if only the light could stay

🎹

The cigarette tastes like ash and regret. Taiga drags in another breath anyway, watching smoke twist up against a washed-out sky.

11:32 a.m. Profesosr Mori’s probably calling attendance right now. Waiting for a name that won’t answer.

Third time this semester. Not that it matters.

Ash falls onto the stone path, scattering like failed notes. Around him, the courtyard moves—students cutting between buildings, clutching cases and scores like shields.

A violinist rushes past, her case thudding against her hip. No rhythm. No control.

Taiga takes out his camera. The screen catches sunlight, forces his eyes to narrow. Images flick past: shadows from the practice tower, a dancer mid-leap, the fountain throwing light like splintered glass.

All perfectly timed. Perfect exposure. Perfect nothing.

His thumb pauses on one photo—cherry blossoms scattered across wet pavement. He remembers the rain, the patience it took to wait for the light to tilt just right.

Flawless shot. Empty meaning.

Voices drift by—a group of composition majors, talking about polyrhythms and dissonance like it’s a secret language only they know. One of them laughs, sharp and confident.

The sound scrapes. Too bright.

They don’t know what pressure feels like. The kind that makes your stomach turn when your fingers touch the keys. They probably still think music’s supposed to be fun.

Taiga takes another drag. Smoke scratches down his throat. On-screen: a violin in close-up, strings caught mid-tension. Every detail precise enough to cut.

The camera had been a gift. After London. A way to “decompress.” His parents’ word, not his.

They never understand that he doesn’t want to relax. He wants to matter.

He almost laughs at the irony—skipping Piano Forum to sit in a smoking area, hiding from the class meant to keep him “connected to his artistry.” Professor Mori probably noticed. Probably wrote it down in that careful, disappointed handwriting. Probably planning another talk about potential and recovery.

As if recovery were a switch you could just flip.

A flutist passes—late, but calm about it. There’s rhythm in the way he moves. He catches the light for half a second before turning the corner.

Taiga lifts his camera, too slow. Missed it. His finger still hovers over the shutter, a reflex he can’t unlearn.

Photography’s supposed to forgive imperfection. A blur can mean intent. A shadow can hide the truth. But he still chases precision, same as always. The same rot, just in a different form.

He scrolls again. The shrine at dusk appears on the screen—empty courtyard, dark wood, balanced composition. Every line right where it should be.

Perfect. Lifeless.

The cigarette burns down to the filter. He crushes it out harder than he needs to. His phone says 12:15. Fifteen minutes until Piano Forum ends. The courtyard will fill again. The same cycle—practice, perform, pretend.

He could still make it. Slip in at the back, say he was sick. Professor Mori would nod, forgiving as ever. The others wouldn’t even look up.

But what’s the point. He’s not going back to the piano. Not really.

The camera gives him distance. Control. A way to make something without bleeding for it.

Safer.

Cowardly.

He knows the difference.

A grave of filters collects under the bench. He watches the time slide to 12:28. Two minutes until class ends. He can almost hear Professor Mori’s closing words, the polite rustle of notebooks and relief.

His phone buzzes.

Yugo: Conducting ended early. Picking up Jesse from Italian. Wanna grab lunch at the cafeteria?

He stares at the message. Can almost see Yugo’s expression—half-concern, half-command. Always noticing too much. Always trying to save people who didn’t ask for it.

The smart answer is no. Lunch means noise, questions, the usual pity. Yugo and Jesse’s ease would make his silence too obvious.

But home means the empty apartment. Anzu waiting. The piano sitting there like a wound that never closes.

Taiga: Sure.

Send. No hesitation.

He adjusts his bag and starts walking. Practice rooms hum with sound—piano scales, bow strokes, a cellist grinding through exercises. Clean, mechanical. No soul yet.

The bag presses against his shoulder. Weight he knows. The camera inside, waiting for something worth seeing. Light, reflection, anything except keys and strings.

“—heard he hasn’t touched a piano in months.”

The voices come from behind. Two vocal majors, judging by the clarity. Not whispering.

“My friend in Mori-sensei’s Forum says he just skips now.”

“Waste of talent.”

His grip on the strap tightens. He keeps walking. Their words follow anyway, echoing in the wrong kind of space.

“Remember when he used to be the next big thing? All those competitions as a kid?”

“Pride goeth before the fall, or whatever.”

“Had some breakdown in London, right?”

The last one lands deep, off-key and too familiar. His pace shifts—faster, but not enough to show it. Never running.

They don’t know anything. They didn’t see the looks, the quiet disappointment that burned worse than anger. Didn’t feel the moment he realized “exceptional” doesn’t mean anything when everyone else is too.

