back into the couch cushions, wincing slightly as the movement jostles his still-recovering head. “Hokuto,” he says, and his voice is gentler now, “do you know what Taiga was like before London?”

Hokuto shakes his head. He’s heard fragments—the prodigy whispers, the competition wins, the promise of something extraordinary. But he’s never heard Yugo talk about it directly.

“He was... bright.” Yugo’s gaze drifts toward the window, toward the slanting afternoon light. “Not in the way people think. Not just talented. He laughed. He made terrible jokes. He got excited about things—new pieces he was learning, obscure recordings he’d found, these ridiculous late-night ramen places he’d drag me to.” A faint smile touches his lips, then fades. “He wasn’t happy, exactly. He was always too hard on himself for that. But he was present. He was engaged with the world.”

Hokuto tries to imagine it— Taiga laughing, Taiga excited, Taiga dragging someone through Tokyo’s streets in search of the perfect bowl of noodles. The image feels impossible, like trying to picture a storm being gentle.

“When he came back from London,” Yugo continues, “it was like someone had hollowed him out. He stopped returning calls. He skipped classes. When he did show up, he looked through people instead of at them.” He pauses, his fingers curling around his mug. “I’ve spent months watching him disappear into himself, Hokuto. Months of him pushing everyone away, convincing himself that he’s not worth the effort.”

The words settle into him heavily. Hokuto thinks of the way Taiga flinches from kindness, the way he armors himself with sharpness.

“But lately...” Yugo trails off, something shifting in his expression. “Lately, it feels like I’m getting my best friend back. Little things. He agreed to come to dinner. He stayed for ice cream in Harajuku. He laughed—actually laughed—at something Jesse said last week.” He looks at Hokuto then, and his eyes are serious. “I don’t think that’s a coincidence. I think it started around the time he met you.”

Hokuto’s chest tightens. “Yugo, I don’t think—”

“I’m not saying you’re the only reason,” Yugo interrupts gently. “Juri’s been good for him too. And Mori-sensei, in his own way. But you’re part of it. Whatever you’re doing, whatever’s happening between you two, it’s pulling him back toward the world.”

Hokuto doesn’t know how to hold this. “He told me to stop,” he says quietly, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. “When I texted him. I told him I meant what I said last night, and he told me not to.”

Yugo’s expression doesn't change. “What exactly did he say?”

Hokuto pulls out his phone, scrolling back to the conversation. “‘Matsumura, don’t,’” he reads the words aloud, and they sound even more final in the quiet room. “That’s it. Just… don’t.”

Yugo hums thoughtfully, tilting his head. “Did he block you?”

“What? No.”

“Did he tell you to leave him alone? To stop being his friend? To never speak to him again?”

Hokuto frowns, looking back at the screen. “No. He said I didn’t need to apologize. That people say things they don’t mean when drunk.”

“And when you pushed back?”

“He said ‘don’t.’” Hokuto sets the phone down on his knee, frustrated. “Yugo, I don’t know what you’re trying to—”

“Hokuto.” Yugo’s voice is patient, almost fond. “That’s not rejection. That’s self-protection.”

Hokuto goes still.

“If Taiga wanted you gone,” Yugo continues, “he would have made it clear. He’s not subtle when he wants someone to disappear. He would have said something cruel, something designed to make you hate him so you’d leave on your own terms.” He shakes his head slowly. “Telling you ‘don’t’? That’s him panicking. That’s him trying to stop something before it starts, because he’s terrified of what happens if it does.”

The words sink in slowly, rearranging the shape of the afternoon. Hokuto thinks about the gray dots appearing and disappearing on his screen. The hesitation. The silence. “So what do I do?” he asks, and his voice comes out smaller than he intends.

Yugo considers this for a long moment. “You wait,” he says finally. “You don’t push. You don’t demand answers or force conversations he’s not ready for. But you don’t disappear either.” He meets Hokuto’s eyes. “You leave the door open. You let him know it’s there. And you let him decide when he's ready to walk through it.”

Hokuto turns the words over in his mind, testing their weight. It feels like something he can do—something that doesn’t require him to erase himself or pretend his feelings don’t exist. A middle path between pushing and retreating.

“And if he never walks through it?” he asks quietly.

Yugo’s smile is sad and knowing. “Then at least you tried. And at least he’ll know that someone thought he was worth waiting for.”

The afternoon light has deepened to amber, painting everything in shades of gold and shadow. Hokuto looks down at his tea, now lukewarm, and thinks about doors left open. About patience. About the kind of love that doesn’t demand anything in return.

He can do that. He wants to do that.

For Taiga, he can wait.

🪈

The air in the Global Arts Exchange Wing feels different early in the morning. Room 147 is vast and cavernous when it’s empty, the rows of burgundy seats curving around the stage in silent anticipation.

Hokuto’s the only one here. He chooses a seat in the middle row, neither hiding near the back nor eager at the front, and places two paper cups on the small table between the empty chairs. The steam rising from them is the only movement in the room.

One is his usual Earl Grey with honey. The other is a double espresso, black, bitter enough to make anyone else wince.

He checks his watch. His pulse does a nervous, fluttery thing against his wrist.

Yugo’s advice from yesterday echoes in the quiet space: You leave the door open. You let him know it’s there.

Buying coffee feels like a small door. It’s a gesture that can be ignored if Taiga wants to ignore it, or accepted without a conversation if he’s not ready to speak. It feels safer than words. Words have failed Hokuto recently—or rather, his lack of filter has failed him.

Soon, the heavy door at the back of the hall creaks open.

He doesn’t turn around immediately. He forces himself to stare at the blank projection screen, his hands clasped tightly in his lap to keep them from fidgeting. He listens to the footsteps. They are distinct—the scuff of sneakers, the uneven rhythm of someone who is tired or reluctant.

The footsteps pause at the top of the stairs.

He holds his breath. This is the moment where Taiga could leave. He could see Hokuto sitting here, realize he’s alone, and decide that the risk of awkwardness outweighs the need for attendance credits.

Hokuto wouldn’t blame him.

But the footsteps continue. They slowly descend the stairs.

Hokuto exhales, letting his shoulders drop an inch.

Taiga appears in his peripheral vision. He’s wearing a black hoodie that looks soft from overuse, the hood pulled up over messy hair, and his hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans. He looks exhausted. There are shadows under his eyes that seem permanent now, darker than the fabric of his clothes.

He stops at the row where Hokuto’s sitting.

Hokuto turns his head, keeping his movement slow, trying to look welcoming but not expectant. “Good morning,” he says softly.

Taiga looks at me. His expression is guarded, his mouth pressed into a thin line, but he doesn’t look angry. He looks like a stray cat deciding if the food in the bowl is worth the proximity to a human.

Then, his gaze drops to the second cup on the table.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d had breakfast,” Hokuto says, fighting the urge to add “I’m sorry.” He just gestures vaguely toward the cup. “It’s espresso.”

Taiga stares at the cup for a long second. Then he lets out a short, sharp sigh through his nose.

He slides into the seat next to Hokuto.

He doesn’t say anything. He just reaches out, his long, slender fingers wrapping around the cup, and brings it to his lips. He takes a sip, grimaces at the heat or the bitterness—Hokuto can never tell which—and then leans back in the chair, slouching until his knees hit the seat in front of him.

“Thanks,” he mutters. It’s barely audible, scratching against the silence of the room, but it’s there.

“You’re welcome,” Hokuto replies.

And then he stops. Every instinct in his body screams at him to fill the silence. He wants to ask Taiga how he is. He wants to tell Taiga again that he didn't mean to make him uncomfortable, that Hokuto value his friendship more than his own feelings, that he will be whatever Taiga needs him to be.

Don’t push, Yugo had said.

So Hokuto picks up his tea and takes a sip. He lets the silence stretch out between us, settling like dust in the shafts of light beginning to filter through the high windows. It’s a fragile peace, but it is peace.

As the espresso starts to work its way into his system, Taiga relaxes—just a fraction. He pushes his hood down, revealing hair that is defying gravity in three different directions. He rubs his face with one hand, a gesture so unguarded it makes Hokuto’s chest ache a little.

He permits himself to observe Taiga, careful not to stare too directly.

He notices the way Taiga taps his index finger against the plastic lid of his cup—a nervous, rhythmic tat-tat-tat that sounds like a distinct tempo. He notices the silver dog tag slipping out from under Taiga’s collar, catching the fluorescent light. He notices that Taiga’s shoelace is untied on his left sneaker.

There is something endearing about how aggressively Taiga tries to be invisible. He wears black to disappear, he sits in the back to avoid notice, he speaks in clipped sentences to keep people away. Yet, here he is, sitting next to Hokuto, vibrating with a quiet, restless energy that feels more alive than anyone else he knows.

Taiga shifts in his seat, turning his head slightly so he’s looking at Hokuto out of the corner of his eye. “You’re quiet today,” he says.

Hokuto startles slightly, then smiles into his cup. “I’m trying something new.”

“Trying what? Being normal?”

“Being patient,” Hokuto says gently.

Taiga narrows his eyes at him. For a second, Hokuto think he might snap something sarcastic back, but he just snorts softly and turns his attention back to the front of the room. “Good luck with that,” he says, though the bite in his tone is softer than usual.

More students begin to trickle in as the clock ticks toward seven. The silence breaks, replaced by the shuffle of bags, the unzip of pencil cases, the murmur of sleepy conversations.

Taiga stiffens as the room fills. He pulls his phone out, scrolling aimlessly, rebuilding his walls. But he doesn’t move his chair away. He stays within the radius of Hokuto’s personal space, his elbow almost brushing his on the armrest.

Professor Moriya enters at exactly 7:00 AM, looking brisk and composed in a tweed jacket that seems too heavy for May. He dumps a leather satchel onto the podium and claps his hands once.

“Good morning,” he projects, his voice carrying without a microphone. “I trust you have all recovered from the trauma of the midterms.”

A collective groan ripples through the hall.

“Excellent,” Professor Moriya says, unbothered. “Today, we are going to review the core concepts that seemingly eluded the vast majority of you. Specifically, the invisible structures of institutional authority.”

He begins to write on the whiteboard, likely outlining the differences between visible power and hegemony, but Hokuto’s attention drifts. He’s listening to the scratch of the marker, but he’s feeling the warmth radiating from the person beside him.

Taiga isn’t taking notes. He has his arms crossed, staring at the screen with a look of profound skepticism, as if he intends to debate Michel Foucault personally.

Hokuto glances at Taiga’s hand, resting on his bicep. His fingers are long, and Hokuto remembers how they looked wrapped around the beer glass at the izakaya, and how they looked trembling over the keys of the piano in the photos Hokuto has seen online.

He thinks about what he said to Taiga that night. You’re grounding.

It’s true. Even now, with the unresolved tension hanging between them like a suspended chord, he feels steadier than he did waking up alone in his room. Taiga’s presence is a gravity he didn't know he needed.

Taiga shifts again, catching Hokuto looking.

Hokuto doesn’t look away this time. He offers Taiga a small, tentative smile.

Taiga’s blinks. His expression is unreadable, a complicated mix of irritation and something softer, something he hasn’t quite managed to kill yet. He doesn’t smile back.

But he doesn’t tell Hokuto to stop. He just rolls his eyes, a theatrical gesture that lacks any real heat, and nudges his empty coffee cup until it touches Hokuto’s on the table. A tiny, cardboard clink.

It isn’t a conversation. It isn’t a promise. But as Professor Moriya drones on about social contracts, Hokuto thinks it might be enough for now.

The door is open, and Taiga is still here.

🎹

“Are we there yet?”

Jesse. Again.

Yugo doesn’t even blink. His hands are on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the gray stretch of the expressway. “It’s been seven minutes since you last asked, Jesse. We are physically located in the same prefecture as we were seven minutes ago.”

“So, no?” Jesse asks, turning around in the passenger seat to grin at everyone else. He looks too energetic for a humid Saturday morning, vibrating with the kind of golden retriever enthusiasm that usually gives Taiga a migraine.

“No,” Yugo sighs. But he’s smiling. Taiga can see the corner of his best friend’s mouth twitching in the rearview mirror. It’s pathetic.

Taiga shifts in the middle seat, trying to find a position that doesn’t jam his knee into the back of Yugo’s chair or his elbow into Juri’s ribs. It’s impossible. They’re packed in the van like sardines in a tin can. Anzu is the only one comfortable, curled up on the small patch of upholstery between him and Juri, her chin resting on Taiga’s thigh.

“Ignore him!” Shintaro calls out from the back row. “He turned a year older and immediately regressed fourteen years. It’s a biological marvel.”

“I’m expressing excitement!” Jesse protests, throwing his hands up. “It’s a birthday trip! The Three Musketeers of June! We survived midterms! We should be screaming!”

“Please don’t,” Taiga mutters. He raises his camera and frames the shot. Jesse’s profile, slightly blurred as he turns back to pester Yugo again. The tense but fond line of Yugo’s jaw. The harsh white light of the overcast sky blowing out the windshield.

He presses the shutter.

Click.

He holds his breath for a fraction of a second, waiting for the static. Waiting for the image to warp into a date years into the future, waiting for the nausea, for the grief of strangers he hasn’t met yet.

Nothing happens. The screen just shows Jesse, mouth open mid-sentence, looking like an idiot.

Safe.

He’s tested it. Photographing buildings is dangerous. Objects—pianos, shrines, street signs—are landmines. But people? Animals? Living things are safe. They shift too much for the timeline to lock onto. Or maybe the universe just doesn’t care about their futures as much as it cares about where they end up dying.

Whatever. It means he can hide behind the lens without risking a stroke.

“Nice angle,” Juri drawls next to him. He’s slouching so low his spine must be shaped like a question mark. He has one earbud in, the wire dangling down his chest. “Make sure you get my good side.”

“You don’t have one,” Taiga says, angling the camera toward him.

Juri smirks, turning his head toward the window, feigning a brooding artist pose.

Taiga snaps the picture. The shutter sound cuts through the road noise. It’s a clean, mechanical satisfaction.

This is a waste of time. In London, nobody went camping after exams. No one piles into a van with other students and pretends to be a family. Everyone went to gallery openings or stiff faculty mixers. Everyone drank wine that tasted like vinegar and stood in corners, networking with people they despised, trying to secure a concerto slot for the next semester. They improved their craft. They didn’t waste a whole day eating burnt meat in the woods.

Here, it’s just… sweaty.

“Kyomo.” Juri nudges his shoulder. “Stop thinking so loud. I can hear your brain grinding through my earphones.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re doing that face,” Juri says, poking Taiga’s cheek. “The ‘I am above this pedestrian joy’ face. Relax. You got high grades on your exams. You’re allowed to unclench.”

Taiga slaps his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

Anzu lifts her head, sensing the movement, and lets out a small, inquiring heavy breath. He drops his hand to scratch behind her ears.

From the back seat, there’s a quiet rustle of fabric. Taiga doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t need to look to know who it is. Hokuto has been silent for the last hour, probably reading one of those thick paperbacks he drags everywhere, or maybe just staring out the window, brooding.

He adjusts the ISO on the camera.

“Hey, Hokkun!” Shintaro says, his voice dropping slightly, losing that performance edge he uses with Jesse. “You okay? You’re quiet.”

“I’m fine,” Hokuto’s voice floats forward. It’s low. Calm. “Just watching the scenery. The mountains are clearing up.”

Taiga’s finger tightens on the shutter release. He doesn’t take a picture.

He stares at the digital display, at the focus square hovering over the back of Yugo’s headrest. He could turn around, take a photo of the backseat—Shintaro’s restless legs, Hokuto’s stillness. It would be safe. Just people.

He doesn’t turn around.

“Next stop, Kawai!” Jesse announces, slapping the dashboard. “If we don’t stop for pee breaks, we can make it in twenty minutes.”

“We are stopping if we need to stop,” Yugo corrects him instantly.

“Tyrant,” Jesse whispers loud enough for everyone to hear.

Soon, the engine cuts. The sudden silence rings in Taiga’s ears, heavier than the road noise, until Jesse slides the side door open and lets the humidity rush in.

It smells like wet dirt. Great.

“Alright, listen up,” Yugo says, unbuckling his seatbelt. “We’re in Area C. It’s a walk to the cottages. Grab your personal bags first, then any communal gear you can with your free hand. I’m gonna the main lodge to get the keys.”

“Yes, sir!” Jesse salutes, jumping out onto the gravel. His boots make a crunching sound that sets Taiga’s teeth on edge.

Taiga grabs his backpack from the floorboard. “Anzu.” He snaps his fingers.

She’s vibrating near the door, ready to bolt into the overgrown green mess that passes for nature here.

He clips the leash to her collar before she can make a run for it. “Stay close. I’m not chasing you through the woods.”

She yips, tugging at the lead, nose twitching as she inhales the scent of damp earth.

Taiga shortens the slack. “I said stay.”

The others are spilling out of the van. Juri looks like he’s regretting every life choice that led him here, shielding his eyes from the gray glare of the sky.

Taiga steps down, his sneakers hitting the dirt. He adjusts the strap of his bag, ready to follow Yugo. He’s the only one who knows where they’re going, and he has no interest in wandering aimlessly with this lot.

Movement near the trunk catches his eye.

Hokuto is standing by the rear doors, reaching for one of the heavy cooler bags. He looks out of place against the backdrop of trees—too neat, too polished in his dark sweater, even with the sleeves pushed up. He grips the handle, his knuckles whitening slightly.

“Whoa, hold on, Hokkun!”

Shintaro is there in a second, practically bounding over. He slides between Hokuto and the van, blocking him with his shoulder. “That’s heavy. Save your hands for the flute, yeah?”

“I can manage, Shintaro,” Hokuto says quietly.

“Nope. I got it.” Shintaro grins, that wide, blinding expression that looks like it belongs in a toothpaste commercial. He hefts the cooler effortlessly, flexing his arm like it’s a performance. "See? Easy. You grab the sleeping bags. The light stuff."

Hokuto hesitates, then steps back. He smiles. It’s small, barely there, but it’s genuine. “Thanks, Shin.”

Taiga’s hand tightens on Anzu’s leash. It’s irritating. The way Shintaro hovers, the way he assumes the role of protector so easily, like it’s his right. It’s loud. It’s performative. He’s just carrying a cooler, not saving a life. And Hokuto just lets him do it, accepting the help, accepting the attention.

It’s pathetic.

A sharp, hot prickle runs up the back of his neck. He looks away, snapping acts of service out of his field of view. He doesn’t care who carries what. It doesn’t matter.

He tugs the leash. “Come on, Anzu.”

He walks fast, gravel kicking up under his heels. He catches up to Yugo and Jesse near the path to the lodge, putting distance between himself and the van. “Wait up,” he mutters, falling into step beside Yugo.

Yugo glances at him, eyebrows raising slightly. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” Taiga says, staring straight ahead at the wooden sign pointing to the lodge. “Just wanna get the keys.”

Behind them, Shintaro laughs at something Hokuto said. The sound carries too far in the open air.

Taiga grips his camera strap and keeps walking.

The receptionist at the lodge looks at Yugo like she’s trying to calculate if we’re going to trash the place or just be loud. Yugo ignores it. He smiles that practiced, polite smile that works on professors and grandmothers alike, signs three different forms, and finally secures a brass key with a faded plastic tag.

“Cottage Six,” he announces, turning back to everyone else. “End of the path.”

“Finally,” Taiga mutters. His shirt is sticking to his back.

The cottage is a dark wood A-frame tucked behind a cluster of cedar trees. It looks damp. The porch steps creak under Jesse’s boots as he bounds up them, waiting for Yugo to unlock the door.

The moment the lock clicks, Jesse shoulders his way inside, dragging his duffel bag like a battering ram. “Dibs on the master!” he shouts, his voice echoing in the empty entryway. “Yugo, we get the king-sized bed!”

“It’s not a master, Jesse, it’s just the room with the slightly larger closet,” Yugo says, toeing off his boots in the genkan. He doesn’t argue, though. Of course he doesn’t.

Taiga steps inside. The air smells like pine-scented cleaner and old dust. It’s dimly lit, the floorboards scarrings from years of careless tourists.

“Hokkun!” Shintaro’s voice cuts through the air, grating against Taiga’s eardrums. He’s already down the short hallway, leaning into the second room on the left. “This one faces the creek. We’re taking this one.”

He doesn’t ask. He just assumes. He grabs Hokuto’s wrist—his grip looking too tight, too possessive—and pulls him toward the doorway.

Hokuto stumbles a step, looking startled, but he just smiles that small, self-sacrificing smile. “Okay. Sure.”

Taiga’s jaw tightens. It’s annoying. He doesn’t care where Hokuto sleeps, but Shintaro acts like he owns the space around him. It’s loud. It’s undeniably effective for the plan, but watching it happen in real-time makes his skin itch.

He looks at Juri, who’s leaning against the wall, one eyebrow raised.

“Guess it’s you and me, Princess,” Juri says, smirking.

“Don’t call me that,” Taiga snaps, pushing past him.

He kneels and unclips the leash. Anzu shakes herself out immediately, her tags jingling, and trots into the living area with her nose to the floorboards. She’s investigating. At least someone here has a job to do.

“Okay, let’s get some of the food put away,” Yugo says, dropping a crate of supplies on the kitchen table.

Taiga walks over and grabs a stack of canned vegetables from the crate Yugo just set down. He tries to stack them in the cupboard above the sink, but the shelf is uneven.

The first can wobbles. He shoves the second one in next to it to stabilize it, but his elbow knocks a box of curry roux off the counter. It hits the floor with a pathetic thud.

He reaches down to grab it, but in doing so, he bumps the table. The tower of cans shifts. Two of them roll off the shelf, clattering into the metal sink with a noise like a gunshot.

Yugo is there instantly. He catches a third can before it hits the floor. “Taiga,” he says, his voice the kind of calm used for a toddler holding a knife. “Stop.”

“I got it,” Taiga says, reaching for the can in his hand.

Yugo pulls it back. “No. You don’t. You’re going to bruise the peaches just by looking at them. Go away.”

“I’m helping.”

“You’re creating entropy,” Yugo says, pointing toward the sliding glass door at the back of the room. “Go look at the deck. Go take pictures of moss. Just get out of my kitchen.”

Taiga scowls at him. “It’s not your kitchen. We’ve been here five minutes.”

“Out.”

Taiga snatches his camera bag from the floor. Fine. If Yugo wants to play housewife, he can do it alone. It doesn’t matter to Taiga.

He whistles for Anzu to follow, but she’s busy sniffing at a knot in the wood near the heater, ignoring him completely.

He slides the glass door open and steps out onto the back deck. The humidity hits him again, but at least it’s quiet out here. The wood railing is covered in green algae. Below, a small creek rushes over gray stones, the sound constant and white.

It’s peaceful. Bland, but peaceful.

Taiga raises the camera, framing the water through the trees. He doesn’t take the shot, just looks through the viewfinder, cutting the world down to a rectangle where he can control what he sees.

“Kyomoto.”

The voice is soft, low, and entirely too close.

Taiga flinches—a sharp, physical jerk that nearly sends his elbow crashing into the wooden railing. His grip tightens on the camera strap, saving the lens from a collision with the algae-slicked wood, while his heart hammers a stupid, staccato rhythm against his ribs.

He spins around, scowling.

Hokuto is standing there. He’s holding two plastic water bottles, the condensation dripping over his fingers. He looks apologetic. He always looks apologetic. It’s his default setting, like a factory defect he never bothered to return.

“Sorry,” he says, shrinking back slightly. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“You didn’t sneak,” Taiga snaps, though the adrenaline is still buzzing in his fingertips. “You just... appeared.”

Hokuto holds one of the bottles out. “Yugo thought you might need this.”

Taiga stares at the water. He doesn’t want it. But his throat is dry. The air here is thick enough to chew, stripping the moisture right out of him.

“Whatever,” he mutters. He snatches the bottle, making sure their fingers don’t touch.

Taiga cracks the seal and takes a drink, turning back to the creek foaming over the gray rocks below. The water is lukewarm and tastes faintly of plastic, but it washes away the dust in his mouth.

Hokuto doesn’t leave. He moves to the railing beside Taiga—not too close. He respects the invisible perimeter that Taiga usually keep, staying just outside striking distance, but he’s close enough that Taiga can smell the faint, clean scent of his laundry detergent. It’s irritatingly pleasant.

Hokuto leans his elbows on the wood, looking out at the dense green tangle of the forest. “It’s quiet here,” he observes.

“It was,” Taiga says.

Hokuto smiles. Taiga sees it in his peripheral vision. He ignores the barb. He’s been doing that for two weeks.

It doesn’t make sense.

Taiga checks the settings on his camera, spinning the dial just to have something to do with his hands. Two weeks ago, he told Hokuto Don’t. He shut the door. He was rude, dismissive, and cold after Hokuto tried to apologize for the izakaya incident. In any logical universe, that should have been the end of it. Hokuto should be avoiding him. He should be sitting on the other side of the lecture hall, pretending Taiga doesn’t exist.

Instead, he’s here. He brings Taiga coffee in the mornings. He sends him notes because he’s still too lazy to take any.

He’s persistent.

Taiga lowers the camera, letting it hang against his chest. He turns his head, just slightly, to look at Hokuto.

Hokuto is staring at the water, his expression open and unguarded. The gray light handles him well—it softens the sharp angle of his jaw, highlights the slope of his nose. He pushed his glasses up a moment ago, and a few strands of black hair have fallen across his forehead. He looks focused. Serene.

He looks like a photograph that Taiga hasn’t taken yet.

Taiga traces the line of Hokuto’s throat with his eyes, the way his collarbones disappear into the dark fabric of his jacket. He wonders, clinically, what the focal length would need to be to capture the texture of Hokuto’s skin without blowing out the highlights. He wonders if Hokuto is thinking about the music he plays, or his family, or just the fact that his shoes are getting muddy.

Hokuto turns.

He catches Taiga.

Taiga doesn’t look away fast enough. He’s stuck there, caught in the act of observation, his gaze pinned to Hokuto’s face.

Hokuto’s eyes widen slightly behind the lenses. He blinks, realization dawning that Taiga wasn’t looking at the trees.

A flush starts at his neck. It creeps up slowly, staining his cheeks a soft, dusty pink. He ducks his head, adjusting his glasses unnecessarily, his fingers twitching against the frames. He looks completely thrown off balance by the simple weight of Taiga’s attention.

“Is... is there something on my face?” he asks, his voice pitching up.

He looks flustered.

He’s cute.

The thought creates a violent, visceral recoil in Taiga’s brain. He hates it. He hates the way his mind supplied the word without his permission. It’s weak. It’s charmed. He’s not charmed.

Taiga scowls—hard—turning back to the creek, gripping the railing until his knuckles turn white. “You have a bug,” he lies, his voice flat. “On your shoulder.”

Hokuto brushes frantically at his shoulder, nearly dropping his own water bottle. “Where? Is it a spider?”

“It’s gone now.”

“Hey! Campers!”

Yugo’s voice booms from inside the cottage, saving Taiga from having to invent an insect species to justify his staring. The glass door slides open with a rattle. Yugo sticks his head out, looking harried but managing.

“Pack it up,” Yugo says, clapping his hands. “We’re heading to the main grounds to set up the barbeque.”

Taiga pushes off the railing immediately, relieved to have an exit. “Thank god,” he mutters to himself.

“What?” Yugo asks.

“Nothing.” Taiga shoulders past Hokuto, ignoring the heat still radiating from the flutist’s face.