But they’re not wrong.

That’s the part that stings.

The cafeteria rises ahead, all glass and noise. Inside, the usual chaos—trays clattering, voices layered like bad counterpoint. He spots movement through the window that could be Yugo and Jesse, already settled somewhere, laughing at something small. Easy warmth. Too easy.

“—probably thinks he’s too good for us now.”

The voices again. Close this time.

“He carries that camera everywhere. Like that’s art.”

“At least we know who’s not playing the showcase.”

He stops walking. The doors are fifteen feet away. Close enough to vanish inside, far enough to turn back. His phone’s a weight in his pocket, waiting for him to give up.

Yugo would understand. He always does. That’s the problem.

He types before he can think too long.

Taiga: Actually feeling sick. Rain check?

Send. The lie tastes like metal, thick on his tongue.

Through the glass, Yugo’s profile catches the fluorescent light. Jesse gestures with his hands, laughing too loud. They look fine without him.

He turns away. Hands buried in his jacket, head down. The campus stretches wide—stone, glass, noise. Everything moving toward some purpose he doesn’t share. A saxophone cries from the wind hall, one note bending too far before finding itself again.

He walks past Building C, past the windows where students grind out arpeggios like machines learning to breathe. Past the dance studios where motion looks like certainty. Past everything that still believes in progress.

The older part of campus feels quieter. Stone gives way to brick, clean lines replaced by rough age. The sound drops off until it’s just wind through leaves. He can almost hear his pulse again.

“Kyomoto-kun.”

The voice stops him.

Professor Mori stands by a stone bench, folder under his arm, posture too straight for the hour. Hair neat. Suit pressed. Always composed.

Taiga bows slightly. Reflex. “Sensei. I was just—”

“Walking,” Professor Mori finishes. “I can see that. Your recovery seems timed perfectly with the end of Piano Forum.”

Heat rises behind Taiga’s ears. “I had a headache.” The words come out thin.

Professor Mori gestures to the bench. “Sit.”

Not a suggestion.

Taiga sits, camera bag balanced like a barrier across his knees.

The folder opens—attendance sheets, notes, red marks where his name should mean effort.

“Three absences,” Professor Mori says quietly. “Four late submissions. Missed your jury prep.” Each line hits with practiced calm, more effective than anger.

Taiga stares at his hands. Pale. Unused. Fingers too soft.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Professor Mori says. “That I don’t understand. That London was… different.”

“I—”

“Let me finish.” His voice stays gentle. Precise. “When you left, you were remarkable. Gifted. But talent without discipline is noise.”

Taiga’s jaw tightens. “I’m not the same person I was.”

“No,” Professor Mori says. “But you’re not nothing either.”

The words land harder than they should. He looks down, pretending to adjust his bag. The weight of the camera presses into his thigh, solid, grounding.

“You have Aoyama-sensei’s Keyboard Skills tomorrow,” Mori continues. “He’s willing to help you catch up.”

“I don’t need—”

“You do.” The tone sharpens just enough to end the discussion. “Unless you’re withdrawing. I can arrange that.”

Withdrawal. The official kind of failure. The end of all pretense.

Professor Mori looks up suddenly. “Ah, Tanaka-kun!”

Footsteps approach. A lean student with easy posture and ash-brown hair strolls toward them. Expression unreadable, somewhere between polite and amused.

“Perfect timing,” Professor Mori says, lifting his voice. “Come here a moment.”

The student stops beside the bench. His eyes flick over the folder, then to Taiga. Sharp. Curious.

“Mori-sensei,” he says, bowing. His voice roughened by use, like someone who doesn’t rest enough.

“I’d like you to meet Kyomoto Taiga,” Mori says. “Second-year, just back from studying abroad. Taiga, this is Tanaka Juri, second-year piano, just like you.”

Recognition flashes in Juri’s eyes—quick, contained. Everyone knows the story by now.

“Kyomoto,” Juri says, almost smiling. “Yeah. Heard of you.”

Could mean anything. With that expression, probably everything.

“You share classes,” Mori continues. “Music History, Keyboard Skills, Performance. Tanaka-kun, I’d like you to help him readjust.”

Taiga opens his mouth, but Juri’s faster.

“Sure,” he says. “Happy to.”

The smirk doesn’t leave his voice.

“Good.” Mori closes the folder with a soft thud. “Kyomoto-kun, I expect Aoyama-sensei to report your attendance tomorrow. Tanaka-kun, show him the new room sign-up system.”

And just like that, he’s gone. Suit crisp, steps certain.

Silence settles. The kind that hums at the edge of sound.

Juri leans back on the bench, watching him. “London didn’t work out?”

Direct. Not cruel.

“Something like that,” Taiga says, standing. The camera bag bumps against his hip. “I should go.”

“Music History’s Friday, 11:30!” Juri calls after him. “In case you forgot.”

Taiga doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. The smirk still sits in his mind long after he’s gone.

The path turns quiet the farther he walks. The newer buildings fade behind him, replaced by older brick, rougher edges. Stone lanterns line the walkway, their surfaces worn smooth. The air feels heavier here—less performance, more breath.

The sound of the conservatory thins out until it’s just leaves and wind. He lets the silence fill his head, lets it hum the way a note does after it’s stopped being played.

The shrine waits around the bend. Faded vermillion gate, cedar trees closing in like sentries. It feels detached from the rest of campus—older, maybe wiser. A place untouched by constant striving.

He stops just before the gate, fingers already finding his camera. Light filters through the branches, breaking into shifting patches on the path. Shadows move like slow water. He watches for the angle that feels right.

Maybe that’s all he’s good at now—framing things other people still believe in.

He doesn’t pray. Never has. But the air here feels still enough to make even disbelief hesitate.

The shrine looks smaller than he remembered. Someone once told him its name—Futodama. A place for divination, for finding hidden truths.

He’d laughed at that before. Now the idea sits heavier. Hidden truths. What would he even do with them?

A plaque stands near the altar, carved and nearly erased by time. He squints to read it.

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

Poetic nonsense. The kind that sounds deep if you say it slowly enough.

Still, the phrasing catches on something inside him.

He lifts the camera. Through the lens, the world tightens into symmetry. The shrine becomes deliberate—lines leading to silence, light drawing across old wood like memory. The nearby tree roots into the stone, tangled but sure.

He crouches, adjusts the frame. Breathes once.

Click.

Perfect exposure. Balanced contrast. Everything exactly where it should be.

He lowers the camera, thumb pressing to review. The screen lights up—his shot, frozen clean.

But something in it moves.

The light bends wrong, refracting in shapes that weren’t there. The shadows pulse, shifting across the shrine’s steps. His thumb hesitates over the delete button.

The brightness expands, bleeding over the frame. Color dissolves.

Then the shrine is gone.

He’s in an apartment. Unfamiliar but familiar. Sunlight falls through tall windows. His photographs hang on the walls—framed, centered, too perfect. A piano sits in the corner, lid open. Music scattered across the bench like someone’s mid-rehearsal.

His hands look older. Lines across his palms deeper, solid.

A calendar on the wall reads October 2030.

Fifteen years forward.

He’s in front of a mirror. Holding a ring. Plain gold, warm from his hand. Inside, an inscription he can’t quite read. His reflection looks steady. Almost happy.

The apartment feels lived-in. Two mugs on the counter. A flute case beside the camera bag. Sheet music on the piano with two sets of handwriting.

Home. The word comes without invitation.

The phone rings.

He answers before realizing he’s moved.

“Hello?”

A man’s voice—official, careful. The kind that rehearses bad news. “Is this Kyomoto Taiga-sama?”

“Yes.”

“Are you Matsumura Hokuto-sama’s husband?”

The name strikes something in him—bright and distant. Recognition he can’t touch. Important.

“Yes.”

“I’m calling from Tokyo Metropolitan Hospital. There’s been an accident.”

The words slide into noise. Train platform. A mother and child. Someone jumped to save them. A hero.

Didn’t survive.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Kyomoto-san. He died instantly.”

The phone falls. The ring burns around his finger.

Hokuto.

The name lingers like the last note of something too beautiful to continue.

And then the world shatters.

He’s back on the ground by the maple tree. Camera shaking in his hands. The LCD shows the same shrine photo, still and harmless. No light, no distortion.

The air cuts cold against his skin. Sweat beads his forehead. His heart refuses to slow.

The ring is gone, but his hand still aches where it should be.

What the fuck was that?

🪈

The afternoon light filters through the Yoshikawa family’s living room windows, casting gentle shadows across the tatami mats. Hokuto sits cross-legged beside Junko, his flute resting across his knees as he watches her struggle through the opening measures of Claire de Lune.

Her fingers fumble over the keys, and she stops abruptly, lowering the instrument with a frustrated sigh. “I’m sorry, Matsumura-sensei,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “I keep messing up the same passage.”

Hokuto’s chest tightens at the apology. The words are too familiar. He adjusts his glasses and offers her a gentle smile. “You don’t need to apologize,” he says softly. “Music isn’t about perfection. It’s about expression.”