🎹

The tent looks like a collapsed lung.

Ten yards away, Shintaro is wrestling with a sheet of orange nylon like it owes him money, while Jesse shouts encouragement that isn’t actually helpful. It’s loud. It’s chaotic. It’s exactly why Taiga didn’t want to come.

“You’re gonna stab yourself,” Juri says. He’s sitting next to Taiga, threading cubes of beef onto a bamboo stick with swift, practiced movements. He doesn’t even look down. Show-off.

“Mind your own business,” Taiga mutters, shoving a piece of chicken onto his skewers. The wood splinters slightly. He frowns and pulls the meat off to start again.

Down by his ankles, Anzu vibrates with intensity. She’s staring at the cooler, trembling slightly, letting out a high-pitched whine every four seconds. She knows there’s meat. She knows she can’t have it. It’s a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions.

“Not for you,” Taiga tells her.

She ignores him, inching closer to his sneaker.

Taiga wipes his forearm across his forehead, trying to keep the hair out of his eyes without getting marinade on his face. The humidity out here is heavy, clinging to his skin. The river rushes by in the background, a constant white noise that is competing with Shintaro’s screaming.

“Jesse! The pole goes through the lops—loops!”

“I got it, I got it—wait, why is it bending like that?”

Taiga tunes them out. His gaze drifts past the disaster zone of the tent, over to the folding table near the fire pit.

Yugo is there, organizing spices like he’s running a military operation. Next to him is Hokuto.

They have the vegetables. Hokuto is slicing bell peppers. He’s careful, lining up the strips perfectly before moving to the next one. He looks... focused.

He says something to Yugo, nodding seriously, and then he does something stupid.

A strand of hair falls into his eyes. Because his hands are covered in vegetable juice, he can’t brush it away properly. He uses his wrist, rubbing it against his forehead in an awkward, cat-like motion that shoves his glasses askew. He scrunches his nose, blinking rapidly to reset the frames without touching them.

It’s clumsy. It’s completely uncalculated.

Taiga stops threading the skewer. The tension in his chest loosens, just a fraction. Hokuto looks soft like this. The sunlight filters through the trees, hitting the side of his face, lighting up the curve of his ear and the line of his neck.

He looks comfortable. He looks like he belongs here.

Taiga wants to capture it. The lighting is decent. If he can take out his camera, he’d frame Hokuto from the left, catch the concentration in his brow.

Hokuto picks up an onion. He treats it with the same gravity he treats his flute. It’s ridiculous.

It’s—

“You missed the stick.” Juri’s voice cuts through the air.

Taiga flinches, his hand jerking as the bamboo skewer jabs into the meat of his thumb. “Shit.” He drops the skewer.

Juri isn’t looking at Taiga’s hand. He’s looking at hand, eyes narrowed, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. He follows Taiga’s line of sight to the vegetable table, then back to his face. “The peppers aren’t going anywhere, Kyomo,” he says, his voice low enough that the others don’t hear.

Heat flares up at the back of Taiga’s neck. Not from the sun. He grabs a paper towel and wipes the marinade off his thumb, pressing hard against the small prick of blood. “I wasn’t looking at the peppers.”

“Clearly.” Juri leans back, twirling a skewer between his fingers. “You’ve been staring at the prep table for a solid minute. Unless you’ve developed a sudden passion for Yugo’s knife skills.”

“I was zoning out,” Taiga says, keeping his voice flat. “The noise. Shintaro is giving me a headache.” It’s a weak lie.

Juri studies him for a second, that knowing look in his eyes that makes Taiga want to punch him. But he doesn’t push. He just hums, a noncommittal sound that vibrates with skepticism. “Sure. Zoning out.” He hands Taiga another bamboo stick. “Try not to bleed on the chicken this time. The health inspector is watching.” He nods at Anzu.

Taiga snatches the stick. “Shut up.” He jams a piece of chicken onto the wood, using way more force than necessary. He doesn’t look at the vegetable table again. He refuses to.

But he can feel the weight of Hokuto in his peripheral vision. It’s irritating.

“Done!”

Shintaro slaps the side of the tent. The nylon shudders, rippling like a disturbed pond, but it stays upright. It barely looks structurally sound—leaning slightly to the left, tension lines pulling tight in the wrong places—but at least they’ve stopped shouting about poles.

“It works!” Jesse says, clapping dust off his hands. He turns to the cooler filled with beer cans immediately. “I’m on drinks. Yugo, babe, do you need a fresh one?”

“I’m holding a knife, Jesse!” Yugo calls back without looking up from the cucumbers. “Maybe in five minutes.”

That leaves Taiga standing uselessly by the picnic table. Juri is guarding the tray of raw skewers like a dragon hoarding gold, occasionally snapping his fingers when Anzu gets too close to the marinade.

“Kyomo,” Juri says, not looking at him. He jerks his chin toward the grill. “Go make yourself useful. Hand these to the Summer Boy.”

“I’m not his assistant,” Taiga mutters.

“We also need to get these grilled if we wanna eat,” Juri counters, sliding a tray of assembled chicken and beef toward him. “Take it against your chest. If you drop it in the dirt, you’re eating leaves for dinner.”

Taiga grabs the heavy metal tray. It’s cold against his arms. “Fine.”

He walks over to the stone fire pit. Shintaro is already there, piling charcoal with a surprisingly serious expression. He’s got soot on his cheek. He looks like he belongs in a surf shop, not bent over a fire, but he arranges the coals with specific intent, creating heat zones.

“Tray,” he says, setting it down on the flat rock.

“Oh, sweet. Thanks, Taiga!” He grins, that blinding, unfettered expression that always makes Taiga want to put on sunglasses. “This is gonna be sick. I got this special glaze from my brother, it’s supposed to caramelize perfectly.”

“Just don't burn it,” Taiga says. He leans back against a tree, crossing his arms. His job is done. He should leave.

He doesn’t leave. The fire is mesmerizing, little sparks jumping up as the charcoal catches.

Shintaro waits for the heat to build. He picks up a pair of tongs, clicking them twice and glances at him. The grin fades into something more thoughtful. Or as thoughtful as Shintaro gets.

“Hey,” he says, voice dropping under the crackle of the fire. “Can I ask you something?”

“About what?”

Shintaro pokes at a coal. “About the izakaya. Two weeks ago.”

Taiga’s stomach does a slow, heavy roll. “What about it?”

“When Hokkun... you know.” Shintaro gestures vaguely with the tongs. “When he got drunk. Said all that stuff about you being ‘grounding.’ And you walked out.”

“He was wasted,” Taiga says quickly. He looks at the river, anywhere but Shintaro’s face. “People say stupid shit when they drink. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“You think?”

“I know,” Taiga snaps. “He was just—feeling emotional or whatever. He probably thought I was Yugo for a second.”

Shintaro watches him. The heat from the grill is rising, warping the air between them. “You really think he didn’t mean it?”

“Why does it matter?” Taiga asks, his patience fraying. “It was embarrassing. I forgot about it.”

“Okay,” Shintaro says. He sounds relieved. Too relieved. “That’s good. Cause I was worried, like... I don’t know. That maybe something was happening.”

Taiga looks at Shintaro then. The younger one is looking down at the grill, his face illuminated by the orange glow of the embers. He looks anxious. “Nothing is happening,” he says, the words tasting like ash. “Why?”

Shintaro takes a breath. He squares his shoulders, puffing out his chest a little. “Because I’m gonna act on it. With him.”

The air around Taiga seems to thin out. “Act on it?” he repeats.

“Confess,” Shintaro corrects, staring determinedly at the skewers. “Not today. Today’s about chilling. But... soon. I’ve been waiting to see if he’s okay, with the family stuff and everything. But I think I need to just do it.”

This is the plan. This is exactly what Taiga decided when the camera showed him the future—Hokuto dead in a train wreck, Hokuto quitting the Philharmonic to be a high school teacher for him. He decided to push them together. If Shintaro is with Hokuto, the timeline shifts. Hokuto doesn’t marry Taiga. Hokuto doesn't die.

It’s the logical solution. It’s perfect.

So why does Taiga feel like he just swallowed a stone?

His chest feels tight. He looks over his shoulder. Hokuto is laughing at something Yugo said. The sound is faint over the river, but Taiga catches the way his shoulders shake, the way he covers his mouth with the back of his hand.

He looks happy. Safe.

Taiga turns back to Shintaro. He’s waiting for a reaction, his eyes wide and vulnerable. He expects Taiga to be the rival. He expects Taiga to fight him for it.

“Do it,” he says.

Shintaro blinks. “Huh?”

“You heard me,” Taiga says. He forces his voice to be steady, dismissive. Like this is boring gossip. “If you like him, tell him. Waiting around is stupid.”

“You... you don’t care?” Shintaro asks. “I mean—you don’t feel anything for him?”

“He’s annoying,” Taiga says. “He thinks too much. He tries too hard. Why would I want that?” He picks up a pebble from the ground and tosses it into the river. It disappears without a splash. “You guys make sense. Go for it.”

A grin spreads across Shintaro’s face, wider than before. “Thanks, Taiga! Seriously. That... that helps.”

“Whatever,” Taiga mutters. “Just cook the food before we starve.”

“On it!” Shintaro attacks the grill with renewed vigor, humming some pop song under his breath.

Taiga looks at the fire. The flames lick up the sides of the meat. It’s hot. Too hot. He needs to step away before the smoke gets in his eyes.

That’s probably why they’re stinging. It’s just the smoke.

“Order up!” Shintaro yells, piling the cooked meat onto a platter. It’s a mountain of food. Enough for an army, or just Jesse.

Speaking of.

“Beer me, boys!” Jesse appears out of nowhere, shoving a cold can against the back of Taiga’s neck.

Taiga flinches, twisting away. “Watch it.”

“You look overheated, Kyomo. Hydrate.” He presses the can into Taiga’s chest. It’s sweating condensation.

Taiga takes it. The cold aluminum bites into his palm. “Whatever.”

They migrate to the folding table. It’s flimsy, wobbling on the uneven ground as Juri and Hokuto start arranging plates. The dynamic shifts instantly—Jesse is loud, expanding to fill the space; Hokuto shrinks slightly to make room.

Anzu whines at Taiga’s ankles, a high-pitched sound that grates on his nerves.

“Relax,” Taiga mutters, crouching down. He unzips her travel bag and pulls out her collapsible bowl.

While everyone else fights for the best skewers, Taiga pours water from his bottle and shake sout a handful of kibble. She eats delicately, unlike the savages at the table. He watches her for a second, rubbing a thumb over her ear. She’s the only one here who isn’t complicated.

“—wait, don’t eat yet!”

Taiga looks up. Yugo and Shintaro have disappeared into the tent. A second later, they emerge, walking in a strange, shuffled lockstep to shield something from the wind.

A cake.

It’s small. Store-bought. The frosting is slightly melted from the heat, drooping off the sides. Three candles flicker stubbornly in the breeze.

“Happy birthday to you…” Shintaro starts singing, loud and boisterous, immediately joined by Yugo.

Juri looks smug, leaning back with a beer. Jesse looks thrilled, like a toddler.

And Hokuto looks… embarrassed. He’s sitting between them, shoulders hunched up by his ears. He pushes his glasses up his nose, hiding behind his hand as the song devolves into chaotic cheering.

Taiga’s hand moves automatically, lifting the viewfinder to his eye.

Frame. Focus.

The lighting is soft, filtered through the trees. He snaps a shot of Jesse laughing, mouth wide open. Then Juri, smirking at the lopsided cake.

Then he turns the lens slightly to the left.

Hokuto.

He’s lowered his hand. The candlelight catches in his eyes, reflecting tiny sparks. He’s smiling—a small, rare thing that changes the entire architecture of his face. He looks younger. Unguarded. He looks like someone who isn’t constantly weighing his own worth against everyone else’s needs.

A chest-tightening jolt hits Taiga.

Click.

Taiga lowers the camera. The image flashes on the LCD screen for two seconds. Hokuto, soft focus, eyes crinkled, looking at the cake like it actually matters.

It’s intimate. Too intimate. It looks like a photo taken by someone who loves him.

His thumb lowers over the trash can icon.

Delete?

If he keeps it, he’ll look at it. If he looks at it, he’ll analyze it. And if he analyzes it, he’ll start thinking things that stupid, hallucinatory future-Taiga would think.

“Blow them out!” Shintaro yells.

Taiga presses the button. Deleted. The screen goes black.

“Make a wish!” Yugo adds.

The three of them lean in. Hokuto hesitates, gliding a glance around the table. His eyes land on Taiga for a fraction of a second.

Taiga looks away immediately, focusing on a knot in the wood of the table.

They blow. Smoke curls up, smelling of wax and vanilla.

Cheers erupt. Shintaro is clapping, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He’s right there, hovering over Hokuto’s shoulder, eager and bright and uncomplicated.

This is the play. This is the fix.

Taiga takes a step back. Then another. He moves until he’s outside the circle of warmth, putting the table between him and them. He lifts his beer and takes a long, bitter swallow.

“Move in, Shin,” he mutters under his breath. “Take the spot.”

Shintaro doesn’t hear him, but he leans down to say something to Hokuto, making him laugh again.

Good. That’s good.

Taiga’s jaw aches. He unclenches it, turning his back on the celebration to check on Anzu.

🎹

The fire has burned down to embers, staring up at them like dying red eyes. The celebration fizzled out twenty minutes ago, leaving behind the white noise of the other campers in the area.

Yugo and Jesse are entangled near the tent entrance, illuminated by the harsh glow of a battery-powered lantern. It casts long, distorted shadows against the nylon walls that make them look like a single, multi-limbed creature.

Disgusting. Taiga looks away, directing his glare at the fire pit.

Juri is nursing the last of the beer, slumped in his chair like a king on a throne of dirt. Shintaro is poking the charcoal with a stick, his energy finally flagging as the sugar crash hits. Hokuto is organizing the trash, tying off a bag with efficient, quiet knots.

The sky above the tree line is a bruised purple. The light is failing fast.

“Okay,” Yugo’s voice cuts through the humidity, startlingly pragmatic. He extricates himself from Jesse’s arm and stands up, brushing dirt off his knees. “Show’s over. Let’s pack it up before we lose the light completely.”

“Buzzkill,” Jesse mutters, but he stands up, stretching his long arms toward the canopy.

“Finally,” Taiga says. He crushes his empty can and tosses it toward the trash bag Hokuto is holding.

Hokuto catches it without looking. Show-off.

Taiga stands, his joints popping. The dampness of the ground has seeped through the soles of his sneakers. He turns toward the spot where he left the travel bag, ready to clip the leash back onto Anzu’s collar and drag her away from the smell of grilled meat.

“Come on, Princess,” he says, reaching down. “Let’s go.”

His hand closes around dead air.

Taiga freezes. He looks down.

The collapsible bowl is there, licked clean, gleaming dully in the twilight. The travel bag is unzipped. The spot where she was eating—where she was vibrating with greed five minutes ago—is empty.

“Anzu?”

He scans the immediate area. Under the folding table. Behind the cooler. The distinct gray-and-tan shape is nowhere.

A cold prickle starts at the base of his spine.

“Hey,” he says, louder. He turns in a circle, checking the perimeter of our campsite. The shadows under the trees are thick, pooling like ink. “Anzu!”

No jingle of tags. No sharp, demanding bark.

“What’s up?” Shintaro asks, looking up from his stick-poking.

“Where is she?” Taiga demands. He kicks the travel bag aside, looking underneath it as if a dog could flatten herself into two dimensions. “Did one of you shield her somewhere?”

“Shield who?” Jesse asks, blinking.

“My dog!” Taiga snaps. The irritation flashes into something hotter, sharper. His heart does a stupid, stuttering kick against his ribs. “She was right here. She was eating. I turned my back for two seconds.”

“I saw her… a while ago,” Juri offers, unhelpful as always. He gestures vaguely with his beer bottle toward the treeline. “She was sniffing around the perimeter.”

Taiga marches over to the tent. He rips the flap open.

Empty. Just a mattress and pillows.

“Anzu!” He screams it this time, the name tearing out of his throat.

The river.

The sound of the water reacting with the rocks suddenly sounds violent. It’s been background noise all evening, white noise, but now it sounds like a threat. It’s fast. It’s cold. The current is strong enough to drag a person, let alone five pounds of terrier.

Taiga’s breath hitches. The air feels too thin. He spins toward the water, his sneakers slipping on the damp grass.

“Taiga.”

A hand clamps onto his shoulder.

Taiga whips around, adrenaline spiking, ready to shove whoever it is.

Yugo holds firm. His face is close to Taiga’s, stripped of his usual ‘mom friend’ softness. His grip hurts. “Stop,” he orders.

“She’s gone,” Taiga chokes out, pointing toward the dark rush of water. “Yugo, the river is right there. If she slipped—”

“She’s not in the river,” Yugo says, his voice maddeningly calm. “She probably caught a scent. We’re in the woods. There are a million things to smell.”

“It’s dark,” Taiga says. His hands are shaking. He clenches them into fists to force them still. “There are snakes. Foxes. She’s tiny.”

“And she’s loud as hell,” Yugo counters. “If something grabbed her, we’d hear it.”

Taiga turns to the others. The campsite has gone still. Jesse looks stricken. Hokuto has dropped the trash bag, his posture rigid. Shintaro is already standing, looking ready to sprint into the dark.

“We split up,” Yugo commands. He points at Juri and Jesse. “You guys help me strike the camp. The sooner we bring this stuff back to the cottage, the sooner we can help with the search party.” He turns back to Taiga. “Taiga, you take the path back toward the trail. Take Hokuto and Shintaro with you. Spread out, keep visual contact. Flashlights.”

“I’m not leaving without her,” Taiga says.

“We’re not leaving without her,” Yugo says firmly. He shoves a heavy-duty flashlight into Taiga’s hand. “Go. Find her.”

Taiga doesn’t wait. He flicks the switch—the beam cuts a harsh white cone through the dusk—and turns toward the trees.

“Let’s go!” Shintaro yells, already moving, his energy shifting from playful to frantic.

Taiga glances back. Hokuto is right there, glasses catching the reflection of the fire, waiting for his lead. “Move,” he snaps at them.

He plunges into the tree line, leaving the dying fire behind. He doesn’t care that he’s dragging the two people he’s trying to manipulate into the dark woods with him. He doesn’t care about the timeline.

“Anzu!”

His voice tears out of his throat. It dies instantly against the noise of the rushing water and the rustle of the wind in the canopy.

Taiga sweeps the flashlight back and forth. Roots look like snakes. Rocks look like crouching animals. Every shadow is a threat. His heart is hammering against his ribs, a frantic, stupid rhythm that makes it hard to breathe.

She’s gone.

The thought is a cold spike in his gut. He took his eyes off her for a second. To look at him. To stare at Hokuto like an idiot while his dog—the only thing that actually matters—wandered off into the pitch black.

“Anzu-chan! Come here!”

Shintaro is shouting her name somewhere to Taiga’s left, his voice cracking with effort. It’s too loud. It’s going to scare her.

Taiga stumbles over a tree root, nearly dropping the flashlight. He catches himself, but the beam swings wildly, illuminating nothing but dirt and dead leaves.

If she fell in the river—

“Kyomoto.”

Hokuto is there. He steps right into the beam of Taiga’s light, forcing him to stop or run him over.

“Move!” Taiga snaps, trying to shove past him. “We’re wasting time.”

Hokuto catches his arm. Not hard, but firm enough to ground him. “Stop running. Lunging around isn’t helping. Think.”

“I am thinking! I’m thinking she’s alone in the dark!”

“What does she do when she’s somewhere new?” Hokuto asks. His voice is maddeningly steady. It cuts through the panic in Taiga’s head like a knife. “Does she bolt? Does she hide?”

Taiga blinks, the question forcing his brain to stutter, searching for data instead of catastrophe. “She… she explores,” he forces out, his chest heaving. “But not far. She gets scared if the scent trail gets too thin. She circles back.”

“What about the water?” Hokuto asks. “Is she drawn to it?”

“Yes. No.” Taiga runs a hand through his hair, gripping the strands tight. “She likes the sound. She likes to watch it. But she hates getting wet. She won’t go in unless she slips.”

Hokuto nods, releasing Taiga’s arm. He turns, pointing into the dark with his own flashlight. “Okay. You take the riverside,” he orders, pointing the beam toward the roar of the water. “If she’s watching it, that’s where she’ll be. Scan the bank; don’t just run. Look closely.” He gestures toward the dense woods uphill. “I’ll take the treeline. If she circled back or got turned around, she might be caught in the underbrush.” He turns his head, shouting to be heard over the wind. “Shintaro! Check the perimeter of the camping grounds! She might have gone looking for food scraps!”

“Got it!” Shintaro yells back, already sprinting toward the tents.

“Go,” Hokuto tells him.

Taiga doesn’t argue, doesn’t thank Hokuto for making sense when he couldn’t. He turns on his heel and sprints toward the sound of the river, the flashlight beam shaking in his grip.

The river is a roar in his ears. It drowns out the wind, the rustle of leaves, everything. It’s too loud. He hates nature. He hates the dark.

He sweeps the flashlight beam across the muddy bank. Roots twist like gnarled fingers reaching for the water. The air smells like wet earth and rot.

“Anzu!”

Taiga’s voice sounds thin against the rush of the current. He forces himself to breathe through his nose. Panic makes you stupid. Panic makes you miss things. He scans the ground—mud, rocks, debris.

Nothing.

He grips the flashlight until his knuckles ache. If she fell in, she’s gone. That current is too fast. She’s five pounds of fur and arrogance; she doesn’t stand a chance against physics.

Stop it.

He turns the beam toward a cluster of rocks further down the bank. The ground slopes sharply here, eroding into the water.

Then he hears it.

It’s faint, a high-pitched sound that cuts through the low rumble of the river. A whimper.

Taiga scrambles toward the edge, ignoring the way his sneakers slide on the slick grass. He aims the light down.

There.

About six feet down, caught on a narrow shelf of rock jutting out from the embankment, is a miserable, wet scrap of gray fur. Anzu blinks up at the light, shivering. She’s not in the water, but she’s close enough to get sprayed. She lets out a sharp, accusatory bark.

Taiga’s knees almost buckle. The adrenaline crash is instant, leaving him lightheaded.

“You idiot,” he mutters, the relief heavy and suffocating. “You absolute idiot.”

Branches snap behind him.

“Taiga!”

Shintaro crashes through the underbrush like a frantic bear, his flashlight beam swinging wildly. It blinds Taiga for a second before he aims it at the ground. Hokuto is right behind him, moving quieter, his breathing steady but audible.

“Did you find her?” Shintaro gasps, almost skidding into Taiga.

“Down there.” Taiga points the light at the shelf.

Shintaro peers over the edge. “Oh, thank god. She looks okay. Just… wet.”

“She’s stuck,” Taiga says. The drop is too steep for her to climb, and if she slips, she goes straight into the heavy current. “I have to go down.” He shoves his flashlight at Shintaro without looking at him. “Hold this. Keep the light on her.”

He’s already assessing the slope. There are roots he can grab. The mud looks unstable, but if he keeps his weight back—

“Don’t be stupid,” Hokuto says.

Taiga turns to snap at him, but he’s already moving. He’s sitting on the edge of the embankment, swinging his legs over.

“What are you doing?”

Hokuto doesn’t answer, because he pushes off, sliding down the first few feet of mud with annoying grace.

Taiga’s irritation vanishes, replaced by a cold, sharp spike of dread. He watches Hokuto descend. He’s wearing boots. Good tread. Practical. But the rock shelf is slick with moss and river spray. One wrong step and he slides past Anzu, right into the black water.

You always have to be the hero, he thinks, and the thought tastes like bile. The vision. The train station.

“Matsumura, wait!” he says. It comes out desperate.

Hokuto ignores him. He finds a root, tests it, and lowers himself further.

Shintaro creates a spotlight with the two beams, illuminating Hokuto’s descent. “Careful, Hokkun! That rock looks loose on the left.”

Hokuto nods, adjusting his grip. He’s terrifyingly calm. He moves like this is normal, like climbing down a ravine in the dark is just another chore to cross off a list.

Taiga hates him for it. He hates the way Hokuto pushes himself in danger without hesitation. It makes the visions feel less like hallucinations and more like inevitabilities.

Hokuto reaches the shelf. He crouches, balancing on the balls of his feet. Anzu immediately scrambles toward him, tail tucking, whining.

“Hey,” Hokuto says softly. Taiga can barely hear him over the river. He reaches out, letting her sniff his hand before he scoops her up.

Hokuto has her. She’s safe.

But he’s still down there.

Hokuto nestles Anzu into the front of his jacket, zipping it halfway up to secure her against his chest. Then he looks up. The harsh light catches his pale yet focused face. “I’m coming up!” he calls out.

“Watch your step!” Shintaro yells, vibrating with anxiety.

Taiga’s hands are fists at his sides. He can’t move. He just stares at Hokuto, waiting for the rock to crumble. Waiting for the slip. Waiting for the universe to prove him right.

Don’t fall, he commands silently. Don’t you dare fall and verify everything I’m afraid of.

Hokuto shifts his weight, testing a jagged piece of slate jutting out from the mud. It holds. He reaches up, fingers digging into a tangle of exposed roots, and pulls himself up another foot. He looks steady. Capable. Like he’s done this a thousand times.

Then the earth betrays him.

The root snaps with a wet crack.

It happens in slow motion—the way his boot loses traction, the slide of mud, the sudden, sickening shift of gravity. He doesn’t scream. He just gasps, a sharp intake of air that cuts through the roar of the river, and then he’s falling backward.

“Hokuto!”

He hits the rock shelf hard. There’s a dull thud—the sound of bone meeting stone—

And barely a second later, Taiga is sliding down the embankment after him. He doesn’t check for footholds, doesn’t care about the mud ruining his jeans or the way the branches whip against his face. He skids down the incline, digging his heels into the sludge to break his momentum just before he crashes into Hokuto.

“Hey,” he chokes out, dropping to his knees on the wet rock. His hands hover over Hokuto, useless, shaking. “Hey.”

Hokuto is curled on his side, clutching his left leg. His face is pressed into the moss, teeth gritted, breath coming in shallow, ragged hisses.

A zipper creates a soft buzzing sound. Anzu’s head pops out of his jacket, ears perked. She wriggles free, completely unbothered, and scrambles over his chest to get to Taiga. She whines, tail wagging, and licks his chin.

“Get off!” Taiga snaps, shoving her gently aside. His focus is entirely on the boy in the mud. “Hokuto. Look at me.”

Hokuto rolls onto his back, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. His glasses are gone—broken next to him—and he looks younger without them, stripped of his usual composure. “I’m okay,” he wheezes.

“You fell six feet onto rock,” Taiga snarls. “Stop lying.”

“My ankle.” Hokuto winces as he tries to straighten the leg. “I think I landed wrong.”

Taiga looks down. Hokuto’s left boot is at an angle that makes his stomach turn. The bone isn’t jutting out, but the ankle is already swelling, straining against the leather laces.

Panic spikes in Taiga’s chest. This is it. This is how it starts. First the ankle, then the timeline shifts, then the train, then the funeral.

“Shintaro!” Taiga yells up at the flashlight beam dancing frantically above them. “Go get Yugo. Now!”

“Is he okay? Is he—”

“Just go!”

The light vanishes as Shintaro takes off, leaving them in the semi-darkness of the ravine. The only light comes from the moon reflecting off the churning water below.