Junko glances up at him, her dark eyes uncertain. She’s sixteen, with the kind of earnest determination that reminds him painfully of himself at that age. “But the talent show is in two weeks,” she says. “What if I mess up in front of everyone?”

Hokuto picks up his own flute, turning it over in his hands. The metal is warm from the afternoon air. “Let me show you something,” he says. “Don’t worry about the notes for a moment. Just listen.”

He brings the instrument to his lips and plays the troublesome passage, but slowly, deliberately imperfect. He lets his breath waver slightly, allows a note to fall just shy of pitch. The melody becomes something softer, more human.

“You see?” he says, lowering the flute. “Even with mistakes, the music still has meaning. Sometimes the imperfections make it more beautiful.”

Junko nods, though doubt still lingers in her expression. She raises her flute again, and this time when she plays, Hokuto notices the way her shoulders relax slightly. The passage isn’t perfect—there’s still a stumble in the third measure—but something shifts in her tone. Less rigid. More alive.

“Better,” Hokuto murmurs. “Much better.”

They work through the piece together, Hokuto offering gentle corrections and encouragement. He finds himself thinking of his own high school years, practicing alone in his bedroom while his parents argued downstairs. No one had ever sat with him like this. He’d learned technique from books and videos, but the emotional language of music—that had come later, carved out in solitude.

“Matsumura-sensei?” Junko’s voice pulls him back to the present. “How do you make it sound so… sad? Even when it’s supposed to be pretty?”

The question catches him off guard. He blinks, processing her words. “Sad?”

“When you play, it always sounds like you’re remembering something important. Something that hurts.”

Hokuto’s fingers tighten around his flute. He hadn’t realized his emotions bled through so clearly, even in these simple lessons. “I guess,” he says carefully, “all music carries some memory. The beautiful and the painful, they’re often the same thing.”

Junko considers this, her young face serious. “My mom says I should play happier pieces. But I like the sad ones better.”

“Then play the sad ones,” Hokuto tells her. “Don’t let anyone convince you to hide what you feel.”

They practice for another twenty minutes, until Junko’s mother appears in the doorway with a warm smile and the scent of dinner preparation clinging to her apron.

“Junko-chan, go wash up,” Mrs. Yoshikawa says. “Dinner will be ready soon.” She turns to Hokuto with genuine appreciation in her eyes. “Matsumura-kun, thank you so much. Her confidence has improved so much since you started teaching her.”

Hokuto stands, carefully packing his flute into its case. “She’s naturally talented. She just needed someone to believe in her.”

Mrs. Yoshikawa reaches into her purse, pulling out an envelope. “For today’s lesson,” she says, then hesitates. “And a little extra. For being so patient with her.”

Hokuto stares at the envelope. His first instinct is to refuse. He doesn’t need charity, doesn’t want to feel like his kindness is something that requires additional payment.

But his bank account balance flashes through his mind, the careful calculations of rent and groceries and train fare home to Shizuoka on holidays.

“You don’t need to—” he starts.

“Please,” Mrs. Yoshikawa insists, pressing the envelope into his hands. “You’re doing so much more than teaching technique. You’re teaching her to believe in herself.”

The weight of the extra bills feels heavier than it should. Hokuto accepts the envelope with a quiet “Thank you,” hating how the money makes him feel. As if his care for Junko is a service he provides rather than something genuine.

He gathers his things and follows Mrs. Yoshikawa to the entranceway, where he slips on his shoes. The apartment feels warm around him, filled with the comfortable chaos of family life. Textbooks scattered on the kitchen table. A child’s drawing stuck to the refrigerator with colorful magnets. The lingering smell of home-cooked meals.

It should remind him of Shizuoka, of the house where his siblings still wait for his weekly phone calls. But standing here in this gentle domestic space, Hokuto feels only distance. The Yoshikawa home is what his never was. Mrs. Yoshikawa doesn’t praise Junko's achievements to reflect well on herself. She simply wants her daughter to be happy.

“Same time next week?” Mrs. Yoshikawa asks.

“Of course,” Hokuto replies, bowing slightly. “Tell Junko she should practice the middle section, but not too much. Just until it feels comfortable.”

He steps into the hallway, the apartment door closing softly behind him. The envelope crinkles in his jacket pocket as he walks toward the elevator, each step carrying him further from the warmth he can observe but never quite belong to.

The evening air carries the faint scent of autumn as Hokuto walks toward the train station, his flute case slung across his shoulder. He pulls out his phone, the screen lighting up with a small collection of notifications.

The first is from a group chat called “Matsumura Kids”—a name Yuina had insisted on when she’d created it last year. Three little dots appear and disappear as someone types, then Masaya’s message comes through in his characteristic burst of enthusiasm.