“Kyomoto,” Hokuto says. His voice is tight but maddeningly calm. “Breathe.”

“Shut up,” Taiga says, his hands hovering over his boot again. “We need to stabilize it. If we move you and it’s broken—”

“It’s not broken. Just a sprain.” Hokuto pushes himself up on his elbows, grimacing. “Do you have a scarf? Or a belt?”

“What?”

“To compress it,” Hokuto says, sounding like a professor explaining a syllabus rather than a guy lying in the mud. “It’ll stop the swelling until we get back to the cottage. You need to wrap it.”

“I don’t know how to do that.” Taiga’s voice cracks. He hates Hokuto for making him do this. He hates Hokuto for being hurt.

“I’ll show you,” Hokuto says softly. He reaches out, his hand cold and muddy, and touches Taiga’s wrist. “Take off your overshirt. The flannel. It’s thick enough.”

Taiga strips off the shirt without thinking, the cold night air hitting his skin through his t-shirt. He doesn’t feel it. He bunches the fabric in his hands.

“Okay,” Hokuto directs, watching Taiga with dark, unfocused eyes. “Start at the instep. Wrap it in a figure-eight. Tight, but not tight enough to cut off circulation.”

Taiga’s hands are shaking so bad he can barely hold the cloth. He slides it under Hokuto’s foot. Hokuto makes a sharp noise in his throat when Taiga lifts his heel, and Taiga freezes.

“Don’t stop,” Hokuto whispers. “Just wrap it.”

Taiga forces his hands to move. Over the foot. Around the ankle. Cross it. Pull.

“Tighter,” Hokuto instructs.

Taiga pulls harder.

Hokuto exhales, a long, shuddering breath, and leans his head back against the rock wall. “Good,” he murmurs. “That’s good.”

Taiga ties it off, his fingers slick with mud and sweat. Anzu has settled near his head, resting her chin on Hokuto’s thigh as if guarding him.

He sits back on his heels, staring at the makeshift bandage. His heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He looks at Hokuto’s face. He’s pale, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill.

His hands are still trembling. Taiga tries to wipe the mud off on his jeans, but it just smears, leaving cold streaks on the denim. The adrenaline is curdling into something heavy and sick in his stomach, making his head spin.

Then, a wet nose nudges his elbow.

Anzu forces her head under his arm, pressing her small, shivering body against his side. She does this when the air pressure drops before a storm, or when Taiga has been staring at a blank partition of sheet music for three hours without blinking. She knows. She always knows when he’s about to snap.

Taiga lets out a shaky breath and yank her into his chest. She smells like river water and wet earth. It’s disgusting, but he buries his face in the fur at her neck anyway, his fingers digging into her coat to make sure she is actually solid. Actually here.

“Do you have any idea how stupid that was?” he mutters into her fur. His voice sounds wrecked, scraped raw by shouting. “You could have died. You could have been halfway to the ocean by now.”

She licks his chin. She doesn’t look sorry. She looks pleased to be the center of attention.

Taiga squeezes her once, hard, then shoves her back toward the dry patch of rock near the canyon wall. “Sit. Don’t move.”

She sneezes and curls into a ball.

He turns his glare on the human disaster next to him.

Hokuto is leaning back against the mossy wall, eyes closed, breathing through the pain in his ankle. Taiga’s flannel shirt looks ridiculous wrapped around his boot. His face is pale, sweat beading at his hairline despite the chill coming off the water.

“And you,” Taiga snaps.

Hokuto’s eyes crack open. Dark. Dazed.

“You’re an idiot,” Taiga says. The anger comes easy now. It’s better than the fear. “Who jumps down a ravine in the dark for a dog? You didn’t check the foothold. You didn’t wait for a rope. You just threw yourself off the edge like gravity is a suggestion.”

Hokuto blinks slowly at him. “She was stuck.”

“So let me get her,” Taiga argues. His voice rises, cracking against the roar of the river. “I have hands. I can climb. You didn’t have to break your leg playing hero.”

It is the vision again. The train tracks. The faceless people he saved. The phone call telling Taiga that Hokuto was dead because he couldn’t mind his own business. The wedding ring on the counter.

It makes him want to punch Hokuto. It makes him want to shake Hokuto until he promises to be selfish for once in his life.

“You always do this,” Taiga hisses, forgetting that in this timeline, Hokuto hasn’t done anything yet. “You throw yourself in front of everything without thinking about what happens after. It’s selfish.”

Hokuto watches him. He doesn’t defend himself. He doesn’t apologize. He just looks at Taiga with that unnerving, quiet intensity he uses when he is listening to a complex piece of music, stripping away the noise to find the melody.

“You called me Hokuto,” he says.

The words stop Taiga dead. The rant dies in his throat.

Taiga stares at him. The river rushes loudly below them, but the silence between them feels louder. “What?”

“When I fell,” Hokuto says softly. He shifts slightly, wincing as his leg moves, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “And after that. You called me Hokuto.”

Heat flares up at the back of Taiga’s neck. Prickling, uncomfortable heat. He opens his mouth, then shuts it. He replays the last ten minutes in his head.

Shit.

“I didn’t,” Taiga lies. “It was the adrenaline. It was dark. I was yelling at… the situation.”

“You were yelling at the situation named Hokuto?”

“Shut up!” Taiga snaps, feeling the flush creep up to his ears. He looks away, focusing on a jagged root protruding from the mud. “I panicked. My dog was in danger. I would have called you anything. I probably would have called you ‘asshole’ if it had come to mind faster.”

“It’s okay,” Hokuto cuts in.

Taiga glares at him, ready to tell him exactly where he can shove his reassurance.

“I don’t mind,” Hokuto says. His voice drops, softer than the wind in the trees. “It sounds different when you say it. Taiga.”

Taiga’s heart does a stupid, violent kick against his ribs.

He didn’t say Kyomoto. Just Taiga. It sounds intimate. It sounds like he’s testing the weight of it in his mouth.

Taiga should correct him, tell him they aren’t close, and Hokuto doesn’t get to use his given name just because he threw himself down a ravine for Anzu. He should tell Hokuto to stop looking at him like he understands something that Taiga doesn’t.

But the words stick in his throat. He just sits there, staring at Hokuto’s swollen ankle, feeling his pulse beat a traitorous rhythm in his wrists.

“Whatever,” he finally mutters. He pulls his knees to his chest, making himself small against the cold stone. “Just don’t expect me to make a habit of it.”

Hokuto doesn’t answer, but Taiga can feel him smiling. Whatever.

Above them, the darkness fractures.

Beams of light slice through the canopy, dancing frantically over the mud and rock. Voices yell over the roar of the water.

“There! I see them!” Shintaro’s voice.

“Taiga! Hokuto!” That’s Yugo. He sounds breathless.

Taiga shields his eyes against the sudden glare as three flashlights blind them from the top of the embankment. “Down here!” he yells back, scrambling up. He grabs Anzu’s collar before the chaos makes her bolt again.

“Oh, thank god,” Jesse’s voice booms, startling a bird from a nearby branch. “The staff is coming down! Hang on!”

The intimacy of the ravine—the quiet, the mud, his name on Hokuto’s tongue—shatters instantly. It acts as a buffer.

The noise drowns out the sound of Taiga’s own heartbeat, and for that, at least, he’s grateful.

🪈

The apartment is quiet in the way it almost never is—no shower opera from Jesse, no bass-heavy EDM leaking from Shintaro’s room, no clatter of someone rummaging through the fridge for something that doesn’t belong to them. Just the hum of the AC and the faint, persistent drip of rain against the balcony door.

He should be grateful for the silence. He asked for it, in a way. He told them both he was fine, that they didn’t need to hover, that he could manage a few hours alone while they went to class.

Jesse looked unconvinced. He’s been making Hokuto tea every three hours for the past week, each cup delivered with a level of theatrical concern that suggests Hokuto is dying rather than nursing a sprained ankle.

Shintaro is worse, in his own way. He rearranged the living room furniture so Hokuto wouldn’t have to walk as far to the kitchen. He carries his plate to the table every meal. He brings him ice packs before Hokuto thinks to ask.

He should be grateful.

He is grateful. It’s just that being cared for this much, this constantly, starts to feel like something pressing against his chest. The kind of weight that makes it hard to take a full breath.

The textbook open in front of him is Professor Nagata’s assigned reading on Baroque ornamentation—a chapter he missed during the week he couldn’t make it to campus. The notes Juri dropped off yesterday are thorough, his handwriting surprisingly legible when he bothers to try. He’d stayed for twenty minutes, leaning against the doorframe with that permanent smirk, telling Hokuto about how one of their classmates had accidentally worn two different shoes to their ear training quiz.

He made it sound like a comedy. It probably was.

Juri also brought the cards.

Hokuto looks at them now, lined up along the edge of the table where he placed them this morning. Three envelopes, one handmade construction paper rectangle, and a folded piece of notebook paper with Yugo’s neat print on the outside.

Jesse’s card is the handmade one. It’s aggressive in its sincerity—bright orange cardstock, glitter glue that’s already shedding onto the table surface, and a drawing of what Hokuto thinks is supposed to be a flute but looks more like a baguette with holes.

Inside, in Jesse’s large, looping script: Happy birthday, Hokuto!! You’re the best person I know and I’m not just saying that because you do the dishes. (But also please keep doing the dishes.) Love, Jesse.

Yugo’s separate card is more restrained. A simple store-bought one with a mountain landscape on the front. Inside, just: Happy birthday, Hokuto! Take care of yourself. You deserve a good year.

Below that, Juri’s simple card with smaller, tidier handwriting: Happy birthday, Hokuto.

Shintaro’s is a birthday card shaped like a surfboard. Hokuto isn’t sure where he found it. The message is long, that Hokuto would need to focus to get through the entire thing.

He runs his thumb along the edge of Jesse’s glitter-crusted creation and feels something loosen in his throat. Of course they remembered—Jesse has been planning tonight’s dinner for a week, negotiating with Yugo over the menu like it's a treaty negotiation. There will be cake. There will probably be too much food. Shintaro will insist on a toast that goes on too long, and Jesse will interrupt him, and Yugo will sigh, and it will be warm and loud and full of the kind of careless affection that still surprises Hokuto, even after four months of living here.

He sets the card down.

There's a space on the table where another card isn’t. He notices it the way he notices a rest in a piece of music—by the shape of what’s missing.

Taiga hasn’t texted. Not since the camping trip. Not since the ravine, the mud, the name.

Two weeks. He’s counted, which he shouldn’t admit, even to himself. Fourteen days of silence where there used to be something. The occasional terse reply to a message about class notes. A photo of Anzu sent without comment, which Hokuto understood as a kind of conversation Taiga could manage. Small, careful, reluctant gestures that he collected like someone pressing wildflowers between the pages of a book, knowing they’d crumble if handled too roughly.

He remembers the way it sounded. His name in Taiga’s mouth. Not Matsumura, not the careful distance of a family name held at arm’s length. Desperate and furious and stripped of every wall he’d built between them. He said it the way you say something that’s been in your chest too long, something that escapes before you can catch it.

Hokuto was falling when Taiga said it. He was in pain when Taiga said it again. His ankle was throbbing, the cold of the rock seeping through his clothes, and he remembers thinking—even through the haze of it—that he had never heard anything that precise. That honest.

And then he said Taiga’s name back, because it seemed like the only fair thing to do. Because he wanted to. Because it was sitting right there behind his teeth, and for once he didn’t have the energy to keep it in.

Taiga.

The rain picks up against the glass. He turns back to the textbook, reading the same paragraph about Baroque trills for the third time without retaining a single word. His ankle aches dully under the compression bandage—healing, the hospital said, but slowly. He shifts his weight in the chair and the movement sends a thin pulse of pain up through his calf.

It’s fine. It’s manageable.

He picks up his phone. The screen shows 2:43 PM. No new messages.

He sets it back down, face-up, beside Juri’s notes. He doesn’t lock the screen. He tells himself it’s because he's waiting for Jesse to confirm what time they’re coming back tonight, which is true, technically. Jesse always texts twenty minutes before arriving so Hokuto can “mentally prepare for the chaos,” as he puts it.

That’s what he’s waiting for. Jesse’s text.

He pulls the textbook closer and tries again.

The sound of a key turning in the lock stops his breath.

He sits up too fast and his ankle screams in protest, a bright flare that shoots from his heel to his knee. His hand knocks the textbook off the table. It hits the floor with a thud that sounds absurdly loud in the empty apartment, and for a second he can’t think past the adrenaline—

Jesse and Shintaro aren’t due back for hours, Yugo has his own key but he would text first, and Hokuto is sitting here with a compression bandage and a body that can barely make it to the bathroom without leaning on the wall.

He looks around for something. He doesn’t know what. A weapon? The closest thing is Shintaro’s surfing magazine and Juri’s stack of notes, neither of which would intimidate anyone. His flute case is across the room on its stand. His phone is on the table, but his fingers are shaking too much to pick it up, and anyway what would he do, call the police while someone is already inside—

The door opens.

Anzu comes through first. She trots into the apartment with the unbothered confidence of someone who has been here before, her tiny nails clicking against the floor. Her pink collar catches the light from the window, and she makes a beeline for the couch, sniffing the cushion where Shintaro spilled orange soda last week.

Behind her, holding a leash in one hand and a folder in the other, is Taiga.

He stands in the doorway for a moment, rain-damp and slightly out of breath, his dark hair pushed back from his forehead in a way that suggests he’s been running his hand through it. He’s wearing a black hoodie over a graphic shirt, jeans with a tear at the left knee that looks accidental rather than fashionable, and sneakers that have left wet prints on the mat. The dog tag around his neck glints when he shifts his weight.

He doesn’t look at Hokuto right away. He looks at the shoe rack, at the mirror with Jesse’s sticky notes, at the ceiling—anywhere else.

“Jesse gave me a key,” he says. His voice comes out flat, a little too measured, like he’s rehearsed this. “So you wouldn’t have to get up.”

Hokuto’s heart is still hammering. He presses his palm against his chest as if that will slow it down. “You—I thought someone was breaking in.”

Taiga’s jaw tightens, something flickering across his face. “I knocked. Twice.”

Hokuto didn’t hear him. He was reading. Or trying to read. Or staring at his phone. “I’m sorry,” he says, though he isn’t sure what he’s apologizing for.

Taiga shakes his head and holds up a folder. “Moriya’s class. Liberal Arts. You missed the last two sessions, so.” He crosses the room and sets the folder on the table beside Juri’s notes, beside the birthday cards, beside the phone Hokuto was not watching. His fingers let go of it quickly, like the contact might burn.

Then he looks down at Anzu, who has abandoned the couch and is now sniffing Hokuto’s bandaged ankle with the detached curiosity of a medical examiner.

“She’s here to apologize,” Taiga says. He crosses his arms over his chest and tips his chin toward her. “For the ravine. For—you know. Running off and making you climb after her.”

Anzu looks up at Hokuto with her enormous dark eyes, tail wagging. She looks thrilled to be here.

“I don’t think she’s very remorseful,” Hokuto says.

“She’s not.” Taiga’s mouth twitches. “She never is.”

Anzu presses her nose against the compression bandage, sniffs once, twice, then sits back on her haunches and stares at Hokuto as if she’s reached a diagnosis but isn’t going to share it.

The silence stretches. Taiga is still standing, arms crossed, weight shifted to one leg. He looks at the table, at the folder he just placed there, at Jesse’s glitter card shedding orange flecks onto the wood. His eyes move over the lineup of birthday cards with an expression Hokuto can’t quite read.

He should say something. Thank you for the notes. Thank you for coming. It’s good to see you. Any of these would be fine, would be normal, would fill the space between them with something other than the sound of rain and Anzu’s breathing.

But his throat feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with the ankle, and he’s afraid that whatever comes out will be too much or not enough or shaped wrong.

Taiga speaks first. “How’s the ankle?” He’s looking at Hokuto’s foot now, at the bandage wrapped from arch to mid-calf, and something in his posture shifts. A loosening at the shoulders that Hokuto might be imagining.

“Better,” Hokuto says. “The swelling’s mostly gone. Another week, maybe, and I should be able to walk without the crutches.”

“You’re using the crutches?”

“When I remember to.”

Taiga’s eyes narrow. “They’re not optional.”

“I know. I just—the apartment is small enough that I can manage without them most of the time. It’s not far from my room to the kitchen.”

Taiga clicks his tongue. It’s a small sound, barely audible, but Hokuto has learned to hear it. It means he thinks Hokuto is being careless with himself and doesn’t want to say so directly.

“Jesse and Shintaro have been helping,” Hokuto adds, because it feels like the kind of reassurance that Taiga is looking for without asking.

“I can tell.” His gaze drifts to the living room—to the furniture that Shintaro rearranged, the row of water bottles lined up within arm’s reach of the couch. “Looks like a field hospital in here.”

Hokuto laughs before he can stop himself. “They mean well.”

“They’re suffocating you,” Taiga says.

The bluntness of it lands somewhere between Hokuto’s ribs. “It’s fine. I don’t mind.”

Taiga looks at him. Just looks, for a beat longer than usual, and Hokuto feels the weight of his attention like a hand pressed flat against his sternum. Then Taiga exhales through his nose and uncrosses his arms. “Right,” he says. Like he heard something Hokuto didn’t say.

Anzu breaks the moment by standing on her hind legs and pawing at Hokuto's knee, her tiny body vibrating with the effort. She lets out a high, insistent whine. She wants up.

Hokuto glances at Taiga.

“Go ahead,” Taiga says. He bends down and scoops her up with one hand, cradling her against his chest for a moment before lowering her carefully onto Hokuto’s lap. His fingers brush the fabric of Hokuto’s sweatpants and pull away.

Anzu circles once, twice, then curls into a tight ball against Hokuto’s stomach, her chin resting on his wrist.

Hokuto runs his thumb along the silk of her ear and feels her settle, the vibration of her small body evening out into warmth.

“She missed you,” Taig says, and then immediately looks like he regrets it.

He turns back toward the door.

For a second Hokuto thinks he’s going to leave, but instead he picks up a paper bag that Hokuto didn’t notice him set down. It’s been resting against the shoe rack, small and plain, with the handles tied together at the top.

He brings it to the table and sets it beside the birthday cards. His hand stays on it for a moment, fingertips pressing into the brown paper.

“It’s—” He stops. Starts again. “I remembered you said something. About your mother sending you tea from Shizuoka. And the mochi.”

He pulls out a rectangular box of sencha, the green packaging printed with a label from a tea house that Hokuto frequents back home. Beside it, a smaller container of abekawa mochi, the kind dusted in kinako powder, wrapped in cellophane with a ribbon that someone at the shop must have tied.

“My mother’s friend is from Shizuoka,” he says. The tips of his ears are red. He’s looking at the wall behind Hokuto’s head. “She was visiting last week, so I asked. It’s not—I didn’t go out of my way or anything.”

But he did. He went exactly out of his way. He remembered a detail that Hokuto mentioned once, weeks ago, in passing, about the tea his mother used to brew on weekend mornings when the house was still quiet. About the mochi Masaya begged for every New Year. Hokuto mentioned it during one of their study sessions, between paragraphs about Gluck, and he thought it had disappeared into the air between them like so many things do.

Taiga kept it.

Hokuto’s fingers have stopped moving along Anzu’s ear. She nudges his wrist impatiently, and he resumes, but his vision has gone slightly blurred at the edges and he has to blink twice before he trusts his voice.

“Taiga.” His name comes out before Hokuto can stop it.

Taiga flinches, barely. A tremor at the corner of his jaw.

“Stay,” Hokuto says. “Please. We can have the tea together.”

Taiga doesn’t move for a long moment. Anzu shifts in Hokuto’s lap, adjusting her chin on his wrist, and the rain fills the silence with a sound like fingers tapping glass.

Then Taiga exhales and says, very quietly, “No one should sit alone on their birthday.” He’s already turning toward the kitchen before the last word lands, as if proximity to the sentence might force him to acknowledge it. “I’ll make it. The tea. Just—tell me where things are.”

“The kettle is on the counter, behind the rice cooker. Jesse moved it last week when he was trying to—I think he was building a spice rack. It didn’t go well.” Hokuto is talking too much. He can hear himself doing it, filling space the way he always does when something has made his chest feel too full. “The cups are in the cabinet above the sink. The ceramic ones on the left are mine.”

“I know which ones are yours.” He says it flatly, without turning around, but Hokuto catches the edge of something underneath. Taiga has been here enough times now, for study sessions and dinners and the one evening Anzu refused to leave and he sat on the couch for three hours pretending he wasn’t comfortable, that the apartment has seeped into him whether he wanted it to or not.

Hokuto hears him open the cabinet. The clink of ceramic against the shelf. Water running into the kettle, a thin, bright sound, and then the click of the switch.

Anzu’s ear twitches at the noise but she doesn't move. She’s warm and solid against Hokuto’s stomach, breathing in slow, even rhythms that make it hard to remember he was anxious ten minutes ago.

Taiga leans against the counter with his arms crossed, watching the kettle. From here Hokuto can see the line of his profile—the sharp angle of his jaw, the slight downturn of his mouth, the way his lashes cast shadows against his cheekbone in the grey afternoon light. He looks tired. Not the dramatic, visible tiredness of sleepless nights, but something deeper, more structural, as if fatigue has been laid down in layers over years and he’s simply learned to stand upright inside it.

Hokuto wonders if anyone has told him that recently. He wonders if Taiga would hear it as concern or as criticism.

The kettle begins to hiss.

“What else?” Taiga asks.

Hokuto blinks. “Sorry?”

Taiga half-turns from the counter, and his expression is careful in a way Hokuto has learned to recognize. “What else do you need. While I’m here.”

It takes Hokuto a moment to understand what Taiga is asking, and then another moment to understand why it feels so different from every other time someone has asked him that question in the past two weeks.

Jesse asks what he needs with boundless energy, already halfway to the answer before Hokuto has finished speaking, turning his silence into a project he can fix with enthusiasm and orange glitter. Shintaro asks what he needs with earnest attention, eyes wide, body angled toward him like a compass toward north, ready to leap before Hokuto has even pointed in a direction. Yugo asks what he needs with quiet efficiency, the question itself a formality because he’s already assessed and decided.

Hokuto knows they’re good.

But Taiga doesn’t ask what he needs like he’s going to rush to provide it. He asks it like it’s a question he's not sure he’s allowed to pose. Like he’s standing at a threshold and waiting to see if Hokuto will let him through. There is no certainty in his voice, no cheerful obligation, no caretaker’s reflex—just the raw, tentative shape of someone who wants to help and doesn’t know how to make that want sound casual.

It undoes him. A slow, quiet collapse somewhere behind his ribs, like a note held so long it dissolves into silence. Hokuto feels it in his fingers, which have gone still against Anzu’s fur. He feels it in the careful, painful way his heartbeat rearranges itself around a truth he’s been circling for weeks without landing on.

He likes Taiga. He likes him in a way that isn’t careful, isn’t measured, isn’t the gentle, tentative thing he told Yugo about on that afternoon when he was still pretending he could manage it.

This is something with roots. Something that has grown quietly in the spaces between study sessions and arguments about Orpheus and the sound of his own name in Taiga’s mouth at the bottom of a ravine. It is inconvenient and probably unwise and he can feel it settling into him with the weight of something that isn’t going to leave easily.

Taiga is still looking at him from the kitchen, one hand resting on the counter beside the kettle, and Hokuto realizes he’s been silent too long.

“The couch,” he says. His voice comes out steadier than he expects, which is a small mercy. “I think I’d like to sit on the couch. It’s easier than the chair.”

“Fine.” Taiga pushes off the counter. “Stay there. I’ll move the—" He gestures vaguely at the table, at the textbook on the floor, at the careful architecture of care that Shintaro and Jesse have constructed around Hokuto. “Just stay there.”

He crosses the room and adjusts the pillow at the end of the couch. His movements are quick and efficient, but Hokuto notices the way he pauses before repositioning the blanket—touching the fabric once, lightly, as though checking its weight.

“Okay,” Taiga says, not looking at Hokuto. “Come on.”

Hokuto stands from the chair too quickly and his ankle buckles, a sharp protest that shoots up through his calf and steals the breath from his lungs. His hand finds the edge of the table, knuckles whitening around it, and he holds very still until the worst of it passes.

Taiga is beside him before he’s finished exhaling.

His hand closes around Hokuto’s elbow. His other hand hovers at his back without quite touching, as if he’s calculated the exact distance between support and something he can’t afford. He smells like rain and faintly of cigarette smoke and something underneath both of those, something warm and clean that Hokuto shouldn’t be cataloging this carefully.

“Lean on me,” Taiga says.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to.”

So Hokuto does. He leans into him, just a little, letting Taiga’s grip guide his weight as they cross the small distance between the table and the couch. Taiga's shoulder is solid against his, narrower than Hokuto expected, and he can feel the tension in Taiga’s arm, as though he’s tracking every shift of Hokuto’s body to make sure he doesn’t fall.

Hokuto might lean a little closer than he needs to. Just slightly. Just enough to feel the warmth of Taiga through the fabric of his hoodie, which he tells himself is for balance and not for the way it makes his chest feel like it’s full of something bright and unsteady.

Taiga lowers him onto the couch with more gentleness than his expression suggests he’s comfortable with. His hand lingers at Hokuto’s elbow for half a second after he’s settled, then pulls away. “Okay?” he asks.

“Okay,” Hokuto says.

Taiga turns back toward the kitchen without another word, and Hokuto watches him go.

Through the open doorway Hokuto can see Taiga move between the counter and the cabinet, his shoulders slightly hunched, his hands quick and sure. He pours the hot water over the sencha with a careful, measured motion, tilting the kettle at an angle that tells Hokuto he’s done this before.

The steam rises between his fingers. He stands still for a moment, letting the leaves steep, and the gray light from the kitchen window catches the line of his jaw, the curve of his ear, the dark fall of his hair.

Taiga brings the tea on a small tray he found somewhere. Two ceramic cups, the sencha a pale, translucent green, and the abekawa mochi unwrapped and arranged on a plate with a neatness that surprises Hokuto. He sets the tray on the low table in front of the couch, then sits on the floor beside it, cross-legged, one knee almost touching the couch frame.

Anzu climbs back into Hokuto’s lap and curls into a ball, her chin tucked against his wrist.

They drink the tea in silence.

It’s good. It tastes the way Hokuto remembers—grassy and slightly sweet, with a finish that lingers at the back of the throat like something you don’t want to let go of. The mochi is soft and yielding, the kinako powder dissolving on his tongue in a way that reminds him of mornings in Shizuoka when the house was still and the light came in gold through the kitchen window.

Taiga eats without hurrying. He holds his cup with both hands, the way you hold something warm on a cold day, and stares at the rain-streaked glass of the balcony door. He doesn’t try to fill the quiet. He doesn’t shift or fidget or reach for his phone. He just sits with the silence as though it’s a room he’s comfortable in.

Hokuto thinks maybe this is something he didn’t know about Taiga. That the silence between them doesn’t press the way silence usually does. It just exists, breathing quietly alongside the rain and Anzu’s warmth and the taste of tea that someone remembered he loved.

They finish. Taiga sets his cup down and reaches for Hokuto’s, stacking them together on the tray with the empty mochi plate. “I’ll wash these,” he says, already standing.

“You don’t have to—”

Taiga gives him a look.

Hokuto closes his mouth.