Masaya [5:47 PM]: Hoku-nii!! I passed my math test!! The one I was worried about!!

Yuina [5:48 PM]: Show off 😏 But seriously, congrats little bro

Masaya [5:48 PM]: Yuina-nee helped me study. She's way better at explaining than Dad

Hokuto’s fingers hover over the keyboard. The familiar weight of responsibility settles on his shoulders. Even from Tokyo, even through a screen, his siblings still turn to each other in ways that make him feel both proud and hollow. Yuina shouldn’t have to be the one helping Masaya with homework. That should be their parents’ job.

Hokuto [5:49 PM]: That’s amazing, Masaya. I’m proud of you both.

Hokuto [5:49 PM]: How are things at home?

The typing indicator appears under Yuina’s name, then disappears. Appears again. Hokuto knows that hesitation well. It’s the same one he uses when crafting responses that won’t worry anyone.

Yuina [5:51 PM]: Same as always. Mom’s tired. Dad’s working late again.

Yuina [5:51 PM]: We’re fine, Hoku-nii. Focus on your studies.

The gentle dismissal stings, though he knows she means it kindly. Yuina has learned to be as self-sufficient as he once taught her to be, and now that independence feels like distance.

He types and deletes several responses before settling on something neutral.

Hokuto [5:52 PM]: Call if you need anything. Either of you.

He switches to the other group chat—“Tokyo Chaos”—where a single message waits.

Jesse [5:35 PM]: Hokutooooo can you grab soy sauce on your way home? Yugo’s here making gyudon and we’re out 😭

Jesse [5:36 PM]: I’ll pay you back! Promise!

Despite everything, Hokuto finds himself smiling slightly. Jesse’s enthusiasm feels uncomplicated, free from the careful politeness that characterizes most of his interactions. It’s a relief to be needed for something simple—soy sauce instead of emotional support, groceries instead of guidance.

Hokuto [5:52 PM]: Of course. The usual brand?

Jesse [5:53 PM]: You’re the BEST!! Yes please 🙏

A private message notification appears as he's putting his phone away, and he sees Shintaro’s name across the top.

Shintaro [5:54 PM]: Hokkun!! Are you coming home soon? I want to show you something

Shintaro [5:54 PM]: Nothing bad! Just... you’ll see

The earnest excitement in the messages reminds him so strongly of Masaya that his chest tightens. Shintaro has that same boundless energy. When Hokuto had first moved in with Jesse and Shintaro at the beginning of his second year, the transition from solitude to shared space had been jarring. His first year in Tokyo had been spent in a tiny studio apartment, where he could control every sound, every interaction, every moment of his day.

Living with Jesse meant laughter at unexpected hours, friends dropping by without warning, and the constant warm chaos of someone who treated the apartment like a gathering place rather than a refuge. Adding Shintaro to the mix had only amplified that energy. Suddenly there was dance music bleeding through the walls, impromptu cooking experiments, and the kind of easy affection Hokuto had forgotten existed.

It had taken over a month to realize that their presence wasn’t an intrusion. It was something closer to family.

Hokuto [5:55 PM]: On my way to the store now. Home in ten minutes.

Shintaro [5:55 PM]: YES!! 🏃💨

The grocery store’s fluorescent lights hum overhead as Hokuto makes his way through the narrow aisles, the familiar rhythm of his footsteps against linoleum somehow grounding. He finds the condiment section easily. Jesse and Yugo have particular preferences, and after months of shared meals, he knows their small domestic preferences by heart. The dark soy sauce, not the light. The brand with the red label that Yugo insists makes all the difference in his cooking.

Hokuto picks up the bottle. Such a simple request, but it carries the comfortable assumption that he’ll be there, that he’s part of the small ecosystem of their shared apartment. The thought should bring him warmth, but instead, it settles somewhere deeper—a quiet ache he can’t quite name.

The checkout lines stretch toward the back of the store, evening shoppers clutching their baskets with the weary determination of people fulfilling daily obligations. Hokuto chooses the shorter line, pulling out his phone to check for any new messages while he waits.

The woman ahead of him shifts from foot to foot, her gray hair pulled back in a neat bun that’s beginning to loosen. She’s perhaps in her seventies, wearing a simple cardigan that looks hand-knitted, and her cart contains the careful selections of someone shopping for a family for a week.

She reaches the cashier, a young man with tired eyes who begins scanning her items with mechanical efficiency.

“That’ll be 4,847 yen,” he says, his voice carrying the practiced politeness of someone near the end of a long shift.