Anzu lifts her head, watches Taiga carry the tray toward the kitchen, and hops down from Hokuto’s lap to follow him, her nails clicking against the floor in a businesslike rhythm.

Hokuto hears the faucet. The soft clink of ceramic under water. And then—

Anzu does something. Hokuto can’t see exactly what from this angle, but he hears the scrabble of her paws on the kitchen tile, a rapid-fire clicking that sounds like she’s spinning in place, and then a sound he has never heard before in this apartment.

Taiga laughs.

Not the quiet, barely-there exhale Hokuto has caught once or twice, bitten off before it can fully form. This is real. Warm and startled and unguarded, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest, and it fills the small kitchen like light filling a room when someone draws the curtain.

Hokuto shifts on the couch until he can see through the doorway, and there Taiga is—leaning back against the counter with wet hands and a dish towel over his shoulder, looking down at Anzu, who is turning in frantic, delighted circles at his feet, her tail a blur, her whole body vibrating with the kind of joy that only very small dogs can produce at that frequency.

He’s smiling. Not a smirk, not a twitch, not the careful, controlled almost-expression Hokuto has learned to read like sheet music. A real smile, wide enough to soften the sharp line of his jaw, to puff up his cheeks, to make him look exactly his age and not a day older.

His whole face changes. He looks young and open and startlingly, breathtakingly beautiful in a way that isn’t about features or angles but about the absence of every wall he’s ever built.

Hokuto thinks, very clearly and very simply: Oh.

The kitchen faucet is still running. Anzu has stopped spinning and is now sitting at Taiga’s feet, looking up at him with what Hokuto imagines is the same expression he is wearing, and Taiga is shaking his head at her, still smiling, saying something too quiet for Hokuto to hear.

Taiga turns the faucet off. Dries his hands. Comes back into the living room with Anzu trotting at his heels and the dish towel still draped over his shoulder, which he seems to have forgotten about.

“We should look at those Liberal Arts notes,” he says, settling back on the floor beside the table. His voice has returned to its usual register—controlled, measured, the smile tucked away somewhere Hokuto can’t reach. “Moriya’s covering structural violence next week and if you don’t—”

“Go on a date with me.”

The words leave Hokuto's mouth before the thought finishes forming, before he can soften them with a qualifier or a maybe or an I think. They come out quiet but clear, shaped by something that has been building in him all afternoon—longer than that, if he’s honest, much longer—and he watches them land on Taiga’s face like light hitting glass.

Taiga goes still. Completely, unnervingly still, the way he went still at the bottom of the ravine when Hokuto said his name. His hand, which was reaching for the folder, stops mid-air.

The rain fills the silence.

Anzu sits between them, tail wagging, oblivious.

Taiga’s hand drops to his lap. He doesn’t look at Hokuto. “No,” he says.

The word lands between them, and Hokuto feels it the way you feel a wrong note in the middle of a phrase.

“Matsumura—”

“Hokuto,” he says, gently. “You called me Hokuto.”

Taiga’s jaw tightens. “That was—it was a different situation. I wasn’t thinking.”

“I know.” Hokuto pulls his hands into his lap so that Taiga can’t see them shaking. “I’m thinking now. And I meant what I said.”

“You meant what you said at the izakaya, too, and you were drunk.”

“I wasn’t that drunk.”

“You threw up in a planter.”

“That was after.” Hokuto feels heat climb up the back of his neck, and he has to look away for a moment, at the rain on the balcony glass, at Anzu’s pink collar, at anything that isn’t the rigid line of Taiga’s shoulders. “What I said to you—that you’re grounding, that being around you feels—I meant it. I meant all of it. The beer just made it come out before I was ready.”

Taiga exhales through his nose, a sharp, controlled sound. “This is a bad idea.”

“Maybe.”

“It’s not a maybe. It is a bad idea. You and I—we’re in the same research group. We have three classes together. If it goes wrong—”

“It might not go wrong.”

“It will.” His voice drops. “I’m not—I don’t do this. I’m not good at this. You’ve seen what I’m like. You’ve watched me walk out of a restaurant because I couldn't handle sitting at a table with people who were being nice to me. You know what you’d be getting.”

Hokuto does know. He’s watched Taiga flinch at compliments, deflect kindness with silence, leave rooms that got too warm. He’s watched him hold himself apart from every person who tried to reach him, including Hokuto, and he’s told himself each time that it was okay, that patience was enough, that he didn’t need more than what Taiga was willing to give.

But that isn’t quite true. And sitting here with the taste of Shizuoka sencha on his tongue and the memory of Taiga’s laugh still hanging in the air, Hokuto finds he doesn’t have the energy to pretend it is.

“I’m not asking you to be good at it,” he says. “I’m asking for one date. Just one. And if you don’t—if it doesn’t feel right, I won’t ask again.”

Taiga looks at him then. Really looks, with that focused intensity he usually reserves for a piano score or the viewfinder of his camera, and Hokuto feels it move through him like a current. Taiga’s eyes are dark and searching and full of something Hokuto can’t name, something that sits in the space between fear and want.

“One,” Taiga says.

Hokuto’s heart does something strange and unsteady. “One,” he repeats.

“And not until your ankle heals.” Taiga points at the compression bandage, his expression shifting into something closer to his usual sharpness. “Fully heals. I’m not dragging you around Tokyo on crutches.”

“That’s fair.”

“And if it’s terrible, you drop it. No hovering. No concerned looks. No—” He waves a hand vaguely in Hokuto’s direction. “Whatever this is that you do.”

Hokuto doesn’t trust his voice entirely, so he just nods.

Taiga turns back toward the folder of Liberal Arts notes, pulls it open, and stares at Professor Moriya’s handout on structural violence with an intensity that suggests he’s memorizing it through sheer force of will. His ears are red. His hands are steady, but the tendons along his wrists stand out in sharp relief.

He said yes.

He said yes, and Hokuto is sitting on this couch with a sprained ankle and a dog in his lap and a heart that feels like it’s trying to leave his body, and he has to press his palm against his chest again because otherwise he thinks the feeling might actually crack something open.

He’s about to say something—he doesn’t know what, maybe thank you, maybe something stupid—when the front door swings open and the apartment fills with noise.

Jesse comes through first, both arms loaded with grocery bags, a baguette sticking out of one at an angle that defies structural logic. Behind him, Yugo carries a canvas tote in each hand with the calm efficiency of someone who has done this a hundred times. Juri follows last, a cake box balanced on one palm, his smirk already firmly in place.

“Happy birthday!” Jesse announces at a volume designed for stadiums, not apartments. He spots Taiga on the floor and doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh good, you came. I told you the key would work. That lock sticks if you don’t jiggle it.”

Anzu launches off Hokuto’s lap and scrambles toward the door, her whole body a blur of silver and tan, and throws herself at Yugo’s ankles with a series of high, rapturous barks.

“Anzu-chan!” Yugo crouches to scratch behind her ears, bags still dangling from his wrists. “There she is. There’s my girl.”

Jesse deposits the groceries on the kitchen counter with a crash and is back at Hokuto’s side in seconds, crouching beside the couch, one hand already reaching for the compression bandage. “How’s the ankle? Did you ice it? You didn’t try to cook, did you? I left the rice cooker prepped but I swear if you—”

“Jesse.” Taiga’s voice cuts through from the floor. “He’s fine. He’s been sitting here all afternoon. Let him breathe.”

Jesse blinks, looks at Taiga, looks back at Hokuto.

Hokuto nods, a small, grateful motion that he hopes conveys everything he can’t say right now.

“Right,” Jesse says, rocking back on his heels. “Right, okay. Breathing. We’re breathing.” He points at Hokuto. “But you’re telling me if anything hurts.”

“I will.”

Jesse seems satisfied enough. He stands, claps his hands once, and turns toward the kitchen with the kind of purpose that usually precedes either a very good meal or a minor fire.

Taiga gets to his feet and heads to the kitchen, maybe to help with the food prep. He passes Juri in the doorway, who raises an eyebrow at the dish towel still hanging from Taiga’s shoulder.

“Domestic,” Juri says.

“Shut up,” Taiga says, and takes the cake box from Juri's hand on his way past.

Hokuto watches him disappear into the kitchen, where Jesse is already narrating the dinner plan at high speed and Yugo is organizing ingredients with quiet authority. Taiga sets the cake box on the counter, folds the dish towel, and reaches for a cutting board.

Anzu trots back to Hokuto and hops onto the couch, curling against his side. Her warmth is small and steady and real.

From the kitchen, Hokuto hears Jesse say something about garlic, and Taiga’s reply—almost drowned out by the clatter of pots—and then Juri’s low laugh threading through all of it like a bass line.

One date.

Hokuto presses his face against his hands and closes his eyes, and lets the sound of them fill the room.

🪈

The coffee table looks like a battlefield no one has bothered to retreat from. Empty plates crowd against half-finished bowls of rice, chopsticks abandoned at odd angles, a smear of sauce tracing an arc across the wood where someone—Jesse, probably—gestured too widely while telling a story.

The birthday cake sits in the center of it all, already missing five generous slices, the candles still stuck into the frosting at tilted angles because Jesse insisted they leave them in for “aesthetic purposes.” A cluster of beer cans has gathered near Yugo’s elbow, and Anzu is asleep on the floor beneath the table, curled into a comma between a crumpled napkin and Juri’s shoe.

Right now, though, Jesse is sitting on the floor with his back against the base of the couch, his head tilted so that it rests against Yugo’s shoulder. Yugo is beside him, legs stretched out under the coffee table, one hand loosely holding a beer can and the other resting on Jesse’s knee with the absent, practiced ease of someone who has been touching this person for two years and still hasn’t gotten tired of it.

Jesse says something low, close to Yugo’s ear, and Yugo’s eyes crinkle at the corners—that deep, warm fold that changes his whole face—and he shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

Hokuto looks away. Not because it’s uncomfortable. Because it’s the kind of private warmth that feels wrong to watch too closely, like reading someone’s journal over their shoulder, and he doesn’t want to take from it by observing it too carefully.

Taiga is in the armchair to Hokuto’s left, one leg drawn up beneath him, the other foot resting flat on the floor. He has barely moved in twenty minutes. His plate, mostly cleared, sits on the arm of the chair because there’s no room left on the table, and he’s holding a beer he's been nursing for over an hour. He looks tired in the way he always looks tired, as though the effort of being present among this many people for this long has thinned something in him.

But he hasn’t left. He hasn’t even mentioned leaving.

Juri occupies the other chair, slouched so deep that his spine seems to have given up on the concept of posture entirely. His legs are extended, ankles crossed on the edge of the coffee table between two serving plates. He has been telling a story about his brother Koki’s bar for the past several minutes, something involving a customer who tried to pay in arcade tokens, and even Taiga has been listening with something close to amusement.

“—and Koki just stares at the guy,” Juri is saying, the smirk pulling wider. “Stares at him. Doesn’t say a word. And the guy goes, completely serious, ‘They’re worth more than yen. Trust me.’ And Koki—”

“Took them,” Taiga says.

“Took every single one. Made change.”

Jesse’s laugh bursts out from the floor, bright and too loud, and Yugo winces but doesn’t move his hand from Jesse’s knee. “Your brother is insane.”

“He runs a bar. Sanity was never part of the business model.” Juri glances at the cake. “We’re saving the rest for the kid, right?”

“Obviously,” Jesse says from the floor, checking his phone. “His class ends at nine. He should be getting back.”

Yugo tips his head toward Jesse, his voice quiet enough that it’s meant only for him, though the room is small enough that the rest of them catch it anyway. “He’ll be fine.”

“I know.” Jesse picks at a thread on Yugo’s sleeve.

Yugo presses his lips briefly to the top of Jesse’s head. Jesse goes still for a moment, his restless energy pausing like a held breath, and then he settles deeper against Yugo’s side.

Hokuto reaches for his tea on the side table—the Shizuoka sencha, his third cup of the evening, brewed this time by Yugo, who noticed the box on the counter and made a fresh pot without being asked. The warmth of the ceramic is grounding against his palms, and he holds it there for a moment before drinking.

Taiga shifts in his chair. He’s been quiet for the last few minutes, not in the tense, coiled way that usually means he's about to leave, but in a way that suggests he’s simply listening. His eyes drift to the cake, then to the door, then back to his beer.

“He’ll eat the whole thing,” Taiga says. “The cake. He’ll eat the whole thing in one sitting.”

“Absolutely he will,” Juri agrees.

“Last time I brought mochi to a study session, he ate six pieces before I’d opened my notebook,” Hokuto says. The memory surfaces with a warmth that catches him off guard—Shintaro cross-legged on the floor of this room, cheeks stuffed, insisting through a mouthful of rice paste that he could absolutely focus on theory on elements of performing while chewing.

“Six?” Juri shakes his head. “The kid’s a machine.”

“He’s growing,” Hokuto says.

Jesse opens his mouth to respond, but the sound of a key scraping in the lock cuts him short. The mechanism sticks as always, and there’s a muffled thud, then a sharper one, then a word from the hallway that is definitely not appropriate for polite company.

Anzu lifts her head, ears rotating like small satellites.

The door swings open.

Shintaro stands in the entryway. He looks exactly like someone who has been dancing for six hours straight. His tank top is dark with sweat at the collar and along the hem, his hair is plastered to his forehead in damp, uneven strands, and his gym bag hangs off one shoulder at an angle that suggests his arm no longer has the strength to hold it properly. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes slightly glassy with the particular unfocused quality of deep physical exhaustion, and one of his sneakers is untied.

He blinks at all of them. “I’m so late,” Shintaro says. His voice is hoarse, scratched thin from exertion. “I’m so, so late. Kimura-sensei wanted to go over the combination one more time, and then I couldn’t find my left shoe for like fifteen minutes, and then—”

“Shin.” Jesse is already on his feet. “Sit down.”

“Happy birthday,” Shintaro says to Hokuto, bypassing Jesse entirely, dropping his bag in the entryway with a thud that makes Anzu skitter sideways. He kicks off his sneakers—one lands neatly on the rack, the other bounces off the wall—and crosses the room in three long strides. He stops in front of the couch, and for a second

Hokuto thinks he might try to hug him, but instead he just stands there, slightly swaying, smelling powerfully of sweat and the faintly chemical tang of studio floor polish, and grins.

“I had a whole speech,” he says. “I practiced it on the way back. It was really good.”

“I believe you,” Hokuto says.

“It had a metaphor.”

“I’m sure it did.”

“About the ocean.”

Juri snorts from his chair. “Of course it did.”

Shintaro’s grin doesn’t falter. He turns toward the coffee table, spots the cake, and his expression shifts into something approaching reverence. “Is that—did you save me—”

“Obviously we saved you cake.” Jesse steers Shintaro by the shoulders toward the floor cushion beside the coffee table, pushing him down with the firm, practiced motion of someone who has managed this particular human many times before. “And there’s food. Yugo, can you—”

Yugo is already moving, rising from the floor with an ease that belies the two beers he's had, heading toward the kitchen. “Rice is still in the cooker. I’ll reheat the rest.”

“I can do it,” Shintaro starts, already trying to stand.

“You will sit.” Yugo points at him without turning around, and the authority in his voice pins Shintaro back to the cushion.

Jesse sets a glass of water in front of Shintaro. Then a second glass, because he knows one won’t be enough. Shintaro drinks the first in four long swallows, his throat working, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“How was class?” Hokuto asks.

Shintaro sets the empty glass down and exhales, and the sound carries the full weight of six hours of repetition and correction and muscle failure. “Hard. Really hard. Kimura-sensei is working us through this new contemporary piece and the floor work is—I mean, it’s brutal, my knees are going to look like modern art for a week. But the second act section—” His eyes light up, the fatigue receding behind something brighter. “There’s this passage where the whole ensemble breaks apart and reforms, and I finally got the transition clean. Like fully clean. Kimura-sensei didn't correct me once.”

“That’s great, Shin.”

“It felt great.” He’s beaming now, his whole face open with the kind of unguarded pride that makes something ache gently behind Hokuto’s sternum. “Like my body just—knew. For the first time, it wasn’t me thinking about what comes next. It was already happening.”

Juri raises his beer in a lazy half-salute. “The kid’s a natural.”

“I’m not a kid,” Shintaro says, but he’s still smiling.

Yugo returns with a plate—rice, the leftover chicken from dinner, vegetables reheated and steaming. He sets it in front of Shintaro and places a pair of chopsticks across the top of the bowl, aligned perfectly. “Eat. All of it.”

Shintaro doesn’t argue. He picks up the chopsticks and starts eating with single-minded focus. For a moment, the only sounds in the apartment are the click of chopsticks, Anzu’s nails on the floor as she circles the table hoping for scraps, and the faint hum of rain that hasn’t stopped since this afternoon.

Jesse settles back down beside Yugo, closer this time, and Yugo’s arm goes around his shoulders without either of them seeming to decide it. Juri tilts his head back against the chair and closes his eyes.

Taiga watches Shintaro eat. His expression is unreadable, or would be to anyone who hasn’t spent weeks learning the language of his silences. Hokuto thinks he catches something at the edges of it. An easing.

Shintaro looks up between bites, rice on his chin, and catches Hokuto watching him. His grin resurfaces, wide and unself-conscious and slightly ridiculous with his cheeks full.

“Best birthday dinner,” he says to Hokuto.

Jesse leans forward. “Okay, cake. It’s cake time. Shin, do you want your slice now or—”

“Now. Absolutely now. Immediately.”

Jesse is already cutting, wielding the cake knife enthusiastically. He produces a slice that is, by any reasonable standard, too large for a single human, and places it in front of Shintaro with a flourish.

Shintaro stares at it. Then at Hokuto.

“Happy birthday, Hokkun,” he says, quieter this time.

“Thank you, Shin.”

Shintaro picks up his fork and takes a bite, and his eyes close, and he makes a sound that is probably audible from the hallway. Juri opens one eye from his chair, shakes his head, and closes it again. Jesse beams. Yugo reaches over and wipes the frosting from the corner of Shintaro’s mouth with a napkin, the gesture so automatic and parental that Shintaro doesn’t even flinch.

Taiga sets his beer on the arm of the chair. He’s looking at the table, at the chaos of plates and glasses and cake crumbs, and then he looks at Hokuto. Brief. Steady. Not a smile, but something held carefully in the space where a smile might go if he let it.

Hokuto holds it for a moment, that look, and then lets it pass. Some things you just let exist.

Anzu hops onto the couch beside Hokuto, circles once, and settles against his thigh. The rain taps at the balcony door. Shintaro is telling Jesse about the floor work with his mouth full and Jesse is laughing too loudly and Yugo is shaking his head with his eyes crinkling, and Juri is humming something Hokuto can’t quite identify, and Taiga is still here.

Shintaro demolishes the first slice in what feels like ninety seconds, then pauses only long enough to point his fork at the remaining cake with a look of such earnest longing that Jesse cuts him a second piece without being asked.

“You’re an animal,” Juri says, not opening his eyes.

“I burned like four thousand calories today.” Shintaro speaks around a mouthful of frosting. “My body needs this.”

“Your body needs vegetables.”

“Cake has eggs. Eggs are protein.”

Juri’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t argue.

He’s halfway through the second slice when his fork slows. He chews, swallows, and stares at the plate with the slightly unfocused expression that usually means a thought has caught up to him.

“I hate ballet,” he says.

Jesse looks up. “Ballet?”

“My DANCE 101B class. Level One. Foundations.” Shintaro says the word foundations the way someone might say root canal. “Barre work, center practice, port de bras. The whole thing. It’s mandatory for all first-years, regardless of track.”

“That sounds useful, actually,” Yugo says.

“I’m a street dancer.” Shintaro sets his fork down, which is how Hokuto knows this is genuinely bothering him. Shintaro does not set down utensils lightly. “Contemporary and hip-hop. My body doesn’t move like that. I spent three hours this week trying to do a proper plié with turnout and my hips just—they don’t wanna go there. And then Kimura-sensei says my alignment is wrong, and I’m standing there thinking, my alignment was fine before you made me point my knees at opposite walls.”

The frustration in his voice is real, sitting close to the surface where it always sits with Shintaro. He doesn’t bury things the way some people do. He wears his feelings like weather, and right now the forecast is cloudy.

“I can fake the musicality, maybe, but the technique—I’ve only been dancing for a year and a half,” he continues. “Everyone else in that room has been doing ballet since they were five.”

He doesn’t say the rest, but Hokuto hears it anyway, the way he always hears the thing underneath the thing Shintaro actually says: I’m behind. I don’t belong here. They’re gonna find out.

Hokuto sets his tea down. “Can I say something?”

Shintaro looks at him, and there's a flicker of something hopeful in his expression—the automatic tilt of attention he always gives when Hokuto speaks.

“Ballet isn’t about replacing what you already know,” Hokuto says, choosing the words carefully. “It’s a foundation. The technique is just—it’s like learning scales on an instrument. You don’t play scales in performance. But they teach your body where the notes are, so that when you’re doing the thing you actually love, your muscles already know the territory.”

Shintaro is quiet for a moment, his fork still resting on the plate.

“Your strength is that you came to dance from instinct,” Hokuto continues. “You feel the music before you think about the steps. Ballet won’t take that away. It’ll just give you more precision to work with when your instinct kicks in.”

He blinks. The tension in his shoulders loosens by a degree, maybe two. “You really think that?”

“I do.”

Shintaro grins—not the wide, reckless grin from earlier, but something smaller, warmer, the kind that reaches the corners of his eyes. “Thanks, Hokkun.”

“Of course.”

Shintaro holds Hokuto’s gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then seems to remember something. He turns and digs into his gym bag, rummaging through what sounds like a tangle of charging wires and fabric. When he straightens, he’s holding a white envelope, slightly bent at one corner from being shoved between dance shoes.

“Almost forgot.” He holds it out to Hokuto. “Happy birthday. For real this time.”

Hokuto takes the envelope. It’s light, barely any weight to it, and when he opens the flap and slides out the contents, he finds two tickets. Printed on heavy stock, embossed with the Suntory Hall insignia.

The Magic Flute. Mozart. July 26th. Orchestra seating.

He stares at them. For a moment he doesn’t say anything because something has lodged itself in the back of his throat.

Hokuto mentioned The Magic Flute once. Maybe six weeks ago, during one of those late evenings when he and Shintaro were sitting on the balcony and the conversation wandered the way conversations do when it’s dark and neither person is in a hurry. He told Shintaro it was the first opera he ever heard—his grandmother played a recording when he was small, and the Queen of the Night’s aria had frightened and fascinated him in equal measure, and he’d never quite gotten over it. He told him the flute passages felt like someone speaking directly to the part of him that didn’t have words yet.

He didn’t think Shintaro was listening. He had been scrolling through his phone at the time, half-distracted, humming something tuneless.

He was listening.

“Shin,” Hokuto says. “These are—this is too much.”

“It’s not.” Shintaro picks up his fork again with the studied casualness of someone who doesn’t want to make a big deal of something that is, in fact, a big deal. “I found a good price online. And you always talk about wanting to see it live, so.”

“I mentioned it once.”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I remembered.”

The warmth that moves through Hokuto is real and uncomplicated. He turns the tickets over in his hands, running his thumb along the embossed edge. “Thank you,” he says, and he means it fully. “Really. Thank you.”

Shintaro’s ears go slightly pink. He takes a large bite of cake as though that will somehow disguise the color spreading across his face.

“So,” he says, chewing. He swallows. “I got two tickets because—I mean, I figured maybe we could go together? If you want. You don’t have to, obviously, I just thought—”

“I’d like that,” Hokuto.

The words come easily because they’re true. Shintaro is good company—his energy and warmth fill the silences Hokuto tends to sink into, and he thinks Shintaro would enjoy the spectacle of it even if opera isn’t his usual territory. Hokuto can already imagine him in the velvet seats of Suntory Hall, leaning forward with that wide-eyed, unguarded attention he gives to anything that moves him, and the thought makes Hokuto smile.

Shintaro’s face splits into a grin so wide it borders on ridiculous. “Yeah? Awesome! I’ll wear something nice. Juri, what do people wear to opera?”

“Clothes,” Juri says, still not opening his eyes.

“Helpful.”

“I do my best.”

Jesse leans over and ruffles Shintaro’s hair. “You’re gonna love it. The Queen of the Night aria is wild. She hits these notes that are basically illegal.”

“Is there dancing?”

“There’s—some movement, I think,” Hokuto says.

“Good enough.”

A small sound from the armchair. Hokuto glances over.

Taiga is reaching for his beer, his movements unhurried, his face turned slightly away so that what Hokuto can see is the line of his jaw and the fall of his hair across his forehead. He takes a sip, sets the can back on the armrest, and his fingers stay wrapped around it, as though he needs something to hold.

Hokuto can’t read his expression from this angle. Taiga has been quiet for a while now.

Then Taiga moves. He unfolds from the armchair in one fluid motion, setting the beer on the coffee table beside an empty plate. Anzu lifts her head from Hokuto’s thigh immediately, ears forward, already reading him the way she always reads him.

“I should head out,” Taiga says. His voice is level, giving nothing away.

“Already?” Jesse straightens. “It’s still early—”

“Anzu needs her walk.” Taiga crouches and clips the leash to Anzu's collar. His hands are steady, his movements efficient.

Anzu’s tail wags once, twice, and she hops off the couch, trotting to his side with the unquestioning loyalty of a creature who has never needed a reason to follow him.

Yugo watches Taiga with careful, measuring attention. Whatever he sees, he doesn’t press. “Get home safe.”

“Yeah.” Taiga straightens, the leash looped once around his hand.

He looks at Hokuto. It lasts only a moment—brief enough that no one else in the room would think to notice, or if they did, would read it as anything more than a glance on the way out.

But Hokuto feels the weight of it, the way you feel a held note in a piece of music, the way the air changes just before a phrase resolves. There is something in Taiga’s eyes that Hokuto doesn’t have a name for, something pulled tight and held very still, and then it’s gone.

“Happy birthday, Hokuto,” Taiga says.

His first name. Not Matsumura. The sound of it in Taiga’s voice does something quiet and irreversible to the space beneath Hokuto’s ribs.

“Thank you,” Hokuto says. “For coming.”

Taiga nods once and turns toward the door. Anzu trots beside him, her nails clicking softly against the floor, and then the door opens and closes and the apartment holds the shape of his absence like a room holds the shape of a sound after the music stops.

Shintaro is already talking again, asking Jesse something about the dress code for Suntory Hall, and Juri is offering unhelpful suggestions involving leather jackets, and Yugo is shaking his head with quiet amusement. The room refills. The evening continues.

Hokuto picks up his tea. It has gone lukewarm.

He drinks it anyway.

🎹

The bed is a graveyard of rejected cotton and denim.

It’s 32 degrees in Tokyo, the kind of heat that sits on your chest and refuses to move, even at nine at night. The air conditioning is humming, fighting a losing battle against the humidity leaking in from the balcony door he left cracked for the smoke to clear.

Taiga stands in the middle of the room, staring at the pile of black, charcoal, slate, and midnight.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says.

Anzu is perched on the only clear patch of the duvet, her head tilted, watching him with the judgmental silence only a Terrier can manage. She looks bored.

“This is your fault,” he tells her. “You know that, right?”

She yawns and rests her chin on her paws.

It is her fault. If she hadn’t decided to chase a lizard or a ghost or whatever it was into that ravine, Hokuto wouldn’t have gone after her. He wouldn’t have spent the entire June hobbling around on an ankle the size of a grapefruit, staring at Taiga with those pathetic, patient eyes every time he brought him class notes.

And Taiga wouldn’t have said yes.

He picks up a graphic tee—black, obscure band logo, hole in the hem—and tosses it onto the reject pile.

One date. That was the condition. Hokuto got hurt saving his dog; Taiga endures one day of social interaction to balance the scales. It’s a repayment of debt. It doesn’t mean anything else.

He grabs a button-down shirt. He’ll look like he’s going to a funeral.

Maybe he should. It would set the right tone. If he shows up looking grim, acts bored, checks his phone every 30 seconds, maybe Hokuto will finally get it. He’ll realize that this is a waste of time and stop looking at Taiga like he’s some puzzle he’s desperate to solve and go find someone easier.

Someone nice. Someone like Shintaro.

But his hand is already reaching for the dark gray knit polo he bought in London and never wears. It fits without looking like he tried too hard, even though the price tag says otherwise.

He holds it up against his chest, looking in the mirror.

The memory hits him again. The way Hokuto’s face changed three weeks ago when Taiga told him yes.

He hadn’t just smiled. It was… bright. Open. Relieved, like he’d been holding his breath for a month and finally let it out.

It made Taiga’s stomach turn. He’d seen it before.

In the vision. The hallucination. Whatever the hell happens when he looks through the viewfinder. The older version of Hokuto—the one with the wire-rimmed glasses and the ring, the one who proposed in a room full of golden light—he smiled exactly like that.

Same crinkle at the corners of the eyes. Same helpless, terrifying warmth.

That version of him dies.

Taiga shouldn’t be going tomorrow. He should text him right now, tell him something came up, tell him to go to hell. It would be safer. For both of them.

He tosses the gray polo onto the bed. It lands next to Anzu. She sniffs it, then looks at him, waiting.

He grabs his phone and opens the contacts. His thumb hovers over the name. Yugo.

Calling him is a white flag. It’s admitting that he can’t handle a simple logistical issue on his own. It’s opening the door to questions he doesn’t want to answer and pity he doesn’t want to see.

Anzu sighs from the bed. She shifts, resting her chin on the gray polo that he discarded three minutes ago.

“Fine,” he mutters. He taps the screen before he can think of a good reason not to.

The line rings twice.

“Taiga?” Yugo’s voice is steady, underlined by the faint sound of a TV in the background. “Everything okay?”

“I have a situation.” Taiga turns his back on the bed, pacing toward the balcony door. The city hums outside, indifferent and loud.

“What kind of situation?” Yugo’s tone shifts instantly. The “mom friend” switch flips. “Are you hurt? Is it Anzu-chan?”

“No. It’s my… wardrobe.”

A pause. “Your wardrobe? Did it fall on you.”

“No, you idiot. The contents.” Taiga runs a hand through his hair, gripping the strands at the back of his neck. This is humiliating. “I have nothing to wear.”

“For what?”

He stops pacing. His reflection in the dark glass of the balcony looks pathetic. “Tomorrow,” he says, like that explains anything.

“Okay. Tomorrow.” Yugo is patient. It’s his worst quality. He waits, letting the silence stretch until Taiga has to fill it or hang up.

Taiga takes a breath. “I’m going out.”

“Okay. Where?”

“With Hokuto.”

The silence on the other end isn’t patient anymore. He can practically hear the gears turning in Yugo’s head. “Hokuto?” he finally asks, his voice careful. “You’re going out with Hokuto?”

“Yeah.”

“Like… a date?”

Taiga grits his teeth. “Don’t call it that.”

“What else would I call it?”

“A repayment. He broke his ankle trying to get my dog out of a ditch. I’m paying him back. It’s manners.”

“Right.” Taiga knows that Yugo doesn’t buy it. “And you have nothing to wear for this repayment.”

“Everything I own is either black, destroyed, or makes me look like I’m trying to attend a funeral.” Taiga kicks a sock across the floor. “I look like a burnout.”

“Taiga.” Yugo’s voice drops a register. He looks less amused now, more… something else. Disappointed. “When did this happen?”

“Three weeks.”

“Three weeks,” he repeats. “You’ve known for three weeks that you were going out with him, and you’re calling me at 10:00 the night before?”

“I didn’t know his ankle would heal quickly.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Whatever.” Taiga turns back to the room, glaring at the pile of clothes on the bed. Anzu is chewing a loose thread from the gray polo. “Are you gonna help me or not?”

Yugo doesn’t answer for a long moment. Taiga can hear him shifting, the creak of floorboards. “Why didn’t you text me?” he asks.

It’s not an accusation. It’s quiet, which makes it worse.

Taiga stares at the mess on the bed. The black graphic tees. The jeans with the knees blown out. The expensive, stiff knitwear from London that feels like a costume for a person he used to be.

“Because,” he says, and his voice comes out rougher than he intended, “if I told you, then it’s a thing. It’s real. If I didn’t tell you… I could pretend it wasn’t happening.”

Yugo sighs. It’s a long exhale, the sound of someone resigning themselves to clean up a mess they didn’t make. “Twenty minutes,” he says. “I’m bringing food.”

The line goes dead.

Taiga lowers the phone, staring at the screen until it fades to black. His chest feels tight, lighter but also heavier, like he’s just handed someone else the detonator to a bomb he’s been holding.

He looks at Anzu. She stops chewing the thread and wags her tail.

“Don’t look so smug,” he tells her. “He’s gonna judge the state of this room, and I’m blaming you.”

He tosses the phone onto the mattress and starts shoving the rejected clothes into a pile on the floor. At least if Yugo is coming, he won’t have to think about it alone. He can just let him fix it.

The doorbell buzzes exactly twenty minutes later.

Taiga opens the door, prepared to tell him to go home, but the words die in his throat.

Yugo is standing there holding a plastic bag that smells like grease and sodium, a drink carrier with two cups, and—inexplicably—a hard-shell carry-on suitcase.

“Did you get evicted?” Taiga asks.

“Good evening to you too,” Yugo says, stepping past him.

Anzu is already there, vibrating against his shins. She makes this high-pitched whining noise she usually reserves for Taiga when he’s ignoring her. It’s pathetic.

“Of course, I didn’t forget the princess!” Yugo shifts his load, reaches into his jacket pocket, and produces a dried liver treat like a magician pulling a coin from behind an ear.

Anzu snatches it and retreats to the rug.

“She’s a traitor,” Taiga says, closing the door.

“She just has good taste.” Yugo sets the drink carrier on the shoe cabinet and hands Taiga one.

Taro milk tea with extra pearls. The kind they used to drink in high school near Shibuya Station after bombing a quiz.

Taiga stares at the purple sludge. “I haven’t drunk this since we were 17.”

“You need the sugar,” Yugo says, picking up the suitcase again. “You sound low blood sugar.”

Taiga ignores that. He ignores the way Yugo navigates his apartment like he owns it, dodging the stack of photography magazines that haven’t been shelved and weaving around the tripod stand in the hallway. He pushes open the door to the bedroom and stops.

The silence is loud.

The bed is blocked out by black fabric. The floor is covered in gray fabric. It looks less like a wardrobe crisis and more like a goth teenager’s nervous breakdown.

Yugo takes a sip of his tea—classic milk, because he’s boring—and surveys the damage. “Wow.”

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You breathed loudly.” Taiga kicks a pair of jeans under his desk. “Why do you have luggage? Are we going to the airport?”

Yugo sets the suitcase on the only clear patch of floor, right next to the radiator. He crouches and unzips it with a sharp zzzt. “I wasn’t sure what the vibe was,”" he says. The case falls open. It is packed. Not thrown together—packed. Folded squares of linen, cotton, and light wool. “So I brought options.”

Taiga stares at the contents. There are at least six shirts in there. Two pairs of trousers. Maybe a belt. “You keep a go-to bag for fashion emergencies?”

“I date Jesse,” Yugo says, like that explains physics. He pulls out a beige overshirt and inspects the collar. “Do you know how many times a week that guy wants to go out? Dinner. Karaoke. Some weird art exhibit in Roppongi because he liked the poster. I have to be ready.”

He tosses the shirt at Taiga. He catches it against his chest. “I’m not wearing this,” he says. “I’ll look like a geography teacher.”

“It’s linen. It breathes.” Yugo digs back into the case. “Besides, we’re basically the same body type. It’ll fit.”

Taiga looks at him. Yugo is lean, but it’s the kind of lean you get from hiking up mountains and building furniture on weekends. He has functioning shoulders. Taiga has… whatever this is. Piano wrists and a ribcage that shows when he stretches.

“We’re not the same size,” he says. “You have outdoor muscles. I have indoor atrophy.”

“You’re lanky. It hangs well.” Yugo pulls out a navy pair of chinos and holds them up, squinting one eye. “Just put it on, Taiga. Unless you want to go in that.” He points a judgmental finger at the rejected pile on the bed. “Which looks like you’re mourning the death of your social life.”

“I am,” Taiga mutters.

Yugo treats the floor like a triage unit. He lays the options out in neat, parallel lines. A navy cardigan, thin enough for July but structured. A white t-shirt with some kind of subtle waffle texture. And a pair of chinos.

Tan chinos.

Taiga stares at the pants. They’re offensive.

“Where is he taking you?” Yugo asks, smoothing out a wrinkle in the cardigan. He doesn’t look up.

Taiga leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Ebisu.”

Yugo pauses, hand hovering over a belt. “Classy. Dinner?”

“Coffee first. Some café near the station. Then…” Taiga hesitates. It sounds stupid said out loud. It sounds like coming from a movie that he would turn off after ten minutes. “Then the Garden Place. There’s a picnic cinema thing. Outdoor movies on the lawn.”

Yugo looks up then, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Picnic cinema. That’s… thoughtful. Very Hokuto.”

“It’s a mosquito buffet,” Taiga counters. “And the ground will probably be damp.”

“It’s romantic, Taiga. Just accept it.” Yugo points to the floor. “Okay, Option 1. Scenario is casual but intentional. Outdoor evening, so layers.” He taps the tan chinos. “These. With the white tee and navy cardigan. Clean, approachable, not trying too hard.”

“I’m not wearing beige pants,” Taiga says flatly.

“They’re sand.”

“They’re preppy. I look like I’m about to sell someone life insurance. Absolutely not.”

Yugo sighs, grabbing the chinos and tossing them back into the suitcase without arguing. He digs back in and produces a pair of dark blue jeans. “Fine,” he says. “Jeans. But cuff them. Don’t let them drag.”

He arranges the new combination. Dark denim, white textured tee, navy cardigan. It’s safer, more like a heightened version of something that Taiga might actually own if he cared about laundry.

“Put the tee on,” Yugo commands. “And stop looking like you’re marching to the gallows.”

Taiga picks up the shirt. “I’m not.”

“You are. You’re vibrating.” Yugo sits back on his heels, watching him. “You’re overthinking the logistics because you’re scared of the conversation.”

“I’m not scared.” Taiga strips off his own shirt and pulls Yugo’s white one over his head. It fits, though it’s a little loose in the shoulders.

He looks in the mirror. He looks clean, like someone who has his life together.

It’s a lie.

“I just… I don’t do this.”

“Do what? Wear colors that aren’t mourning shades?”

“Dates,” he says, the word tasting like ash. He adjusts the hem, pulling it down. “I don’t do dates, Yugo. Not real ones. Not with… expectations.”

Yugo watches him in the reflection, his expression softening. “You didn’t date in London?”

“No. I didn’t. I hooked up. I found people in pubs who didn’t ask about my piano playing. We went back to their flats, and I left before breakfast. That’s not dating.” He turns around. “This isn’t that.” He gestures vaguely at the curated outfit on the floor. “Picnic cinemas and thoughtful venues and— It’s too much. I don’t know how to be the person who sits on a lawn and makes polite conversation.”

The silence stretches. He feels exposed, the white shirt suddenly too bright, too open. He wants his black clothes back. He wants to hide.

Yugo stands up, stepping over his jeans, and walks to the door. “Okay,” he says, his voice brisk again. “Pause on the wardrobe. You’re spiraling.”

“I’m being realistic.”

“You’re panicking.” He waves a hand toward the living room. “Come on. I brought food.”

Taiga looks at the jeans at the floor, then at him.

“Five minutes,” Yugo says. “Then we cuff the pants.” He walks out.

Taiga listens to his footsteps fade down the hall, the clatter of plastic containers being opened. He takes a breath, lets it out slow, and follows him.

Yugo sets the container on the coffee table. The smell of fried grease and pepper hits instantly. The kind they used to buy after practice sessions in high school, back when calories felt like a theoretical concept.

“Eat,” Yugo says, popping the lid off the dipping sauce. “You’re vibrating at a frequency that’s gonna shatter my eardrums.”

Taiga picks up a piece of chicken. It’s still hot. “I’m not vibrating.”

“You are. You’re pacing with a piece of poultry in your hand. Sit down.”

Taiga sits. The couch cushions sigh under his weight.

Yugo takes the floor, leaning back against the leg of the coffee table, chewing methodically. He looks comfortable in a way Taiga hasn’t felt in six months. He’s wearing a hoodie that definitely belongs to Jesse—too big in the shoulders—and watching Taiga like he’s a science experiment that he’s trying to keep stable.

Taiga bites into the chicken. It’s delicious.

They eat in silence for a minute. The only sound is the hum of the AC and Anzu crunching on her liver treat near the balcony door.

Taiga watches Yugo reach for another piece. He didn’t ask why Taiga is terrified of tomorrow. He just brought clothes and showed up.

The secret he’s been sitting on since April feels heavy in his throat. Like a stone he can’t swallow.

“It’s not just the date,” he says.

Yugo stops chewing. He doesn’t look up immediately, dipping a nugget into the spicy mayo, swirling it around. “I figured.”

“I’m not doing this—pushing him away—because I’m an asshole. Or not just because I’m an asshole.”

“I never said you were an asshole.” Yugo finally looks at him. His eyes are dark, unreadable. “I said you were difficult. There’s a difference.”

“I see things.”

The words come out flat. Blunt. Taiga hates how they sound in the quiet room. Like a confession from a bad horror movie.

Yugo puts the chicken down. He wipes his fingers on a napkin, slow and deliberate. “What kind of things?”

“Visions. Hallucinations. Whatever you wanna call them.” Taiga sets his food down; his appetite is gone. “When I take photos. With the camera.”

He waits for Yugo to laugh. Or call an ambulance. Or tell him he needs to sleep more, eat more, stop smoking so much.

Yugo does none of those things. He just watches him, his head tilted slightly to the side. “Okay,” he says. “What do you see?”

“The future,” Taiga says, and he feels ridiculous. “I see dates. Years from now. 2022. 2025. 2030.” His hands are shaking, so he clenches them into fists on his knees. “I see him. Hokuto. In every single one of them.”

Yugo stays quiet. Taiga can see him pulling apart the information, examining it like a chord progression. “And what happens?” he asks.

“We’re together,” Taiga says, his voice tight. “Married, maybe. Living together. It looks… good. Happy. Domestic.”

“That sounds nice, Taiga.”

“He dies.”

The silence that follows is sharp. It cuts through the humidity, through the smell of fried chicken, through the low buzz of the city outside.

“In the last one,” Taiga continues, forcing the words out before he can stop himself. “He dies. Because of me. Because he gave up everything to be with me. He quits the Philharmonic. He shrinks himself down until there’s nothing left, and then he dies.” He looks at the black gap of the balcony door. “I’m not pushing him away because I hate him. I’m doing it because I don’t want to kill him.”

Yugo exhales. A long, steady sound. He picks up his tea, takes a sip, and sets it down again. “That’s heavy,” he says.

“That’s it? ‘That’s heavy’?”

“What do you want me to say?” Yugo shifts, turning to face him fully. “You know what, I took a psych elective last year. The one about cognitive processing.”

Taiga frowns. “So?”

“We covered precognitive manifestations. Stress dreams.”

“I wasn’t asleep, Yugo.”

“I know. But stress doesn’t care if you’re awake.” Yugo gestures vaguely at him. “You came back from London a wreck. You almost quit piano. You lost your entire identity in the span of three months. Your brain is looking for a way to process the fear. So it projects it.”

“Projects it?”

“You’re terrified of ruining things,” Yugo says calmly. “You’re terrified that if you let anyone close, you’ll destroy them just like you think you destroyed your career. So your brain is giving you a literal scenario where that happens. It’s a defense mechanism. A warning signal that your subconscious cooked up to keep you isolated.”

It makes sense. Logically, it makes perfect sense. It exactly the kind of rational, grounded explanation that Yugo would come up with.

But he hasn’t felt it. He hasn’t felt the shift in air pressure when the shutter clicks. He hasn’t smelled the ozone, or felt the phantom warmth of a hand that isn’t there, or seen the way the light changes.

“It’s not stress,” Taiga says. “It has rules.”

Yugo raises an eyebrow. “Rules?”

“It only happens with objects and places. Inanimate things. The shrine. The piano. The practice towers.” Taiga grabs his phone from the cushion beside him. “If I take a picture of you, or Anzu, or any person, nothing happens. It’s just a photo.”

Yugo frowns. Taiga can see the skepticism wavering.

“And I’m not the only one,” Taiga adds. He swipes open his browser, navigating to the bookmark that he’s checked a hundred times in the last two months. He shoves the phone at Yugo. “Look at this.”

Yugo takes it. He squints at the screen, scrolling down the old forum thread from the TGC student boards.

“‘Took a photo at the shrine last spring and saw something weird in it,’” he reads aloud. “‘Couldn’t explain what but it felt important. Anyone else have experiences there?’”

“Posted in 2012,” Taiga says. “User savras2028. They saw it too. At Futodama Shrine. That’s where it started for me.”

Yugo stares at the screen, his expression changing. A weird flicker of amusement crosses his face. “Savras,” he mutters.

“What?”

“The username. Savras2028.” Yugo looks up, a grin tugging at his mouth. “You don’t know who Savras is?”

“Should I? Is he a pianist?”

“No.” Yugo hands the phone back. “He’s a god. From Dungeons and Dragons.”

Taiga stares at him. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am. Savras. The All-Seeing. God of divination and fate.” Yugo shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed but mostly amused. “I had a phase last years. Jesse got me into a campaign with some guys from the drama department. It was… intense.”

Taiga blinks. The idea of outdoor, practical Yugo rolling dice and imaginary goblins is almost unbelievable as his vision. “So this guy…” He taps the screen. “He named himself after a god of fate?”

“Specifically a god who sees the future,” Yugo corrects. “And the 2028 part? Maybe a graduation year? Or a class number?” He frowns. “But we entered TGC in 2012, so my graduation year should be at least 2016…”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The humor fades, replaced by that focused, problem-solving look he gets when he’s fixing a broken strap or untangling a mess of cables.

“This forum is archaic,” he says. “But the archives are usually linked to student IDs if you know where to look. I can poke around. The drama guys I played with? They practically live on those boards. If savras2028 is a student, or was one, I can find him.”

Taiga’s chest loosens, just a fraction. It doesn’t stop the visions, and it doesn’t fix tomorrow, but it’s a step. It’s distinct from the paralyzing loop that he’s been stuck in. “You’d do that?” he asks.

“Of course I’d do that.” Yugo picks up another chicken nugget. “Better than watching you spiral alone.”

Taiga looks at him. Really looks at him. He’s tired—dark circles under his eyes that match Taiga’s own. He spent his evening packing a suitcase, dragging it across Tokyo, and listening to Taiga sound insane, and he hasn’t complained once.

Taiga treats him like furniture sometimes. Essential, reliable, always there. He leans on him until he cracks, and then he gets annoyed that he’s not sturdy enough.

The words feel sticky in his throat. He hates saying them.

“Yugo.”

Yugo looks up, mouth full.

“Thank you.”

He freezes, swallowing slowly. “For the chicken?”

“No. For…” Taiga gestures vaguely at the suitcase, the phone, the space between them. “This. Everything.” He looks down at his hands. “I haven’t been easy since I got back. I know that. I haven’t—I haven’t appreciated you enough.”

Yugo stays quiet for a long moment. Anzu chooses that time to wander over, sniffing at Yugo’s socks.

When he speaks, his voice is light, but there’s a crack in it.

“Don’t get sentimental on me, Taiga. It’s weird.”

“I’m not sentimental. I’m factual.”

“Right.” Yugo clears his throat, brushing nonexistent crumbs off his jeans. He stands up, restless now. “Well. You can thank me by not wearing sweatpants tomorrow.” He walks back to the bedroom. “Come on. We settled on the textured tee, but we need to talk about shoes. If you dare suggest those beat-up Converse, I’m leaving.”

Taiga watches him for a second longer—the tension in his shoulders, the way he's busying himself to avoid the moment. “They’re vintage,” he says.

“They’re trash,” Yugo corrects, and tosses a pair of socks at his head.

Taiga catches them.

For the first time all day, the air in the room feels breathable.

🎹

Ebisu Station is a headache. It’s a Sunday afternoon, which means that the platform is a swarm of people who actually want to be outside. Couples. Families.

Taiga steps off the train, and the humidity hits him instantly—a heavy wall that makes the fabric of Yugo’s t-shirt stick to his back.

He shouldn’t have brought the camera. It’s a dead weight in his messenger bag, bumping against his hip with every step.

He doesn’t know why he packed it. Habit, maybe. Paranoia. Or maybe he just needs to look at the world through a viewfinder to tolerate it. If he frames it, he can control it.

Unless, of course, the camera decides to show him the future again.

He pushes through the ticket gates, tapping his IC card with more force than necessary.

The walk to the café takes ten minutes. It should be five, but he’s dragging his feet. The streets of Ebisu are too clean. Too polished. It’s the kind of neighborhood that feels curated, like someone swept the sidewalks five minutes before you arrived.

He catches his reflection in a shop window as he passes. The navy cardigan. The white tee. The dark denim, cuffed exactly where Yugo said to cuff them. He looks respectable, like a functional member of society who drinks craft coffee and pays taxes.

It’s a lie. He looks like a fraud in a costume.

He checks his watch. 2:54.

He could text him. Sick. Emergency. Anzu ate a battery. Hokuto is too nice to question it. He’d probably offer to pay the vet bill.

The thought makes his jaw tighten. That’s the problem. He’s too nice. He’s a walking, breathing guilt trip wrapped in quiet smiles.

He turns the corner. The street is quieter here, tucked away from the main drag. The noise of the station fades into a low hum.

And there it is.

Binya Coffee. White stone. Terracotta awning. A wooden sign that glows with that specific, nostalgic warmth that screams tearoom. It’s archaic, quiet.

He stops on the sidewalk, adjusting the strap of his bag. His hands are sweating. He wipes them on his jeans.

Just get it over with, he tells himself. One coffee. One outdoor movie. Then you go home, and the balance is restored.

He takes a breath—which is a mistake, because the air is thick enough to chew—and walks toward the entrance.

Then he sees him.

The double glass doors are frosted, but there’s a clear section, a frame cut out of the haze. He’s sitting at a corner table, profile turned toward the window.

Taiga stops moving. His feet just… stop.

Matsumura Hokuto.

He’s not wearing the oversized hoodies that he wears at home, or the stiff concert blacks that Taiga has seen him in at school. He’s wearing cream linen. A soft button-up, the fabric catching the warm ambient light of the café. The sleeves are rolled up—neatly, precisely—to his elbows.

Taiga stares at his forearms. Why is he staring at his forearms?

He’s leaning back slightly, reading something on his phone. His posture is relaxed, loose in a way that Taiga hasn’t seen before. Usually, he holds himself like he’s trying to take up less space—shoulders inward, guard up. But here, bathed in that amber light, he looks… unfolded.

His gaze travels up. The first couple of buttons are undone. Just enough to show the lines of his throat, the sharp definition of his collarbones.

And something else.

A glint of silver. A thin chain resting against his skin.

He’s never seen him wear jewelry. Not like that. Rings, sure—those little silver bands he fidgets with when he’s nervous. But a necklace? It feels deliberate. It feels like a detail Taiga wasn’t supposed to notice, and now that he has, he can’t look away.

It annoys him.

It annoys him that he looks this good. It annoys him that he fits into this quiet, golden-lit frame perfectly, like a subject waiting for a shutter click. He looks effortless. While Taiga is standing on the sidewalk in Yugo’s borrowed clothes, sweating through his shirt, carrying a camera that shows him his death, Hokuto is sitting there looking like something out of a magazine editorial.

Unfair.

He should leave. He should turn around right now. This is dangerous. The visions all rush back, layering over the reality of him sitting there in 2015. The line between then and now blurs. If he walks in there, if he sits across from him, he’s stepping onto the tracks. He’s letting the train leave the station.

He grips the camera strap tighter, his knuckles white.

Move, he tells his legs. Run.

But he doesn’t. He just stands there, paralyzed by the composition of him. The light on his cheekbones. The way his hair falls—longer than he remembers, messy in a way that looks soft.

Then, Hokuto turns.

It’s like he felt him staring. His head snaps toward the window.

For a second, there’s nothing but the glass between them. He blinks, adjusting his glasses, trying to focus on the street.

Then his eyes find Taiga’s.

He freezes. Taiga watches the recognition hit him—a small widening of the eyes, a sudden stillness. He looks caught. But he doesn’t look away. He stares at Taiga with this intense, terrifying fascination, like he’s trying to memorize the fact that he actually showed up.

And then he smiles.

It’s not the polite nor the nervous one. It’s the one from the vision. The one that cracked his chest open in the dream.

He looks happy.

Fuck.

Taiga’s stomach drops.

He can’t run now. Hokuto’s seen him. If he leaves, he’s not just difficult—he’s cruel. And he can be difficult, he can be an asshole, but he can’t be the guy who walks away from that look.

He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, adjusts his bag. He shoves his hands into his pockets to hide the tremor in his fingers.

One date, he reminds himself. Just one date.

He pushes open the door. The bell chimes above his head, announcing his surrender.

The bell above the door jingles—a bright, intrusive sound that cuts through the low murmur of the shop. He steps inside, and the smell of charcoal-roasted coffee hits him instantly.

The interior is darker than the street. His eyes take a second to adjust to the amber lighting, the polished mahogany, the walls lined with hundreds of porcelain cups. It feels less like a café and more like a library where you drink bean water instead of reading.

Hokuto stands up the second he sees him.

He moves too fast. It’s a sharp, sudden motion that makes Taiga flinch, his hand tightening instinctively on the strap of his bag. He watches his feet—specifically his ankle. He puts his weight on it fully. No wobble. No wince.

“Taiga.”

His voice is quiet, pitched low to match the room. He’s standing behind the table. The linen shirt looks even more breathable and textured up close. It makes him look soft.

“Hokuto.”

Taiga acknowledges him with a nod that feels too stiff, then walks over.

They stand there for a second, just looking at each other. The air between them feels pressurized. He’s acutely aware of the camera pressing against his hip. He’s aware of Yugo’s white t-shirt sticking to his back. He’s aware that he has no idea what the protocol is for a date with a guy whose death he’s hallucinated.

Hokuto gestures to the chair across from him. “Please.”

Taiga sits. The wood is cool against his legs. He shoves his bag onto the floor between his feet, creating a barricade. Hokuto sits back down, folding his hands on the table.

Silence settles over the table. It’s not the comfortable kind. It’s the kind where you can hear the clock ticking and the clink of a spoon three tables away.

Taiga stares at a sugar pot. Hokuto stares at him.