The woman opens her small purse, and Hokuto watches her expression shift from calm to confusion to something approaching panic. Her hands fumble through the contents—a handkerchief, some receipts, a small tube of lip balm—but no wallet.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice growing smaller. “I thought… I was sure I brought my wallet.”

The cashier’s expression remains neutral, but there's a flicker of impatience in his eyes. Behind the woman, the line begins to grow restless. Someone sighs audibly.

“Would you like me to hold these items while you check again?” the cashier asks, reaching for the grocery bag he’d just finished packing.

The woman's hands shake slightly as she continues searching her purse. “I don’t understand. I always bring my wallet. I...” She trails off, and Hokuto can see the way her shoulders curve inward, making her seem smaller.

Something in her posture reminds him of his mother during her difficult periods—that same lost quality, the confusion that comes when the familiar suddenly becomes foreign. The difference is that this woman has no one standing beside her, no son automatically stepping forward to fill the gaps.

Hokuto moves before he’s fully decided to, stepping out of his place in line and approaching her gently. “Excuse me,” he says, his voice soft enough not to startle her. “I couldn’t help but notice… would you allow me to help?”

The woman looks at him, her eyes widening with surprise and something that might be embarrassment. “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly—”

“Please,” Hokuto says, already reaching into his jacket pocket for the envelope Mrs. Yoshikawa had given him. The bills inside represent more than just payment for today’s lesson. They’re his train fare home, his contribution to rent and groceries, the small buffer that lets him sleep a little easier at night.

But looking at this woman’s face, seeing the way she clutches her empty purse like it might reveal its secrets if she just tries hard enough, those calculations feel suddenly meaningless.

“I really can’t accept that,” the woman says, her voice gaining strength through her protest. “You don’t even know me.”

“You don’t need to know someone to help them,” Hokuto replies, and the words come out more certain than he feels. He pulls out enough bills to cover her groceries.

The cashier watches this exchange with professional patience, clearly accustomed to the small dramas that play out in checkout lines. Behind them, the other customers seem equally familiar with waiting, their irritation transforming into something softer as they realize what’s happening.

“But I should pay you back,” the woman insists, her hands fluttering between her purse and Hokuto’s outstretched money. “If you could give me your phone number, or your address—”

“There’s no need,” Hokuto says, gently pressing the bills toward the cashier. “Really.”

“But—”

“My grandmother always said that kindness should move in circles,” he tells her, though it's not something his grandmother ever said. She’d died when he was too young to remember her voice. The words come from somewhere deeper, from the kind of person he wishes he’d had watching over him. “Maybe someday you’ll help someone else, and that will be enough.”

The woman’s eyes fill with tears, though she blinks them back quickly. “You’re very kind,” she whispers. “Too kind.”

The cashier takes the money with efficient movements, counting out change that Hokuto waves away. The woman accepts her grocery bag with trembling hands, looking up at Hokuto as if trying to memorize his face.

“Thank you,” she says simply. “I won’t forget this.”

She walks away slowly. Hokuto watches until she disappears through the automatic doors, carrying her small bag of groceries into the evening air.

“Next,” the cashier calls, and Hokuto realizes he’s been standing there, still holding the soy sauce.

He moves to the adjacent checkout line—the one that had been longer when he’d first arrived but now seems to move more quickly. As he waits, he feels the familiar weight of the envelope in his pocket, significantly lighter now. The money he’d just spent represents a choice—between his own security and a stranger’s dignity.

It’s the kind of choice he’s been making his whole life, but usually for people who expect it from him. His siblings, his parents, his students. This feels different somehow. Cleaner.

The cashier scans his single item—353 yen for the soy sauce—and Hokuto pays from his wallet. The receipt crinkles as he folds it into his pocket, and he steps out into the cooling evening air.

The walk home feels lighter despite the money he’s just given away. Jesse will be grateful for the soy sauce, Yugo will cook something that fills their apartment with warmth and the sound of easy conversation. Shintaro will show him whatever he’s been so excited about—probably a new dance combination he’s been working on, or maybe just a funny video he wants to share.

These small domestic rhythms, the way his friends fold him into their lives without question or condition—it’s not something he’s learned to trust completely. But walking through the Tokyo streets with his single grocery bag, thinking about the woman who won’t have to explain to anyone why she came home empty-handed tonight, Hokuto allows himself to believe, just for a moment, that sometimes kindness is its own reward.

🪈

The familiar scent of mirin hits Hokuto as soon as he opens the apartment door, warm and savory in a way that makes his shoulders relax without him realizing they’d been tense. The sound of Jesse’s laughter carries from the kitchen, followed by Yugo’s half-hearted protest and the gentle sizzle of onions in a pan.