“You look...” He starts, then stops. He clears his throat, shifting slightly. His gaze flicks over Taiga’s shoulders, the cardigan, the collar of the shirt. “You look really nice today.”

Heat flares up the back of Taiga’s neck. It’s instantaneous and humiliating. He hates it. He hates that a simple, polite observation from him acts like a match to gasoline. It’s just clothes. It’s just a navy cardigan that Yugo pulled out of a suitcase because he decided his usual hoodies were a disgrace.

He looks away, focusing intently on the wall of cups. “It’s just clothes,” he mutters.

“Still.”

He risks a glance back at him. Hokuto’s not teasing. He looks sincere, which is worse. His eyes are dark behind the lenses of his glasses, magnified slightly, catching the gold light of the sconces.

Taiga swallows, his throat dry. “You look...” He gestures vaguely at him with one hand. The linen. The rolled sleeves. The silver chain at his throat. He looks like a frame from a film that Taiga isn’t qualified to direct. “Different. Good. Whatever.”

It comes out graceless. Blunt.

Hokuto ducks his head, a flush rising on his own cheekbones. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, hiding behind his hand for a second. “Thank you.”

The quiet returns, but the tension has shifted. It’s less like a standoff and more like they’ve both tripped over the same wire.

“Your ankle,” Taiga says, needing to ground this in something factual. “It’s fine?”

“Completely healed,” he says, nodding. He extends his leg slightly under the table, showing off the rotation. “No pain at all. The wrap helped.”

“Good.” Taiga taps his fingers against the dark wood of the table. “Don’t go climbing down ravines again.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” A small smile touches the corner of his mouth.

He pushes a menu toward him. It’s bound in leather. “The coffee here is aged,” he says, his voice finding a steadier rhythm now that they’re talking about logistics. “They charcoal roast it. It’s bitter, but deep. I think you’d like the Binya Blend.”

Taiga opens the menu. The prices are offensive, but he ignores them. He glances up at Hokuto over the top of the leather. “You’ve been here before?”

“A few times.”

“With who?”

The question fires out before he can stop it. It hangs in the air, vibrating with a jealousy he has no right to feel. They aren’t anything. He shouldn’t care if Hokuto comes here with Shintaro, or some classmate, or a secret girlfriend in Shizuoka.

But he does care. He cares enough that his jaw tightens as he waits for the answer.

Hokuto blinks. He looks at Taiga, really looks at him, searching for something in his expression. Then he shakes his head. “By myself,” he says softly. “I come here to read. Or to... listen.”

“Listen?”

“It’s quiet,” he explains. “The acoustics are dead because of the wood. No echo. It helps when everything is too loud.”

Oh.

The jealousy evaporates, replaced by a dull, irritating pang in his chest. He comes here to be alone. Taiga imagines him sitting in this corner, nursing a cup, drowning out the noise of the conservatory, the pressure of his family, the weight of being useful to everyone else.

“Okay,” he says. He looks back down at the menu, masking the relief. “Ideally, we keep it quiet then.”

A waiter in a waist apron materializes at the table. He looks like he’s been working here since the Meiji era.

“I’ll take the Binya Blend,” Taiga says. Then, because he’s stressed and his blood sugar feels low from the anxiety, “And the custard pudding.”

Ordering pudding feels childish in a place this serious, but he doesn’t care. If he’s going to be uncomfortable, he wants sugar.

“And for you, sir?” the waiter asks Hokuto.

Hokuto doesn’t hesitate. “Hot chocolate. And the tokoroten.”

Taiga stares at him. “Tokoroten?”

He smiles, a little sheepish shrugging of one shoulder. “I like the texture.”

The waiter nods and glides away. They are left alone again. The silence rolls back in, heavier this time without the menus to hide behind.

Taiga’s hands feel restless. He reaches for his water glass, turning it in circles on the condensation ring. He looks at the wall of cups. He looks at the stained glass lamp. He looks anywhere but at him, because looking at him makes the vision flash in his peripheral vision.

Stop it, he tells himself. Be here.

He glances back at the table. Hokuto’s hands are resting on the wood, and they’re moving.

He’s twisting the silver ring on his index finger. Twist, pull, twist, pull. It’s a rhythmic, unconscious fidget. Taiga watches the metal catch the light. His knuckles are white.

His gaze travels up to his face. He’s looking out the window, his expression carefully neutral, but his jaw is locked tight. He’s biting the inside of his lip—Taiga can see the slight tension in his cheek.

He’s terrified.

Because he’s on a date. With Taiga.

The tension in his own shoulders drops an inch. It’s strange. Knowing he’s freaking out makes him feel… capable. If they’re both drowning, at least he’s not the only idiot in the water.

“So.” Taiga stops spinning the glass, the condensation cold against his fingertips. “What are we actually seeing? You were vague about the details.”

Hokuto starts, his hand stilling on the table. He adjusts his glasses—a nervous tic that Taiga is starting to catalog alongside the ring-twisting. “It’s called Boyhood.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Linklater?”

He looks surprised. “You know it?”

“I know of it. It picked up buzz at Sundance.” He leans back, crossing his arms. “I didn’t peg you for the film festival type. You usually stick to sheet music and...” He gestures vaguely at him. “Whatever quiet, tragic things you read in here.”

“I don’t follow festivals,” he says, ignoring the jab. His voice is soft, blending with the low hum of the espresso machine behind the counter. “I just read about the production. It caught my eye.”

“Why? Because it’s three hours long?”

“Because of how they made it.” He leans forward slightly, the linen of his shirt shifting. The movement draws Taiga’s eye to the silver chain again. “They filmed it over 12 years. The same cast. The same director. They just… let time happen to them.”

Taiga stares at him. Twelve years. Twelve years is a career. It’s a childhood. It’s longer than he’s tolerated anything in his life without trying to burn it down.

“That sounds like a scheduling nightmare,” he says flatly. “And a massive risk. What if the kid grew up and couldn’t act? What if the funding dried up?”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Hokuto’s eyes are bright behind the lenses. Too bright. He looks painfully earnest. “They didn’t know. They just kept coming back, every year, to add another piece.”

“That’s not art,” he scoffs, looking away toward the wall of porcelain cups. “That’s stubbornness. Or insanity. Who commits to a project for 12 years without knowing if the ending is even worth it?”

The idea irritates him—the sheer, blind faith of it. It reminds him of the piano. The hours, the years, the endless repetition of scales and sonatas, all for a payoff that might never arrive. All for a London stage where you freeze and fail anyway.

Hokuto doesn’t flinch. He just watches him, his expression softening into something that looks uncomfortably like understanding. “I think there’s beauty in it,” he says.

“In stubbornness?”

“In devotion.”

Devotion. He hates that word.

“Committing to something,” Hokuto continues, his voice steady now, the nervousness gone, “even when it’s hard. Even when you don't know how it turns out. Isn’t that what makes it meaningful? That you stayed?”

Taiga’s throat feels tight. He looks at his hands—still now, resting on the dark wood.

Seven years, the vision had said. I’ve been counting every day since you finally stopped running away from me.

He looks away, breaking the contact. He focuses on the sugar pot again. It’s white ceramic. Flawless. Cold.

“It sounds exhausting,” he mutters.

“Maybe,” Hokuto says. “But I think it’s brave.”

He doesn’t answer. He can’t. Because if he accepts that, if he agrees that sticking around is brave, then he has to admit that running away—Tokyo, the piano, him—is cowardice. And he’s not ready to admit that to anyone. Especially not to the guy in front of him.

The waiter arrives, setting the tray down with reverence.

Taiga’s coffee is black, sitting in a cup that looks like it belongs in a museum case. Next to it, the custard pudding sits in a silver goblet. It wobbles when the waiter retreats.

Hokuto’s order is a crime scene. The hot chocolate is fine. But the tokoroten next to it is baffling. Translucent noodles of agar jelly swimming in a vinegar-soy sauce mixture, topped with mustard and seaweed. It smells acidic. It looks like sea sludge.

But Hokuto looks delighted. He picks up his spoon, breaks the little mound of mustard, and stirs it into the vinegar. “It’s really good,” he says, catching Taiga’s look of open disgust. “The acidity cuts the sweetness of the chocolate.”

“You’re eating salad as a dessert.”

“Whatever.” He takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. He looks annoyingly content.

Taiga looks away and picks up his coffee. The cup is hot against his fingertips. He takes a sip. It’s bitter. It’s good, burning the back of his throat in a way that wakes him up.

He digs a spoon into the pudding. It’s dense. Not too sweet. He eats it quickly, mostly to stop watching Hokuto eat slime.

“You and Yugo,” Hokuto says after a minute. He wipes the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin. “You’ve been friends a long time.”

Taiga pauses, the spoon halfway to his mouth. “Since we were eight.”

“That’s... intense.”

“It’s codependent,” he corrects him. “He keeps me alive. I keep him interesting.”

Hokuto smiles. “He talks about you a lot. Even when you’re not there. He worries.”

“He needs a hobby.”

“He has hobbies. Leatherwork. Driving. Camping.” Hokuto leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand. “How did it happen? The friendship.”

Taiga sets the spoon down. The metal clinks against the silver goblet. “He was annoying,” he says flatly.

It’s the truth. Or close enough to it. When he was eight, he was already the Child Prodigy. He was already a prop for his parents, a party trick for their friends. Other kids didn’t talk to him—they stared. They knew he was different, fragile, expensive. Teachers treated him like glass.

Then there was Yugo.

“He didn’t care about the piano,” he tells Hokuto. “Everyone else looked at me and saw the talent first. They saw the competitions, the potential. Yugo looked at me and saw a kid who had good snacks in his lunchbox.” He picks up the coffee again. “He sat next to me during lunch one day and asked for my tamagoyaki. I gave it to him because I was terrified he’d beat me up. He ate it, told me it was salty, and then asked if I wanted to see a dead beetle he found.”

Hokuto laughs, a soft, breathy sound that gets lost in the café’s low jazz.

“That was it,” he says. “He didn’t treat me like I was special. He treated me like I was useless unless I was trading food or helping him carry bug cages.” He looks at the dark liquid in his cup. “He’s the only one who never looked at me like I was fragile. Even now. He yells at me. He tells me I’m being an idiot. Most people walk on eggshells around the ‘failed genius.’ Yugo just tells me to put on a damn shirt and get over myself.”

“He writes music because of you,” Hokuto says quietly.

His hand tightens on the handle. “He says that to make me feel guilty.”

“I don’t think so.” Hokuto is watching him closely—too closely. “He told me once. He said he started composing because he wanted to create things that only you could play. He wanted to write something difficult enough to make you sweat.”

He scoffs, looking out the window. “He succeeded. His voicings are a nightmare. His hand spans are irrational.”

But the guilt is there, pressing against his ribs. Yugo chose his path to run parallel to Taiga’s. He built his future around the assumption that he would be on stage to play it. And now he’s almost quit the piano, he’s smoking on balconies and hallucinating visions, while Yugo sits in the library writing scores he might never touch.

He diverts. He needs the spotlight off himself.

“What about you?” he asks, turning back to him. “You’re always surrounded by people. Jesse. Shintaro. You must have a Yugo.”

Hokuto blinks. He retreats a little, sinking back into his chair. “I have siblings.”

“Yuina and Masaya,” Taiga says, remembering the names he’s mentioned in passing.

“Right. Them.” He taps his finger against his own cup. “I spent most of my time looking after them. Shizuoka isn’t... there wasn’t a lot of time for friends. I had to get dinner on the table. Help with homework.”

Of course. The caretaker. Even as a kid.

“No best friend?” he presses. “No one who asked for your tamagoyaki?”

“Tera,” he says. The name comes out soft. “His name is Terasaka, but everyone calls him Tera. We grew up next door to each other.”

Tera. Next-door neighbor. Loud. Probably normal. Probably nice.

“He still in Shizuoka?”

“Yeah. He works in his family’s restaurant now.” Hokuto smiles, but it looks a little lonely. “He doesn’t get the music thing. He thinks the flute is basically a glorified whistle. But he listens.”

“He sounds decent.”

“He is.”

Taiga takes another bite of pudding. It’s almost gone. “So, Tera. High school sweetheart?”

Hokuto chokes on his hot chocolate. He coughs, putting a hand to his chest, his face turning a brilliant shade of pink. “No,” he wheezes. “God, no. Tera is—he’s straight. He has a girlfriend. They’ve been together since middle school.”

“Okay,” Taiga says, amused despite himself. “So who was it? The soccer captain? The troublemaker.”

Hokuto wipes his mouth, regaining his composure. He looks down at his hands. “No one.”

He stops eating. “No one?”

“I haven’t…” He hesitates, twisting the ring on his finger again. “I haven’t dated anyone. Ever.”

Taiga stares at him. He’s objectively beautiful and kind. He cooks and saves dogs from ravines. It makes no statistical sense. “You’re lying,” he says.

“I didn’t have time,” he says defensively. “Between practice, and my parents, and the siblings... I was busy. Relationships take energy. I didn’t have any left over.”

“Or you were avoiding it.”

He flinches slightly. Bullseye.

“Maybe,” he admits. “And... Shizuoka is small. Everyone knows everyone. Even if I had wanted to try, it wasn’t exactly safe to advertise.”

“How did you know, then?” Taiga asks. “If you never tried.”

“I just knew.” He shrugs. “I liked looking. I liked the way guys moved. I liked their hands. It wasn’t a big realization. It was just... gravity. I knew which way I fell.” He looks up at Taiga then, his gaze direct for the first time in minutes. It’s unnerving. “What about you?” he asks.

His jaw tightens. “What about me?”

“Have you?” He gestures vaguely between them. “Dated?”

Taiga looks at the dregs of his coffee.

London. Rain against the windows of a flat in South Kensington. Bodies that were warm but nameless. Faces he can’t remember clearly because he was usually drunk or exhausted or both. It wasn’t dating. It was consumption. It was trying to feel something—anything—other than the crushing weight of mediocrity at the piano.

He dated to prove he existed. He slept with people to be touched, to be seen, even if what they saw was just the child prodigy acting out. It was hollow. It was desperate.

“Casual things,” he says, his voice clipped. “In London.”

Hokuto nods, but he doesn’t look away. He’s waiting for the rest. He knows that’s not the whole answer.

“It was…” Taiga searches for the word. Transactional? Numbing? “Distracting. I needed noise. They provided it.”

“But no one serious?”

He looks at him.

Hokuto is sitting there in the golden light of the café , looking at Taiga with that terrifyingly open expression. He’s waiting for an answer like it matters. Like he matters.

In the vision, he proposes. In the vision, he gives up his career for him. In the vision, he loves him enough to die for some stranger on a train track because he thinks kindness is worth the cost.

Taiga feels a crack in his chest.

“No,” he says. His voice is rougher than he intended.

He holds his gaze. He doesn’t let himself look away.

“No one that mattered,” he says.

“No one like you.”

🪈

The afternoon heat has softened by the time they step out of the café, but only slightly. The air sits heavy against Hokuto’s skin, humid and thick with the smell of pavement still warm from the midday sun.

Taiga walks beside him. Not ahead, the way he usually does. Beside him. Close enough that Hokuto can hear the quiet shift of his camera bag strap against his shoulder.

Hokuto doesn’t say anything about it. He just walks.

“No one like you.”

The words have been sitting in his chest since Taiga said them. He’s been careful not to look at them too directly. If he looks at them too long, he’ll start to believe them, and believing feels dangerous right now. Believing feels like stepping onto ice without knowing the thickness.

But he finds himself looking anyway.

Taiga said it quietly, without flourish. His voice went rough at the edges, and he held Hokuto’s gaze for exactly long enough that it couldn’t be mistaken for politeness, and then he looked away. As if he can unsay it by withdrawing fast enough.

He can’t, though. It’s already said, already somewhere inside Hokuto, taking up space.

Ebisu Garden Place opens ahead of them—the plaza wide and amber in the late afternoon, brick pathways curving through the courtyard. Families move through the space at the unhurried pace of weekends. Two children run ahead of their mother, arms out, chasing something invisible. A couple sits on a low stone ledge with matching paper cups, leaning toward each other with the easy weight of people who have been together long enough to be comfortable in silence.

Hokuto watches Taiga notice them. His gaze passes over the couple and away. He adjusts the strap of his bag.

Hokuto thinks about what Taiga told him in the café—the London flings, the noise he needed, the way he said “distracting” like it was a clinical term. Like he’d spent years treating himself as a problem to manage rather than a person to tend to.

Taiga dresses differently today. Hokuto noticed it at the café and he’s been noticing it since. He’s not wearing black. The navy cardigan, the white shirt, the jeans cuffed neatly at the ankle. He doesn’t make careless choices. He wouldn’t dress like this by accident.

Hokuto isn’t sure that Taiga realizes what that means, or maybe he does and he’s hoping Hokuto won’t notice. Either way, Hokuto notices, and something in him goes very still and very warm.

They’re passing a row of ornamental trees when Taiga slows. He doesn’t stop walking entirely, just shortens his stride, tilting his head slightly toward the eastern wing of the plaza.

“There’s a photography museum,” he says.

Hokuto looks where he’s indicating. The Tokyo Metropolitan Museum of Photography, the glass-and-brick façade sitting back from the courtyard, a banner hung at the entrance advertising a current exhibition.

“We have two horus before the screening,” Taiga says, his voice carrying the particular flatness of someone trying to sound neutral about something they actually want. “If you don’t care about standing around and looking at photos for an hour, we could go.”

Hokuto turns to look at him. Taiga is still watching the building, not him. His thumb has found the strap of his camera bag, running along the edge of it.

He’s nervous. He’s suggested something and now he’s waiting to be dismissed.

“I’d like that,” Hokuto says.

Taiga glances at him sideways. “You don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t have to.” He says it gently, because he means it gently. “I want to understand what you see when you look through that.” He gestures toward the camera bag, and immediately feels slightly exposed by the honesty of it—but he doesn’t take it back. “Whatever it is you're looking for in things... I’d like to see it.”

Taiga is quiet for a moment. A long moment.

Then something changes in his face. The line of his jaw softens. He looks away from Hokuto quickly, back toward the museum entrance, and Hokuto sees the faint color that rises along his cheekbones.

“It’s just photos,” Taiga says.

“Maybe,” Hokuto says.

Taiga starts walking again, toward the entrance. Hokuto falls into step beside him.

The museum is cool inside—the kind that seems built into the walls, absorbed by them over years of quiet.

They move through the entrance hall in silence. The current exhibition runs along the ground floor: black-and-white documentary photography, mid-century, the placard explains.

Taiga reads it without being asked, his eyes moving quickly down the text. Hokuto stands beside him and waits.

Taiga starts walking before he does.

Hokuto follows him into the first room, where the photos hang wide-spaced on pale walls, each one lit cleanly from above. No clutter. No explanatory text crowding the images. Just the photos, and the space around them, and the soft sound of other visitors moving through adjacent rooms.

Taiga slows in front of a street scene. Tokyo, 1963, according to the small card in the corner. A crowd caught mid-motion—umbrellas, white shirts, the blur of a bicycle at the frame’s edge. He studies it with his arms loose at his sides, his head tilted just slightly.

“The shutter speed is slow,” he says. Not to Hokuto, more like thinking aloud. “See how the bicycle blurs but the man in the center is sharp? The photographer knew exactly how long to leave it open. Long enough to get the movement, not so long it loses the anchor.”

Hokuto looks at the photo again. He hadn’t notice the bicycle at all before Taiga pointed to it. “He’s the still point,” he says.

“Yeah.” Taiga glances at him. “Exactly that.”

They move to the next image. Taiga is quiet again, but it’s a different quiet from the one he usually carries. There’s a quality to his attention here that Hokuto hasn’t seen in lectures or at the library or across the table in any café—a looseness in his shoulders, an absence of the habitual watchfulness he wears everywhere else.

Hokuto doesn’t mention it. He just walks beside him.

“Most people look at a photo and see the subject,” Taiga says, in front of a densely layered market scene. He doesn’t gesture. His voice stays low. “The fruit, or the person, or whatever the obvious thing is. But that’s not what makes the photo work. It’s the thing behind the thing. The light coming through the gap in the awning. The kid in the background who isn’t looking at the camera.” He pauses. “If you get those right, the subject almost doesn’t matter.”

“That’s not so different from music,” Hokuto says.

“How?”

“The notes you write down are the subject. But what makes a performance work is what happens between them. The breath before a phrase. The way a silence is shaped.” Hokuto thinks about it a moment more. “You can play every note correctly and still miss what the piece is about entirely.”

Taiga is watching him with an expression that Hokuto can’t name. “Mori-sensei told me that,” he says quietly. “Not in those words. But something like that.”

Hokuto doesn’t push.

They move on.

The room narrows into a corridor lined with portraits, and it’s here that Taiga stops and stays stopped.

The photo is large, and it shows an elderly man seated at a workbench, hands folded on the surface in front of him. The lighting is spare, coming from the upper left. His hands are lined and heavy with age, the knuckles thickened. He isn’t looking at the camera. He’s looking at something beyond the frame, with an expression that carries something vast and patient in it.

Taiga stands in front of it for a long time.

“He’s thinking about something specific,” he finally says. “Not just—staring into nothing. There’s something that he’s turning over. Something old.”

Hokuto looks at the man’s face again. The way the light falls across it, the shadow that gathers under his jaw. Taiga is right. There is something specific in it. “How do you get that?” he asks. “How do you get someone to look like that rather than just posing for you?”

Taiga is quiet for a beat. “You wait,” he says. “You take the boring shots first. The ones they expect you to take. You let them feel like it’s over. And then you wait a little longer.” He pauses. “People can’t hold a performance forever. Eventually they forget you’re there. Eventually something real comes through.”

There’s something careful in the way he says it. Careful and slightly too deliberate, the way a sentence sounds when it’s carrying more weight than the speaker intends to show.

Hokuto thinks about what it costs to be watched carefully. He thinks about Taiga in the café earlier, his voice going rough at the edges, admitting that no one had mattered. He thinks about what it means that Taiga is here, in this room, telling him this.

Taiga takes his camera out. He raises it toward the portrait, frames it, and holds.

He doesn’t take the photo.

After a moment, he lowers the camera. “Already been done better,” he says. His voice is dry, but there’s something underneath it that isn’t dry at all.

“I think you just wanted to look at it a little longer,” Hokuto says.

Taiga cuts a glance at him. “Maybe,” he says.

They stand there a moment more—both of them looking at the old man with his folded hands and his private thought—and Hokuto is aware, in the particular way he is sometimes aware of things before he fully understands them, that Taiga is letting him see something. Not the photo.

Something else.

He doesn’t name it. He just stays behind him, and lets the moment hold its own weight.

They leave the museum as the afternoon tips into evening.

The shift happens quickly here, the way it does in summer. One moment the light is white and high, and the next it has turned amber and sideways, coming in low across the plaza’s brick pathways and catching everything at an angle that makes ordinary things look briefly extraordinary

Taiga slows as they step outside. He doesn’t say anything. He just stops, and for a moment Hokuto thinks he’s looking at something specific, some subject he’s identified through the photographer’s instinct that seems to operate in him below conscious thought.

But he’s not looking at anything in particular. He’s looking at everything.

Taiga reaches for the camera.

This Hokuto recognizes now. The slight tightening of his right hand before it moves. The way the rest of him goes still.

Taiga raises it and walks toward the center of the plaza, where the fountain catches the late light and breaks it apart across the water’s surface. Hokuto follows at a distance, far enough to leave him room.

Taiga photographs the fountain first. Then the trees along the far edge, their leaves translucent in the amber, glowing from inside the way paper lanterns do. A couple passes through his frame and he waits, then takes the shot just as they clear it, leaving only the emptied bench behind them.

He moves across the plaza with that same concentrated looseness Hokuto noticed in the museum. He photographs two children chasing each other around a stone post. Then a woman reading with her ankles crossed, the light falling across the open pages. Then the museum façade from a low angle, the banner casting a long shadow across the courtyard.

He doesn’t stop moving, and he doesn’t look at his shots.

Taiga usually pauses after each one, sometimes looking at the viewfinder a beat too long. This time, he doesn’t. He shoots and moves on, the camera already lowering before he’s had time to confirm anything.

Taiga is back beside him now. The camera hangs against his chest, and he’s looking out at the fountain without particular focus.

“You haven’t checked any of them,” Hokuto says.

Taiga glances at them. “I know.”

“Why not?”

A pause. Taiga turns the lens cap over in his fingers. “I’ll look later,” he says. “Not now.”

His voice is flat, not unkind. Flat the way it gets when he’s decided on a boundary without announcing it.

Hokuto doesn’t push. “It’s okay,” he says, and he means it without caveats.

They stand together at the edge of the fountain. The water moves slowly in the stillness of the evening, catching the amber and holding it, and all around them the plaza has quieted—the families thinning out, the children gone, the couple from earlier vanished. The light has turned the brick warm, and the edges of things have softened, and the sky above the eastern wing of the building has deepened from blue into something closer to violet.

“If only the light could stay,” Hokuto says.

He doesn’t mean it as anything. A simple observation, that's all.

But he feels the shift beside him.

It’s small. The kind of thing that only registers because he’s spent enough time beside Taiga now to know the difference between his ordinary silences and the ones that mean something has landed somewhere it wasn’t expected. His shoulders change. Something that had been held loosens slightly, then tightens again. He doesn’t make a sound.

Hokuto turns to look at him.

Taiga is still looking at the fountain, not at him. His jaw is set. The lens cap has stopped moving in his fingers. “If only,” he says.

The flatness is gone from his voice entirely, and in its place there is something else—something with a frayed edge to it, something that has been worn smooth by long handling, the way grief gets when it’s old enough to have become ordinary.

Hokuto doesn’t know what Taiga is thinking of. He doesn’t know what the light means to him, or what it is he is watching pass that Hokuto can’t see. He only knows that something in Taiga has opened briefly and that he is already in the process of closing it again, carefully, the way you set a door back against its frame without letting it click.

Hokuto doesn’t ask, doesn’t offer anything. He doesn’t move to close the small distance between them or reach for him or say his name in a tone that would require him to respond to it.

He just stands beside him, looking at the fountain, and lets the moment exist without demanding anything of it.

🪈

The walk to the outdoor cinema is short, just across the plaza to a shaded lawn tucked behind the main buildings. The night has settled in properly now, the heat of the day giving way to something softer, though the humidity still hangs in the air. String lights are strung between poles around the perimeter, casting a warm, low glow that makes everything look slightly unreal, like a scene remembered from a dream.

They hand them picnic mats at the entrance and a small bento basket each, tied with a cloth ribbon. It feels curated, like a gesture meant for couples, and Hokuto takes his with a quiet nod, trying not to let the assumption of it make him self-conscious.

Taiga accepts his without a word. He looks around the space, his gaze sweeping across the clusters of people already settling on their mats—couples leaning close, friends laughing over shared drinks. His expression doesn’t change, but Hokuto sees the way his shoulders draw in slightly, the way his hand tightens on the handle of the basket.

He doesn’t move toward the center of the lawn where most people are gathering. Instead, he turns and walks toward the edge, where the light from the string lamps is thinner and the shadows from a line of shrubs provide a kind of buffer from the crowd. He finds a spot near the back, close to where the lawn slopes down toward a quiet path, and lays his mat out there.

Hokuto follows, laying his beside Taiga’s, leaving a careful foot of space between them. It feels important, that space.

Taiga sits down, cross-legged, and sets the bento basket in his lap.

Hokuto does the same.

The film hasn’t started yet. The screen at the front is a large, white sheet, glowing faintly with the reflected light. Quiet music plays through the speakers—something instrumental, soft enough to blend into the night sounds.

Taiga opens his bento. Inside, there's tamagoyaki, neatly rolled, some grilled chicken, rice shaped into little triangles, and a section of fruit. He looks at it for a moment, then picks up a pair of chopsticks. He doesn’t eat immediately, just holds them, looking at the food like it's a puzzle he’s not sure how to solve.

“Are you hungry?” Hokuto asks, his voice low.

Taiga glances at him. “A little.” He picks up a piece of chicken and eats it slowly. He doesn’t look at Hokuto while he chews, his gaze fixed on the screen, though there’s nothing on it yet.

Hokuto opens his own bento. He eats a bit of rice, watching Taiga from the corner of his eye. He’s tense in a way that’s different from his usual guardedness. Like being here, in this soft-lit space with all these people, is taking something out of him.

“It’s a nice setting,” he says, because he feels like he should say something, but he keeps his tone light. “Quieter than I expected.”

Taiga nods. “It’s fine.” He eats another piece of chicken. “The lights are… a lot.”

Hokuto looks up at the string lights. To him they feel warm, but to Taiga they probably feel exposing. “We could move further back,” he offers. “If it’s too much.”

Taiga shakes his head. “Here is okay. Just… give me a minute.”

“Take all the time you need.”

Taiga glances at him then, a quick, searching look, like he’s trying to figure out if Hokuto means it.

Hokuto holds his gaze for a second before looking down at his bento, giving him the space to look away.

He does. He turns his attention back to the screen, and they eat in silence as the last of the daylight fades completely and the sky turns a deep, velvety blue above them.

The final light fades from the sky, and the music from the speakers quiets. The first notes of the film’s score begin. The title appears on the screen: Boyhood. The lawn around them settles into a collective stillness, the murmur of conversation dropping away.

Hokuto lets himself sink into the rhythm of it. The film opens on a young boy, maybe six or seven, lying on grass, staring at the sky. It’s a simple shot, but something about the quietness of it, the way the camera just watches him exist, makes his chest feel tight. He thinks of Masaya at that age, of the afternoons he would find him in their tiny backyard in Shizuoka, staring up at the clouds, and how he would sometimes just stand at the window and watch him, afraid to disturb the peace.

The story unfolds slowly, in fragments of years. Birthdays, arguments in the car, moving to a new town, the quiet strain between the boy’s parents. The mother is trying so hard, and the father is trying in his own scattered way, and the boy is just there, in the middle of it, watching. He doesn’t say much. He observes, absorbs.

Hokuto feels Taiga shift beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees him bring a hand up to his mouth, his index finger resting against his lips. He is perfectly still, his gaze fixed on the screen.

A scene comes where the parents are fighting—that worse, quieter kind of conflict, words spoken through clenched teeth in a kitchen at night. The camera stays on the boy’s face in the next room, listening. His expression is blank, but his eyes are too wide.

Taiga’s breathing changes. Just a slight hitch, then a slow, controlled exhale through his nose. His shoulders are rigid. He doesn’t look away, but his jaw is tight, the line of it sharp in the faint light from the screen.

Hokuto understands. The feeling of being a witness to a fracture you are powerless to mend. His own memories press close—the sound of a sliding door closing too firmly, the long silences that were heavier than shouts. The weight of knowing you have to be quiet, that adding your own needs to the tension would only make it worse.

On screen, the boy grows older. He becomes a teenager,. His mother lectures him about his grades, about his inattention.

It's quiet for a moment, just the film’s dialogue.

Then Taiga speaks, his voice so low it’s almost lost under the soundtrack. “He’s not inattentive,” he says.

Hokuto turns his head to look at him. He’s still facing the screen, his profile pale in the darkness. “What do you mean?”

“He’s paying too much attention.” Taiga’s voice is flat. “To everything but what’s in front of him. To the things he can’t control. It’s… exhausting.”

He says it like it's a technical observation, but the understanding that washes through Hokuto is so immediate it feels like a physical warmth. Taiga is right. It’s not a lack of attention but a surplus of it, directed at all the wrong, necessary things.

“I think I know what you mean,” Hokuto says softly. He doesn’t say that he was that boy, he was still that boy sometimes. The admission feels too large, too vulnerable for this dark space between them.

But Taiga hears it anyway. He finally turns his head, and their eyes meet. In the flickering light, his expression is unguarded, just for a second. There’s no pity there, just a sharp, curious focus, as if he’s finally found the thread he’s been looking for. He’s looking at Hokuto, and Hokuto can see him working it out—connecting the quiet boy on the screen to the quiet man sitting beside him.

Taiga doesn’t say anything else. He just holds Hokuto’s gaze for a breath longer, then gives a faint, almost imperceptible nod before turning back to the film.

The boy on the screen is older now, fifteen or sixteen, his face losing the softness of childhood. The film’s rhythm has changed, skipping forward in years with a title card, and the fractures in his family have settled into a kind of weary routine. Then, in a high school classroom, a teacher places a vintage camera in his hands.

The scene is quiet, almost mundane, but something in Taiga beside Hokuto shifts.

He has been still for so long, but now Hokuto feels the subtle tension leave his shoulders, replaced by a different kind of focus. He leans forward, just a centimeter, his eyes never leaving the screen.

On it, Mason lifts the camera, peers through the viewfinder at his friends laughing in a parking lot. The composition is awkward but sincere. The teacher’s voice is heard, praising not the technique but the eye.

Hokuto remembers the museum, Taiga explaining how movement is captured in the blur of a background, how meaning hides in the edges of a frame. This is the same language. Mason isn’t taking pictures of grand events; he’s collecting fragments of his own life, trying to make sense of it by holding it still.

The parallel is so clear that it feels like a secret meant just for them, whispered through the film’s narrative. Taiga is watching himself, or a version of himself—someone who uses a lens to observe, to interpret, to find a place to stand when the world feels too immediate.

The night air feels closer now, the chatter of the other viewers fading into a distant hum. Hokuto is acutely aware of the space between their two picnic mats, the thin strip of grass that might as well be a canyon. He can feel the warmth radiating from Taiga’s arm, so close to his. His breathing has deepened, settled into the rhythm of the film.

He is here, fully here, in a way he hasn’t been all evening, and his presence feels solid, real beside Hokuto.

He wants to touch him.

The fear follows the thought immediately, but the instinct is stronger.

Hokuto lets his right hand, which has been resting on his own thigh, relax. He slides it slowly, so slowly, across the checked fabric of his mat toward the edge. His pulse is loud in his ears.

He gives Taiga every chance to notice, to shift away, to reclaim his distance. He doesn’t move. His left hand rests on his own mat, palm down, fingers slightly curled.

Hokuto’s fingertips graze the cool grass of the border between them. He stops. The film plays on—Mason in a darkroom now, watching an image swim into existence in the developer tray. A portrait of his father, looking older, tired.

Then, a movement. Taiga’s hand. He doesn’t look at Hokuto, his profile still etched against the light of the screen. But his fingers uncurl, and his hand slides, mirroring Hokuto’s, until the side of his pinkie rests against the side of Hokuto’s.

The touch is electric, a point of warmth in the cooling night. Hokuto holds his breath.

Taiga’s finger doesn’t retreat. Instead, it presses more firmly, and then his hand turns, his palm meeting Hokuto’s. His fingers slide between Hokuto’s fingers, interlacing them.

Everything inside Hokuto stills, then floods with a warmth that is almost painful in its gentleness. He doesn’t dare squeeze, doesn’t dare move. He just lets his hand rest in Taiga’s, feeling the slight calluses on his fingertips, the steady beat of his pulse against his skin.

This is it. This is the acknowledgment, the bridge across the space they’ve both been measuring. Taiga is choosing not to run, not to deflect. He is choosing to be here, connected.

Hokuto finally lets out the breath he was holding. He turns his head just enough to see their joined hands lying in the grass between their mats.

Then he looks back at the screen, where Mason is packing his camera away, but Hokuto doesn’t see the images anymore. He only feels the anchor of Taiga’s hand in his, and the vast, quiet understanding that stretches between them, wider and more real than any night sky.

🪈

The final shot holds, and then the screen cuts to black. The credits begin to scroll upwards in silence, and then the spell breaks.

The world rushes back in all at once. The murmur of people around them gathering their things, the rustle of blankets, the click of a cooler latch. The shared pocket of silence they’d been living in for the past three hours evaporates, and suddenly, the space between Hokuto and Taiga is just empty air again.

Taiga’s hand leaves his. He does it smoothly, as if he’s simply adjusting his position. But the absence of his touch is immediate—a sudden coolness where his warmth had been, a lightness in Hokuto’s hand that feels like loss.

Hokuto watches his fingers curl back into a loose fist on his knee, and he has to stop himself from reaching out to fill the space Taiga’s just vacated. It wasn’t a rejection, he tells himself. It was just… the movie ended. The reason for the connection is over.

But the reason was never really the movie.

Taiga doesn’t look at him, already bending to gather his camera bag. “We should get going,” he says, his voice almost swallowed by the ambient noise. “It’s late. Liberal Arts is 7am tomorrow.”

Hokuto can feel the evening slipping through his fingers like sand. “It’s not that late,” he hears himself say, the words softer than he intended. He’s packing his own mat, folding it with deliberate slowness, trying to buy a moment. “We could… walk through the garden for a bit. It’s right there. Before we head to the station.”

Taiga pauses, the camera bag strap half over his shoulder. For a second, Hokuto thinks he’ll refuse. He looks toward the exit, then back at the darkened path leading into the deeper shadows of Ebisu Garden.

“A short walk,” he finally says, the concession gruff. He doesn’t meet Hokuto’s eyes. “Just to… clear my head. The film was…”

“It was a lot,” Hokuto offers.

Taiga gives a simple, sharp nod. “Yeah.”

That’s all the articulation they’re going to get. But he’s slinging his bag properly over his shoulder now, not heading for the station exit, but turning toward the garden path.

They leave the plaza behind, the chatter and the string lights fading into a soft hum as they step onto the garden path. The air is cooler here, scented with damp earth and the faint perfume of night-blooming flowers that Hokuto can’t name. Tall trees line the gravel walkway, their branches creating a canopy that turns the sky into a patchwork of deepening blue and the first pinprick stars. Their footsteps are the loudest sound, a quiet crunch on the gravel that syncs up for a few steps before falling out of rhythm.

Taiga walks a half-step ahead, his silhouette sharp against the dim light. He doesn’t speak, but his shoulders have lost some of their earlier tension, the line of his back softening.

Hokuto matches his pace, content with the silence. It feels different from the strained quiet in the lecture hall or the loaded pauses in the library—this is just a shared quiet, like they’re both letting the film settle inside them.

The path curves and opens onto a small, paved overlook. A low stone wall borders a view of the garden sloping away below, a dark tapestry of shrubs and winding paths dotted with the soft glow of lanterns.

Taiga stops, leans his forearms on the sun-warmed stone, and looks out. After a moment, Hokuto joins him, leaving a careful space between their elbows.

“This was… good,” Taiga suddenly says, his voice rough. He doesn’t turn. “The whole thing. The museum. The film. Even… the coffee.” He clears his throat. “I’m not… I don’t really know how to do this. The dating thing. I’m probably terrible at it.”

The confession is so blunt and vulnerable that it makes Hokuto’s chest ache. He looks at Taiga’s profile, at the way he’s staring resolutely ahead as if bracing for judgment. “You’re not terrible,” he says quietly. “And it’s not like I have a map either. This is… my first date, too.”

He feels Taiga go still beside him. Hokuto holds his breath.

“So,” Taiga says, the word measured, “this counts?”

“I think it does,” Hokuto says. The certainty in his voice surprises him. “If we both want it to.”

Taiga is silent for a long moment, watching the lantern lights below. Then he gives a single, slow nod, his chin dipping almost imperceptibly. “Okay,” he murmurs, more to the garden than to Hokuto. “It counts.”

A breath Hokuto didn’t know he was holding escapes.

They stay like that, side by side, as the night settles completely around them, the meaning of the evening quietly rewriting itself into something new and fragile and theirs.

They walk back toward the station in a silence that feels different now—lighter, but also more precarious, as if they’re both holding something delicate and unspoken between them. The gravel path gives way to pavement, the quiet garden sounds replaced by the distant hum of the city. Hokuto can feel the evening settling into his bones, a pleasant warmth from the time spent beside Taiga.

Then he speaks, his voice cutting through the quiet with a practiced casualness.

“So,” he says, not looking at Hokuto, his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. “In class. With everyone. We should probably just… keep things normal.”

The words land softly, but they burrow deep, a cold little seed of hurt. Normal. Like today was an anomaly. Like the museum, the film, his hand in Hokuto’s—like they belonged to a separate world that shouldn’t bleed into the reality of school and friends.

Hokuto understands the impulse. To compartmentalize. To protect what’s fragile by putting it in a box. But the understanding doesn’t stop the ache.

“Of course,” he hears himself say automatically. “That’s probably for the best. I don’t mind.”

But he does mind. The dissonance is suddenly loud inside him—the memory of Taiga’s fingers laced with his against this gentle pushback. Taiga’s not pushing him away, he reasons. He’s just scared. It’s fine.

They keep walking, the distance to the station lights shrinking, and with every step, the words “I don’t mind” ring hollower in his own ears.

Hokuto’s steps slow without him deciding it. Then they stop altogether.

Taiga takes two more paces before he realizes that Hokuto’s not beside him. He turns, his face half-lit by a streetlamp, confusion etching his features. “Hokuto?”

Hokuto looks at him, at the careful distance he’s already putting between them even though they’re standing still, and something quiet and stubborn finally breaks through the surface. “I can’t,” he says. The words feel raw, scraped from somewhere he usually keeps buried. “I can’t just agree to ‘normal.’ Not after today.”

Taiga’s expression shutters. “What are you talking about?”

“I like you, Taiga.” It’s the simplest, most terrifying truth that he owns right now. “And today wasn’t just a date to me. It was… it felt real. And I want to pursue that. Something real. Even if it’s messy, or scary.” His voice is trembling, but he doesn’t try to steady it. “I don’t want to pretend that it didn’t happen.”

Taiga stares at him, and for a second, Hokuto sees pure, unguarded panic. Then it hardens into something defensive. He lets out a short, harsh breath that’s almost a laugh. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do.”

“You don’t!” The force in his voice makes Hokuto flinch. Taiga runs a hand through his hair. “Look at me. I’m… I’m broken, okay? I’m not built for this. For relationships. For making someone happy.” He’s not looking at Hokuto anymore; he’s looking somewhere past his shoulder, at some old ghost. “I had everything, and I threw it away in London because I couldn’t handle not being the best anymore. And when things get hard, or real, I push people away. That’s what I do. I’m doing it right now.”

The self-loathing in his words is so dense it feels like a physical weight between them. He says it all like it’s a final, unchangeable fact. Hokuto’s chest hurts with the urge to argue, to soothe, but the rawness of Taiga’s confession leaves him breathless.

“That’s not true,” Hokuto says, but it sounds weak. “What happened in London… it doesn’t define you. Not to me.”

Taiga scoffs, a sharp, ugly sound. “You don’t know me. You see some… some idea you have. The sad prodigy who needs fixing. But that’s not it. The problem isn’t that I’m sad, Hokuto. The problem is that I’m bad for people. I’m corrosive. I take good things and I ruin them because I don’t know how to just… be.” He’s spiraling, the words tumbling out faster, harsher. “I’ll do the same to you. I’ll get close, and then I’ll get scared, or angry, or I’ll decide I’m not enough, and I’ll wreck it. That’s what I do. I destroy everything I—”

Hokuto doesn’t think. He just moves.

One moment Taiga’s standing there, etching his own flaws into the air between them, and the next Hokuto’s hands are on his face, his fingers curling into his hair, and he’s kissing him.

It’s not gentle. It’s a collision—his desperate mouth against Taiga’s. He is stopping the words, swallowing the poison that Taiga is trying to feed them both.

He can feel the shock in Taiga’s body, the way he goes utterly rigid against him. His lips are parted mid-sentence, and for one terrifying second, Hokuto thinks he’s made a catastrophic mistake.

Then Taiga makes a low, fractured gasp against his mouth, and his hands come up to fist in the front of Hokuto’s shirt, clutching the fabric like he’s drowning.

And he kisses Hokuto back.

It’s not Hokuto stopping him anymore; it’s Taiga meeting him, surging forward. His mouth is hungry, almost angry. It’s heat and pressure and a raw, unvarnished need that shakes Hokuto to his core.

Taiga’s fingers tighten, pulling him closer until there’s no space left, until Hokuto can feel the frantic beat of his heart against his chest, or maybe it’s his own. The world narrows to this—the taste of coffee and night air, the slight scrape of his teeth, the overwhelming rightness of his body aligned with Hokuto’s.

When they break apart, it’s only for a ragged breath. Their foreheads press together, Taiga’s eyes are closed tight, his breathing is as unsteady as Hokuto’s. The streetlamp casts his face in sharp relief, and Hokuto can see the conflict warring in every line—the desire, the fear.

He doesn’t let Taiga speak. He doesn’t want more words. He brushes his thumb over Taiga’s cheekbone, and when his eyes flutter open, Hokuto leans in again.

This kiss is different. Slower. Softer. Hokuto’s lips move over Taiga’s with a tenderness that aches, and he responds in kind, his grip on Hokuto’s shirt loosening, his hands flattening against his chest as if to steady himself. This kiss is full of all the quiet longing that Hokuto has carried for months, the silent watches in the library, the comfort of his hand in his during the film. It’s vulnerable and terrifyingly sweet, and for a moment, Hokuto lets himself believe they’ve crossed into something new, something real.

Taiga is the one who pulls away. He stumbles back a step, breaking a contact, his hand flying to his own mouth as if burned. The look on his face is pure devastation. “That was a mistake,” he whispers.

“It didn’t feel like a mistake.” Hokuto’s voice is hoarse.

“It is.” Taiga shakes his head. “You don’t get it. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be someone without… without destroying everything. I see it, Hokuto. In my head. I get close, and then I freeze, or I say the wrong thing, or I just… leave. Because it’s easier than waiting for them to leave me.” He wraps his arms around himself. “I want… god, I want. But wanting isn’t enough. It’s just a feeling, and feelings fade, or they turn into something else, something worse.”

The ache in Hokuto’s chest is a heavy, cold weight now. “So what do we do?” he asks, and he hates how small his voice sounds. “We just pretend this didn’t happen? Go back to ‘normal’?”

Taiga is silent for a long time, staring at the ground between their feet. “I don’t know,” he says finally, the fight draining out of him. “I need… I need time to think. I can’t—I can't give you an answer right now. It’s not fair to either of us.”

Time to think. It’s a postponement, not a no. The part of Hokuto that is used to waiting latches onto that.

But the other part, the part that just felt Taiga’s mouth on his, wants to scream at the unfairness.

He takes a slow breath, trying to find some equilibrium. “Okay,” he says, the word tasting like ash. “Time. I can give you that.”

Taiga looks up, surprise and a flicker of guilt in his eyes.

“But,” Hokuto continues, forcing the words out before he can think better of them, “while you’re thinking… we don’t have to go back to nothing. We could just… keep spending time together. Like we have been. No labels. No expectations.”

The compromise tears at something inside him. It’s the last thing he wants, but it’s better than the void that Taiga is threatening.

“We can just be… Hokuto and Taiga. Who study together. Who sometimes get coffee. Who…”

Who kiss in the dark and then pretend that it meant less than it did.

Taiga studies him, his gaze searching. Hokuto sees the calculation, the relief dawning slowly. This is a door he can leave cracked open without having to walk through it. A way to have the connection without the terrifying commitment. It’s the emotional safety net that he’s desperate for.

“Casual,” he says.

“Casual,” Hokuto confirms, his heart sinking even as he says it.

Taiga nods, the tension in his shoulders easing visibly. “Okay. Yeah. I can do that..”

The relief on his face is so palpable that it’s its own kind of wound. Hokuto understands that. It doesn’t make the hollowness in his chest any less.

“Okay,” Hokuto whispers.

They stand there for another minute in the humming silence, the ghost of the kisses still lingering in the air between them. Then Taiga gestures vaguely toward the station. “I should… get home. Anzu.”

“Right.”

They walk the last stretch to the station entrance side by side, but not touching. The space between them is carefully maintained, a new rule already in effect.

Taiga doesn’t look at him when he mutters a quick, “See you in class,” before turning toward his platform.

Hokuto watches him go, the line of his back retreating into the crowd. He stands there until Taiga disappears from view, the taste of him still on his lips, the compromise sitting heavy and cold in his stomach.

Casual. He wraps the word around himself like a thin blanket, knowing it will never be enough to keep out the chill of what he really wants, but clinging to it anyway because it’s all Taiga can give him right now.

And for him, Hokuto will learn to pretend that it’s enough.

🎹

The smoking area is empty at 6:30 am. No one else is stupid enough to be here this early.

Taiga is on his second cigarette. The first one burned down to the filter while he stared at nothing. He didn’t even taste it.

He didn’t sleep, not because of the usual reasons. He lay in bed for hours staring at the ceiling, replaying it. The way Hokuto’s mouth felt. The sound Hokuto made when he kissed him back, that fractured gasp like he’d punched the air out of his lungs. The way Hokuto’s fingers curled into his shirt, holding on like he was falling and Taiga was the only thing in reach.

Taiga clicks his tongue. Stop it.

He told Hokuto that he needed time. Hokuto offered casual. Taiga took it like a lifeline.

That’s what happened. That’s all that happened.

His hand keeps drifting up to his mouth, and he has to force it back down to his side.

The cigarette burns closer to his fingers. He takes a drag, holds it, exhales. The smoke curls then dissolves into the cold air.

The real problem isn’t last night. He could have stopped it when Hokuto kissed him. Could have pushed him away, told him he wasn’t worth it, broken whatever fragile thing that Hokuto had built up in his head about him.

It would have been cleaner. Crueler, maybe, but cleaner. Hokuto would hate him, and that would be fine. Hate is easy. Hate doesn’t leave you lying awake at three in the morning trying to remember the exact shape of someone’s lips.

But he kissed Hokuto back. He wanted to kiss him back. And that’s the part he can’t undo.

He crushes the cigarette against the ashtray built into the ledge. The ember dies, and he stares at the ash.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out.

Yugo: So are you gonna tell me how your date went?

He almost puts the phone away. But his thumb hovers over the keyboard, and he thinks about Yugo showing up at his apartment with clothes, with food, with patience he didn’t deserve. Yugo’s the only person who knows about the visions. The only person who’d understand why last night was complicated beyond just the normal disaster of a first date.

He types. Deletes. Types again.

Taiga: It was fine

Yugo: Taiga

Taiga: We kissed

Yugo: And???

Taiga: And I told him I needed time. He said ok.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Yugo: I’m gonna need more than that. Coffee after your lesson? I’ll bring Anzu-chan treats

He almost smiles.

Taiga: Fine. 3:30. I’ll bring Anzu

Yugo: Good. You go to class. You’re not skipping on me

He shoves the phone back into his pocket and checks the time. Lecture starts in twelve minutes. Liberal Arts. The same room where Hokuto sat beside him last week, where he watched Hokuto chew on the end of his pen and write notes in his careful handwriting.

He lights a third cigarette.

It’s fifteen minutes before class when Taiga kills the cigarette and walks toward the Global Arts Exchange Building. The campus is mostly empty at this hour. A few dancers stretch near the fountain. A vocal student warms up somewhere in the Practice Towers, the sound carrying thin and distant through the cold air. His footsteps echo off the concrete.

He doesn’t want to see Hokuto. He wants to see him. Both things are true, and both of them make him want to punch something.

Taiga pushes open the door to the lecture hall and stops.

It’s too early for anyone to be here, let alone him. But there he is. Same back row. Same seat by the window.

Hokuto looks up when the door swings shut behind him. Their eyes meet.

He’s a mess. Dark circles. Hair not quite right, like he ran his hands through it one too many times. The hollow look says he didn’t sleep either.

Then he smiles. Wide. Open. Like Taiga is something he’s been waiting to see.

Taiga’s chest does something stupid. A skip. A stutter. He ignores it.

He walks past the empty rows of burgundy seats, his bag feeling heavier than it should. Every step gives him time to turn around, leave, find a different seat, pretend he didn’t see Hokuto.

He doesn’t.

He slides into the seat beside him. Close enough that their elbows almost touch. Far enough that he can pretend he still has control over this situation.

Hokuto turns toward him. “I didn’t know if you’d come early.”

“Didn’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

There’s a paper cup on the desk in front of Hokuto. He pushes it toward Taiga. Coffee. And next to it, wrapped in a paper napkin, is an onigiri.

Taiga stares at it.

“I didn’t know if you ate breakfast.” Hokuto’s words tumble out too fast. “You usually don’t. I noticed. Not in a creepy way! I just—You skip meals a lot, and I thought maybe you’d be hungry, so I stopped at the convenience store but I didn’t know what kind you liked so I just got salmon because that’s safe, I think? Everyone likes salmon. Or most people. I hope you like salmon.”

His ears are red. He’s rambling, and his hands are doing that thing where they don’t know where to settle so they end up fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt.

Taiga has never seen anyone look so nervous bringing someone breakfast.

It’s cute.

The word surfaces before he can stop it. He shoves it down.

Hokuto opens his mouth again, probably to apologize for the apology he’s about to apologize for.

He leans over and kisses him to shut him up. Hokuto’s mouth is warm and startled, and Taiga pulls back before he can react.

His face is hot. He can feel it crawling up his neck, which is mortifying.

“That’s for last night,” he mutters.

Hokuto stares at him. “For last night,” he repeats, voice faint.

“You got even. Now we’re even.” He unwraps the onigiri and takes a bite. He chews, swallows, refuses to look at Hokuto.

But he can feel it. The weight of Hokuto’s stare. The shape of a smile he’s too stubborn to acknowledge.

He glances sideways.

Hokuto is smiling. That same wide, stupid, gorgeous smile from before.

Taiga looks back at his onigiri. Takes another bite.

The lecture hall fills up slowly. Students trickle in, shuffling past their row, dropping into seats with the usual groans and complaints. Someone drops a notebook. Someone else laughs too loudly near the front.

Taiga eats his onigiri and drinks his coffee. Hokuto sits beside him, quiet now, but still smiling.

He doesn’t tell him to stop.

🎹

The room begins emptying when the bell rings. Students stretch, pack bags, filter into the hallway. Taiga takes his time, stacking his notebook into his bag with deliberate slowness.

Hokuto waits. He’s not subtle about it. He just sits there, hands folded on the desk, watching Taiga like he has nowhere else to be.

Taiga swings his bag over his shoulder and stands. “I have private lessons at 1:30.” It comes out rougher than he meant. “Mori’s gonna tear me apart if I don’t at least look like I’ve practiced this week.”

Hokuto nods. No pressure. Just acknowledgment.

He should leave. Say see you later and walk out the door and spend the next three hours alone in a practice room with his failures. That would be the smart thing.

“I’m gonna find a spare room.” The words come out before Taiga can stop them. “You can come. If you want.”

The words hang between them. He had the out. He was holding it. And he just handed it to Hokuto.

Hokuto’s face does something. A shift. The cautious hope he’s been carrying all morning breaks into something wider. “I’d like that.”