“Finally!” Shintaro’s voice rings out from the common area, where he’s arranging mismatched bowls and chopsticks on their low coffee table. “I was starting to think you got lost between here and the grocery store.”

Hokuto slips off his shoes, placing them neatly beside Jesse’s paint-splattered sneakers and Shintaro’s flip-flops. “Sorry!” he calls back, pulling the soy sauce from his bag. “The line was longer than usual.”

The lie sits easily on his tongue—easier than explaining about the elderly woman, easier than watching Jesse and Yugo exchange that look they get when they think he’s being too generous again. Some truths are better kept small and private.

“Hokuto!” Jesse’s voice carries relief and something else—probably mischief, judging by the way Yugo’s protests have intensified. “Perfect timing. Yugo was just saying how much he missed you.”

“I was not!” Yugo replies, but his voice carries warmth despite the exasperation. “I was wondering what took you so long.”

Hokuto rounds the corner into the kitchen and finds exactly what he expected: Jesse pressed against Yugo’s back, arms wrapped around his waist while Yugo tries to stir the gyudon with Jesse’s chin resting on his shoulder. The pot steams gently, filling the small kitchen with the rich smell of beef and onions.

“Here’s your soy sauce,” Hokuto says, setting the bottle on the counter beside Yugo’s elbow.

“Thanks,” Yugo says, then immediately yelps as Jesse nips at his ear. “Jesse, I’m cooking! Do you want dinner or do you want to starve?”

“I want both,” Jesse says with a grin that Hokuto can hear even though he can’t see it. “Dinner and this.” He tightens his arms around Yugo’s waist, swaying slightly so they both move together.

Yugo’s face flushes pink, visible even in profile. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans back slightly into Jesse’s embrace, just for a moment, before straightening up to tend to the rice cooker.

Hokuto has witnessed this dance between them countless times—Jesse’s easy affection meeting Yugo’s shy pleasure, the way they orbit each other like binary stars. Two years together, and Yugo still blushes when Jesse kisses him in front of others, still gets flustered by public displays of affection that Jesse treats as naturally as breathing.

“How much longer?” Shintaro calls from the common area, his voice accompanied by the sound of chopsticks being dropped and hastily picked up. “I’ve been smelling that for the past twenty minutes and I’m literally dying.”

“You’re not literally dying,” Hokuto says, moving to help with the table settings. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Same thing,” Shintaro replies cheerfully. He’s arranged their four bowls in a rough square around the coffee table, each one a different size and pattern—remnants from their individual moves to Tokyo, never quite matching but somehow fitting together anyway.

Shintaro bounces slightly as he works, adjusting and readjusting the placement of napkins that came from three different restaurants. His energy fills the small space like music turned up too loud, enthusiastic and slightly overwhelming but undeniably sincere.

“Did you have a good lesson today?” Shintaro asks, flopping down beside the table and immediately popping back up to rearrange the chopsticks. “That kid you teach—Junko-chan, right? Is she still terrified of making mistakes?”

“She’s getting better,” Hokuto says, settling onto one of the floor cushions. The fabric is worn soft from use, familiar against his legs. “She played Clair de Lune today. Almost the whole piece without stopping.”

“That’s awesome!” Shintaro’s smile is bright and genuine, the kind that makes Hokuto remember why he finds the younger student’s energy endearing rather than exhausting. “I bet you’re a great teacher. Patient and stuff.”

From the kitchen comes the sound of the rice cooker’s completion chime, followed by Jesse’s delighted “Perfect timing!” and Yugo’s resigned sigh as Jesse presumably steals another kiss.

“Food’s ready,” Yugo announces, his voice slightly breathless. “Jesse, can you please let me carry the pot without you attached to me?”

“Reluctantly,” Jesse replies, but Hokuto hears him step away, followed by the soft sound of cabinets opening and closing.

Shintaro perks up at the announcement, practically vibrating with anticipation. “Finally! I was starting to think about eating my own choreography notes.”

“Please don’t,” Hokuto says mildly. “I don’t think they’re very nutritious.”

The apartment fills with the comfortable chaos of dinnertime—Yugo carrying the steaming pot to the table while Jesse follows with a serving spoon and his usual commentary about how amazing Yugo looks when he cooks, Shintaro immediately reaching for his chopsticks before being reminded to wait for everyone else, the familiar rhythm of four people sharing space and food and the easy intimacy of chosen family.

Hokuto settles more comfortably against his cushion, the envelope in his pocket lighter but somehow less important now. The elderly woman is probably home by now, her groceries put away, her small crisis resolved. The kindness has moved forward, just like he’d told her it should.