Taiga looks away before he does something stupid like smile back. “Don’t expect conversation. I’m gonna be playing scales until my fingers fall off.”

“I don’t mind.”

He starts walking. Hokuto falls into step beside him.

🎹

The lobby is quiet when they push through the glass doors. The clerk, a tired-looking woman in her fifties, glances up from her computer. “Two of you today?”

“Any room on six?” Taiga asks.

She taps her keyboard. “604 is open. Hourly blocks. How long?”

“Three hours.” He slides his student card across the counter.

She swipes it, hands it back, and passes him the key fob. “Sixth floor, end of the hall.”

He takes the fob and walks toward the elevators without checking if Hokuto follows.

He does.

The elevator doors slide shut. They’re alone in the box. Four walls of stainless steel and bad lighting. The hum of the cables fills the silence.

He stares at the numbers above the door. 2. 3. 4.

Hokuto stands beside him. Close enough that he could reach out and touch him without extending his arm.

Taiga doesn’t look at him.

The elevator dings. Doors open.

The hallway is empty. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Their footsteps echo off the polished concrete floor.

Room 604 is at the end, as promised. He swipes the key fob. The lock clicks. He pushes the door open.

It’s a standard room. Small. Soundproofed walls. An upright piano against the far wall, dark wood, scuffed at the edges. A single window looks out at the neighboring tower, gray glass reflecting gray sky. The air smells faintly of dust and cleaning solution.

Taiga steps inside. Hokuto follows.

The door clicks shut behind them.

And they’re alone.

The first time since the date. Since the agreement. Since he said time and Hokuto said casual and they both pretended that meant something simple.

His hand tightens on the strap of his bag. The room feels smaller than it should.

When he turns around, Hokuto has already settled. He’s sitting on the floor. Back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him, notebook open on his thigh. His glasses catch the fluorescent light.

He looks up. Smiles. The same smile from the lecture hall. “Don’t mind me.” He pulls out a pen. "I have reading I should have done last week anyway."

Taiga blinks.

That’s it. That’s all Hokuto does. He doesn’t make it weird. Doesn’t look at him like he's waiting for something. He just starts reading.

Taiga stands there a second longer than he should. The weight in his chest loosens, just slightly.

He sits on the piano bench and sets his hands on his knees. The keyboard waits.

He stares at them. His fingers don’t move.

Because instead of thinking about his jury piece for finals, he’s thinking about the man sitting on the floor behind him. The soft sound of his pen moving across paper. The rhythm of his breathing.

Taiga closes his eyes. Focus.

July. Jury. He has to pick a piece.

The deadline isn’t for another few weeks, but Mori expects something finalized by next week. A single work.

Taiga hasn’t thought about it once. Not once. Not a single moment spent considering repertoire, which is insane. This is the exam that determines whether he advances to third-year standing. Fail it, and he’s stuck repeating. Fail it badly, and Mori might finally give up on him.

He should have something ready. A Chopin ballad. A Beethoven sonata. Something with enough weight to prove that he’s not just coasting on old reputation.

Instead, he’s been distracted.

Taiga glances over his shoulder.

Hokuto is still there. Legs stretched out, notebook balanced on one raised knee. His glasses have slipped slightly down his nose, and he pushes them up with the back of his hand without looking up from the page. His lips move soundlessly while he reads, forming the words like he’s tasting them.

He catalogs the habits without meaning to. The way Hokuto tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. The way his thumb traces the edge of the page before he turns it. The way the light from the window catches the mole on his upper lip.

Hokuto looks up.

Their eyes meet.

Something hot and stupid floods his face. He turns back to the piano so fast he nearly cracks his neck. The heat spreads from his cheeks to his ears, and he wants to crawl into the soundboard and disappear.

Taiga stares at the keys. At his hands. At anything except the mirror above the piano that probably shows exactly how red his face is.

The air between them stretches. He can feel Hokuto’s eyes on the back of his head. The silence presses against his eardrums.

“Do you need help with anything?”

Hokuto’s voice is soft and careful. Like he's approaching a stray cat that might bolt.

Taiga keeps staring at the keyboard. His throat works. He should say no. Say he’s fine, about to warm up, nothing to worry about.

“Yeah.” The word comes out before he can stop it. He doesn’t turn around. “I haven’t picked my jury piece yet.”

Taiga hears Hokuto stand before he sees him. The rustle of his jacket, the soft thump of his notebook closing. Footsteps cross the room. Then Hokuto is beside the piano. Leaning against the curve of it, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

He keeps his eyes on the keys.

“Is there a piece,” Hokuto says, “that means something to you?”

Taiga frowns. “What do you mean?”

“The one you play when no one's listening. The one that feels like coming home.”

The question sits in the air between them. Taiga doesn’t have an answer. He’s never thought about music that way. Piano was always about proving something. To his parents, to Mori, to the audience. To himself, maybe, though that never worked out. Every piece he learned was chosen for its difficulty, its prestige, its ability to make people’s eyes go wide when he hit the final chord.

Taiga opens his mouth to say as much. A sharp “What’s your point?” comes out instead.

Hokuto doesn’t flinch. The man has the patience of a saint, or maybe he’s just gotten used to Taiga. “That is the point.” His voice stays soft and even. “You’re asking what you should play for a jury, and you’re thinking about what will impress them. I’m asking what you’d play if they weren’t watching.”

Taiga stares at him.

Hokuto stares back. No judgment. Just that quiet, steady attention.

“Can I sit next to you?”

Taiga gives a short nod before he can second-guess it.

Hokuto moves around the piano bench and settles beside him. The bench is built for one person, maybe two if they’re comfortable with each other. Hokuto is close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating off his arm.

Taiga doesn’t shift away.

Hokuto looks down at the keys. “When I was in middle school, I played my first flute solo with the orchestra. Chaminade’s Concertino.”

He knows the piece. A showpiece for flutists. Technical, lyrical, demanding.

“I was terrified.” Hokuto laughs a little. “I spent the entire week before the concert convinced I was going to forget the fingering in the cadenza. I had an anxiety attack in the bathroom right before we went on stage.”

“And?”

“And I went on stage anyway. Because the conductor looked at me and said, ‘The orchestra will carry you if you fall.’” Hokuto touches a key on the piano, but doesn’t press it. “I played it. I was shaking the whole time. But I heard the strings underneath me, and the woodwinds breathing in the rests, and I realized something.”

Taiga doesn’t say anything. Just waits.

“That I liked it. Playing with other people. Being part of something bigger than just my own sound. It made the fear worth it.” Hokuto looks at him. “I’m playing it for my jury. The same piece. Not because it’s the hardest or the most prestigious, but because it reminds me why I started.”

The words settle into Taiga’s chest. Something he doesn’t want to name.

He thinks about the vision he saw. The one where future-Hokuto quit the Tokyo Philharmonic. Gave up a career in the symphony to teach high school. So he could support him.

Future-Taiga. The pianist who took and took until there was nothing left to give.

The guilt hits like a punch to the sternum.

He looks down at his hands. They’re perfectly still on his knees.

This man will give up everything for him. His career. The orchestra. The thing that reminds him why he started. And he’ll let him, because in that timeline, he’s selfish enough to let him.

He swallows.

“Taiga?”

The voice pulls him back. He realizes he’s been silent too long. Hokuto is watching him, something careful in his gaze.

Taiga stares at the keys.

Something just his. Not chosen for difficulty or prestige or the way it makes people’s mouths drop open.

He can’t remember the last time he chose a piece that way.

But he remembers the first.

First year of middle school. He had a crush on a senior. Third-year, tennis club, hair that fell into his eyes when he served. Stupid. The kind of stupid that only happens when you’re thirteen and don’t know any better.

There was a talent show. He signed up without telling anyone. His parents thought he was doing it for the resume. His teacher thought he was practicing for competition season.

He chose Liebesträume. All three nocturnes. The full set.

It was impressive, and Liszt’s name carried weight, but he didn’t choose it for those.

He chose it because the first one opens like a sigh. Because the third one builds to something that feels like standing on the edge of a cliff and jumping off. Because he wanted the senior to hear it and know, without him having to say a word, that he was in love with him.

He practiced for weeks. Memorized every phrase. The way the left hand carries the melody in the second nocturne, the way the right hand answers like a conversation. He imagined the senior in the audience. Imagined him listening.

He didn’t come. He had a girlfriend. He spent that evening with her at some festival in Shibuya. He found out the next day through the rumor mill, the way you find out everything when you’re thirteen and desperate.

But the performance. He played it anyway. Sat down at the piano in the school auditorium and played all three nocturnes. Played it like he meant it, even though the person he meant it for wasn’t there.

And for those fifteen minutes, he wasn’t thinking about technique or judging or what anyone thought. He was just playing. The way he did before competitions became a cage. Before London. Before he learned to hate the sound of his own hands.

It was the first time he felt free.

He hasn’t thought about that in years.

He doesn’t tell Hokuto any of this. Not the crush. Not the failure. Not the way he sat in the auditorium afterward, hands shaking, knowing no one had really heard him.

But he looks at the keys. And he thinks about the way his fingers felt when they moved through those nocturnes. The weight of each chord. The space between the notes.

“Yeah.” His voice comes out rough. He clears his throat. “There’s one.”

He sets his hands on the keys. He doesn’t check the music stand. Doesn’t warm up. He just plays.

The first nocturne opens in C major. A melody that sounds like someone exhaling after a long day. His left hand finds the pattern without thinking. His right hand follows.

The room disappears.

The soundproof walls. The fluorescent hum. The dust. Hokuto beside him, though he can feel him there, still and quiet. None of it matters.

Taiga plays through the first nocturne. The second one modulates into E major, like a conversation you don’t want to end. His fingers remember everything. The reach of each interval. The weight of each chord. The way the melody doubles back on itself before falling into resolution.

The third nocturne is the one everyone knows. The famous one. The one that builds and builds until it breaks open into something desperate and aching.

He plays it like he’s thirteen again. Like he’s playing for a boy who never showed up. Like he has nothing to lose and everything to prove and none of it matters because the music is the point.

His hands move. The final chord rings out. The sound hangs in the air, slowly decaying into silence.

He doesn’t lift his hands from the keys.

The silence stretches. He can hear his own uneven breathing. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears.

Taiga turns.

Hokuto is looking at him. His expression is open. Unguarded. His eyes are bright, and his mouth is parted slightly, and he looks at Taiga like Taiga is something precious.

“That,” Hokuto says, voice low, “is the first time I've heard you truly play the piano.”

He doesn’t know how to reply to that. He doesn’t have words for the way Hokuto’s voice catches on the word truly. For the way his gaze makes his chest feel too tight for his ribs.

So he leans in.

And he kisses Hokuto. Not the shut-up kiss from this morning. Not the desperate kiss from last night. Something else. Something he can’t name and doesn’t want to.

Hokuto’s hand finds his jaw, thumb brushing his cheekbone. Warm. Steady.

Taiga lets himself have this. Just for a second.

Just for now.

🎹

The walk to Yugo’s place is usually fifteen minutes. Taiga knows the route by heart. Past the convenience store, under the railway bridge, through the narrow side streets where vending machines hum in silence.

Mori’s voice is still in his head.

“This peace.” He looked at his repertoire sheet like he’d handed him something fragile. “I haven’t seen you play this since you were thirteen.”

He didn’t say anything. Just stood there in the studio, hands in his pockets, watching dust float through the afternoon light.

“You played it at the school talent show,” Mori said. “Do you remember? You told me you wanted to play something that mattered. I thought you meant for your resume.” He paused and adjusted his glasses. “But you weren’t playing for an audience. You were playing for yourself. I haven’t heard that sound from you in seven years.”

The words are still sitting in his chest. He doesn’t know what to do with them.

Anzu stops at a fire hydrant, sniffs it thoroughly, then moves on. Taiga follows.

The kiss is in his head too. The one in the practice room. The one after he played. The one where Hokuto looked at him like he’d handed him something he didn’t know he was carrying.

He thought about telling Mori about the piece choice. About Hokuto sitting on the floor of the practice room, reading his textbook. About the way Hokuto looked up when he caught Taiga staring.

He didn’t. Obviously.

But he thought of it.

The heat presses down. His collar is damp. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.

He almost walks past Yugo’s building.

One moment he’s thinking about Hokuto’s hand on his jaw, and the next he’s three steps beyond the entrance. Anzu yanks back on the leash, letting out a short, sharp bark.

Taiga stops and looks up.

Yugo’s building. Gray concrete. Bicycle rack out front with a few rusted frames. The potted bamboo by the door that someone keeps forgetting to water.

He walked right past it.

Anzu sits at his feet, looking up at him like he’s an idiot. She’s not wrong.

He walks back to the intercom and presses the button for Yugo’s unit.

A crackle. Then Yugo’s voice, slightly tinny through the speaker. “Yeah?”

“It’s me.”

A pause. Then the buzzer sounds, and the lock clicks open.

Taiga pushes through the door. The lobby is marginally cooler than outside, which isn’t saying much. A single ceiling fan rotates slowly, doing nothing.

Anzu trots ahead of him toward the stairs, her claws clicking on the tile.

He follows.

The stairs feel longer than they should. By the time he reaches the third floor, he’s regretting every cigarette he’s ever smoked. His lungs are burning, and sweat is gathering at the back of his neck.

Yugo’s door is the second one on the left. He can hear music through it. Something with a bass line he doesn’t recognize.

He rings the bell.

The music cuts. Footsteps. The door swings open, and Yugo is standing there in a faded t-shirt and gym shorts, hair still damp from a shower.

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at Taiga, then down at Anzu.

She yips. Wags her whole body.

Yugo bends down and scoops her up like she weighs nothing. She licks his chin. He grins at her, then looks at him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Taiga steps past Yugo into the entranceway and starts working on his shoes.

Yugo is already walking into the living room, Anzu tucked under one arm, talking to her in his baby voice. “Did you walk all the way here in the heat, little one? Are you tired? Are you a good girl?”

She licks his face again.

Taiga stands up straight and takes in the apartment.

It’s a mess. Not dirty, but lived-in. Cluttered. A leather jacket draped over the back of a chair that doesn’t belong to Yugo. Running shoes kicked off by the couch, sizes too big for his feet. A guitar pick on the coffee table. A hoodie bunched up on the armrest.

Jesse’s stuff. Everywhere.

Taiga moves to the couch and sits. The cushions sink lower than he expects. He runs his hand over the fabric, feeling the worn spot where someone always sits.

“It looks like Jesse practically lives here.”

Yugo sets Anzu down on the floor. She immediately starts exploring, nose to the floor, sniffing at corners. He turns toward the kitchen, opening the fridge. “He kind of does.” There’s something warm in his voice. “We’re actually talking about moving in together. Next year.”

He pulls out containers. Curry. Rice. Two glasses of lassi with condensation already beading on the sides.

Yugo says it like it’s simple. Like it’s just a fact. Like it doesn’t mean anything more than logistics and rent splits.

But Taiga catches the way Yugo holds the containers. The careful way he sets them on the counter. How he doesn't look at him when he says it, like he’s testing the words in his mouth.

He doesn’t say anything.

Yugo busies himself with the food. Plates. Utensils. A small bowl for Anzu with her treats arranged in a neat circle. The man is methodical about everything.

Taiga watches him move through his own space. The space that’s already half Jesse’s.

“You look like shit,” Yugo says, not turning around. “Eat first. Then we can talk.”

The curry is good. Taiga pushes the rice around his bowl, eating mechanically, while Anzu patrols the perimeter of the apartment.

The silence stretches. It’s Yugo’s way of letting him choose when to speak.

Taiga sets his spoon down. “Jesse moving out means Hokuto and Shintaro need to find a third roommate.”

Yugo looks up from his bowl. Chews. Swallows. “He hasn’t told them yet. It’s still a plan.”

“So they’d need someone new.”

“They could also just live together.” Yugo shrugs. “Two people in a three-bedroom. It’s not unheard of.”

Hokuto and Shintaro living together.

Just them. In that apartment with the balcony and the cramped kitchen where Hokuto makes tea and Shintaro leaves his dance bags everywhere.

Taiga doesn’t like it. He doesn’t want to think about it. Hokuto coming home to find Shintaro on the couch. Shintaro making him breakfast. Shintaro calling him Hokkun like it belongs to him.

He picks up his bowl and shoves a mouthful of rice in his mouth. Chewing gives him something to do instead of speaking.

Yugo is watching him. He can feel his gaze on the side of his face. When he glances up, Yugo has that look. The one he’s had since they were ten. The one that says he sees right through him.

“What?” he says, mouth half-full.

“Nothing.” Yugo’s tone is light, almost sing-song.

Taiga stabs a piece of chicken with his spoon and crams it in. The rice is too much. He swallows before he’s chewed properly and it sticks in his throat. He coughs. Then he’s coughing harder, hand over his mouth, eyes watering.

Yugo slides a glass of water across the table. “You okay there?”

Taiga grabs it and drinks. The water is cold and it forces the food down, leaving a raw trail in his throat. “Fine,” he manages. His voice comes out rough.

Yugo doesn’t say anything, but the corner of his mouth is twitching.

Taiga sets the glass down and stares at his half-eaten curry. Anzu pads over from the hallway, looks up at him, then settles at his feet. Her warmth presses against his ankle.

“Eat your food,” Taiga says, mostly to himself.

Yugo picks up his chopsticks, but the amusement hasn’t left his face.

The curry is gone. Taiga sets his bowl down and stares at the stained ceramic for a moment before Yugo reaches across and takes it from him.

“I got it.”

“You cooked.”

“You’re the guest.” Yugo stacks the bowls. “I wash, you dry.”

He leaves no room for argument, so Taiga doesn’t try. He finds the dish towel hanging by the sink and picks it up as Yugo turns on the tap.

For a few minutes, the only sounds are running water and the clink of ceramic. Anzu is curled on the couch, snout tucked under her tail, one ear twitching in her sleep. Her little body rises and falls in slow rhythm.

Yugo hands him a wet plate. “I asked around,” he says, not looking up from the suds.

“Asked around about what?”

“Savras2028.” He says it like it’s obvious. “I have a friend from high school who mods a few D&D forums. He’s checking the backend for me.”

Taiga stops drying. The towel goes still in his hands. “You’ve been looking into it already?”

“I said I would.” Yugo shrugs, handing him another plate. “Told him I was researching an old forum post for a project. He said he’d dig through the archives if he had time. Still waiting on a response.”

Taiga doesn’t know why that surprises him. Yugo’s always been like this. He says he’ll do something, and then he does it. There’s no gap between intention and action for him. No hesitation.

He goes back to drying. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet. It might be nothing.”

“It might not be.”

Yugo is quiet for a moment. The water runs. He scrubs a stubborn spot on the rice cooker with more force than it probably needs. “Actually,” he says. “I had another idea.”

“Another one?”

“The shrine.” He turns to look at him, hands still in the suds. “It’s got a caretaker, right? Someone who maintains the grounds.”

Taiga blinks.

“Most shrines do,” Yugo continues. “Even small ones. Someone looks after them. Cleans them. Manages the offerings.”

Taiga sets the towel down. “You want me to—”

“I’m saying whoever that person is, they’ve probably been there for years. They might know something about the shrine’s history. About why a photo taken there would…” Yugo trails off, searching for the right words. “Do what it did.”

The thought settles in Taiga’s skull like a key turning in a lock.

The shrine caretaker. He’s walked past that shrine dozens of times. But he’s never once thought about the person who ties the rope, who sweeps the leaves.

The person who might know what’s hiding there.

“Why didn’t I think of that?”

Yugo grins. “Because I’m the brains of this friendship.”

Taiga snorts. “Debatable.”

“The evidence speaks for itself.”

Yugo hands him the last bowl, and he dries it. The towel moves across the ceramic in lazy circles.

The caretaker.

It’s so obvious that it hurts.

He hangs the towel on the rack and leans against the counter. Yugo drains the sink, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“How do I even find them?” he asks. “It’s not like they have office hours.”

“You ask.” Yugo says it like it’s simple. “Go to the shrine. Leave an offering. Hang around. Someone will show up eventually.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then you go back the next day.”

Taiga thinks about it. Standing in front of the shrine again. Waiting. Like he’s the one praying for answers instead of the one who broke something inside it.

“You want me to go with you?”

That question catches him off guard. “Can you?”

“Tomorrow. I don’t have any classes.” Yugo shrugs.

Taiga’s relieved that he offered. He doesn't say it, but Yugo knows.

Then Yugo leans against the counter and crosses his arms. The switch is subtle. Almost gentle. But he’s known him long enough to recognize the shift.

“So. Tell me about the date.”

Taiga scratches the back of his neck. “I texted you this morning.”

“You told me  you kissed. Not everything.” Yugo says it like there’s a difference. “Start from the beginning.”

Taiga doesn’t want to. But Yugo is standing there with that patient look, and he cooked him curry and he’s going with him to the shrine tomorrow. He owes him something.

“It was fine.”

“Fine?”

“We got coffee. Walked around Ebisu. There was a photo exhibition. Then the movie.”

Taiga keeps it simple. Stripped down. The way he tells it, the date sounds like a series of locations connected by walking. He leaves out the way Hokuto looked in the afternoon light. The shape of his hands in the garden. The way his voice dipped when he talked about his siblings.

Yugo waits.

“There was a kiss.”

Yugo’s eyebrows go up. “One?”

“Three.” Taiga says it fast, hoping that Yugo will let it slide.

Yugo doesn’t. His face does something complicated. Surprise, maybe. Or satisfaction. “And?”

“And what?”

“How was it?”

Taiga feels the heat crawling up his neck. He hates it. He hates that his body betrays him like this, that he can’t keep his face still when his thoughts are a mess.

“Good,” he manages roughly. He clears his throat. “It was good.”

Yugo’s smile is small. Gentle. The kind he gives when he’s happy for someone and doesn’t want to embarrass them by making it obvious.

Then the smile fades into something else. Thoughtful. He tilts his head.

“So. You and Hokuto. What does this mean?”

Taiga shrugs, trying to appear casual. “We agreed to keep things casual. No labels. No pressure.”

Yugo stares at him. “Casual,” he repeats. Like he’s testing the word’s weight.

“Yeah.”

“Hokuto.”

“I know what I said.”

Yugo shakes his head slowly. “I’ve known Hokuto for over a year now. He doesn’t do casual.”

The words land somewhere in Taiga’s chest.

“Look, I’m not saying he can’t—I’m just saying I’ve seen how he is with everyone. He gives too much. He cares too openly. Hokuto doesn’t know how to do something halfway.” Yugo says it like a fact. “If he agreed to casual—if he said yes to that—it means he wants you that badly.”

Taiga exhales. Lets the air out slow. The guilt settles in.

He told Hokuto many times. He told him he’s bad at this. He told him he doesn’t know how to be with someone without ruining it. He told him he’d hurt him.

But when Hokuto kissed him—

Taiga stops.

There's nothing after that sentence that makes sense. Just the memory of his mouth and the way he stopped thinking. The way he kissed him back like he’d been holding his breath his whole life.

Yugo is watching him. He doesn’t interrupt. He lets the silence stretch until he has to fill it.

“He knows what he’s getting into.” Taiga’s voice sounds flat. “I warned him.”

“Did you?” Yugo’s tone is gentle. That makes it worse. “Or did you tell him you’re broken and hope that was enough to scare him off?”

Taiga doesn’t answer.

“Taiga.” Taiga says his name like it costs him something. “Are you going to lead him on until you find an answer? Until you figure out what the visions mean?”

The question hits him square in the chest. He opens his mouth. Closes it.

Taiga hadn’t thought of it that way.

But that’s exactly what he's doing. He’s keeping Hokuto close enough to feel good, distant enough to stay safe. He’s using his patience as a shelf for his guilt. He’s letting him wait while he decides whether he’ll destroy him or not.

He’s quiet too long.

Yugo’s face shifts. He sees the answer in his silence.

“Fuck,” Taiga mutters.

“That’s what I thought.”

Taiga pushes off from the counter and walks to the window. He presses his palm flat against the glass. “He’s gonna die. I’m doing this because he’s gonna die.”

The silence is heavy. He hears Yugo let out a breath.

“So you’ll eventually end things with him.”

“Yeah.”

“Because if you think if you break his heart now, he won’t die.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not how fate works, Taiga.”

Taiga turns around and meets his eyes. “I don’t know how fate works. All I know is what I saw. And if being with me is what leads him to that station, at that time, to step in front of that train—then I can’t be with him.”

Yugo holds his gaze. Taiga can see him running through the possibilities. Searching for an argument, an escape, a gentler way to frame it.

He doesn’t find one.

“So you’ll break his heart now to save his life later. That’s your plan.”

Taiga nods, his jaw tight.

“Taiga.” Yugo takes a step closer. “That’s not sacrifice. That’s you deciding for him what he deserves.”

“I’m protecting him.”

“No.” His voice is sharp. “You’re protecting yourself from guilt. There’s a difference.”

Taiga opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“You don’t know if those visions are real,” Yugo continues. “You don’t know if changing the timeline works. You don’t know anything for sure. But instead of finding out, instead of talking to him about it, you’re just setting himself up for heartbreak now so you don’t have to deal with the mess later.”

“I’m trying to save his life.”

“You’re trying to save your own skin.”

The words land hard. Hard enough that Taiga feels them in his teeth.

“You’re being selfish, Taiga.” Yugo crosses his arms. “And I think you know it.”

The words are still sitting heavily in Taiga’s chest. He doesn’t have a response to them, so he does what he always does. He deflects.

“You don’t know what you’d do.”

Yugo’s jaw tightens. “Maybe not. But I know what I’d want to do.”

“That’s not the same trying.”

“It’s closer than whatever you’re doing.”

Taiga turns back to the window. The glass is warm from the afternoon sun. Outside, a delivery truck rumbles past, music blaring from an open window. Some pop song he doesn’t recognize. He watches it disappear around the corner.

“What if it was Jesse?”

The question comes out flat. He doesn’t turn around when he asks it.

“What if you had the camera? What if you took the photo? What if you saw him die—saw the exact day, the exact station, the exact train—and you knew, with absolute certainty, that staying with him was what led him there?”

He hears Yugo exhale slowly.

“What would you do?” Taiga presses.

The silence stretches. He counts the seconds. One. Two. Three.

“I’d stay.”

Taiga turns. Yugo is standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed, face unreadable.

“I’d stay,” he repeats. “And I’d make every day before that day count.”

“That’s sentimental bullshit.”

“Maybe.” Yugo shrugs. “But it’s honest.”

“You’d let him die.”

“I’d love him until he did.”

The words land in the space between them. Taiga doesn’t know what to do with them. They don’t fit into the framework that he’s built. They don’t compute.

“That’s not—” He starts, then stops. Starts again. “That’s stupid. That’s actively stupid. You’d just let fate run its course?”

“I’d choose him anyway.”

Taiga stares at him.

Yugo stares back. There’s no heat in his voice. No defiance. Just a quiet certainty that Taiga doesn’t understand. That he can’t understand.

Loving someone despite death.

Loving someone knowing it ends.

He thinks about Hokuto. His hands. His voice. The way he looked at him in the practice room like he was something worth waiting for.

And he thinks about the train. The date. The vision of Hokuto gone.

He can’t do what Yugo says. He can’t just... stay. He can’t love Hokuto knowing that he’s the reason he stops breathing.

“You don’t get it,” Taiga says.

Yugo shakes his head. “No. You don’t get it.”

Taiga doesn’t have an answer for that.