Yugo ladles the gyudon into their bowls with practiced precision, the steam rising in gentle wisps that catch the lamplight. The beef glistens dark and savory over the white rice, topped with translucent onions that have gone sweet from cooking.

Hokuto accepts his bowl with a quiet “thank you,” the ceramic warm against his palms.

“So,” Jesse says around a mouthful of rice, “how was everyone’s day? Shintaro, did you survive modern dance without pulling anything?”

Shintaro grins, already halfway through his first bowl. “Barely. Moriya-sensei made us work on this sequence that’s basically impossible unless you’re made of rubber. I think I left half my dignity on the studio floor.”

“Your dignity was questionable to begin with,” Yugo says mildly, earning himself a thrown napkin from Shintaro.

The conversation flows easily—Shintaro complaining about his technique class, Jesse sharing stories from vocal coaching, Hokuto mentioning Junko’s progress. The familiar rhythm of their shared dinners settles around them like a comfortable blanket.

“Actually,” Yugo says, setting down his chopsticks, “I wanted to ask you guys something.” He glances between Hokuto and Shintaro. “There’s this izakaya I’ve been meaning to try—Sampuku, near the station. I thought maybe we could all go this weekend. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

“Someone?” Jesse raises an eyebrow, his tone playfully suspicious. “Should I be jealous?”

Yugo’s cheeks color slightly. “It’s Taiga. My childhood friend. He’s back from studying abroad, and I thought…” He trails off, his expression shifting to something more uncertain. “I thought it might be good for him to meet some new people.”

The name hits Hokuto like a quiet chord. Kyomoto Taiga. He knows that name—has heard it called out during attendance in three classes. The professors always pause after calling it, waiting for a response that never comes, before marking the absence with a small, disappointed sound.

“Kyomoto…” Hokuto says slowly. “Piano major? Second year?”

Yugo’s eyes brighten. “Yes! You know him?”

“Not exactly,” Hokuto says carefully. “He’s in some of my classes. But he…” He hesitates, choosing his words. “He doesn’t really attend.”

The hope in Yugo’s expression flickers, replaced by concern that he tries to quickly mask.

Jesse notices immediately, his hand finding Yugo’s knee under the table. “He’s probably just busy,” he says gently.

“Right,” Yugo agrees, but his smile feels forced. “Anyway, Sampuku has really good yakitori, and they do this amazing chicken karaage…” He’s talking too fast, filling the space where his worry might show.

Hokuto nods along, but his mind has drifted to the whispers that follow Taiga’s name through the conservatory halls.

Child prodigy. London. Came back different.

The kind of half-heard conversations that paint someone in shadow before you ever meet them.

Shintaro bounces slightly in place. “Sounds fun! I love yakitori.”

“Great,” Yugo says, his relief obvious. “Tomorrow 9 pm, then?”

As they finish their meal and clear the dishes, Hokuto finds himself wondering about this Kyomoto Taiga—about what would make someone skip every class, about the careful way Yugo speaks his name, about how to make someone comfortable when you’ve only ever heard them described in whispers.

🎹

The photograph lies face-up on his desk. Edges sharp in the morning light. He’s been staring at it long enough for the sun to shift across the floor, shadow crawling up his leg.

The shrine looks ordinary in print. Weathered wood, twisted maple roots. Nothing bending, nothing bleeding through the frame. Just a photograph—competent, lifeless. The kind that fills his hard drive and means nothing.

He lifts it. The paper’s too clean. Smooth between his fingers, chemical smell faint but familiar. No trace of what happened yesterday. No proof of what he saw.

It should be there. Embedded somewhere between pixels and grain.

The name still hums under his skin, low and off-key.

Matsumura Hokuto.

He says it once, just to hear it. The syllables feel wrong in his mouth.

The other shots from yesterday—before, after—normal. Static. Like he imagined the whole thing.

Only this one photograph refuses to sit quietly.

His laptop hums beside it, screen a clutter of open tabs. Campus forums, half-dead blogs, urban legend archives. He’s been scrolling for hours, chasing ghost stories that promise nothing.

A haunted pianist from the seventies. Mirrors that show dances before they happen. Bullshit, all of it.

Then a comment buried deep in a thread:

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?

No replies. No follow-up. Just that—an echo left to rot in a forgotten corner of the internet.

He screenshotted it anyway.

Now the username blinks on his screen, cursor hovering over Message. Last active six months ago. Probably abandoned.

Reaching out feels pathetic. Like admitting he believes in this. Like admitting he’s unraveling.

Still, his fingers move.

Subject: Your post about the shrine

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 sends it before his better judgment can stop him. The message vanishes into digital air.

At least it’s something—something beyond sitting here waiting for answers that won’t come.

Matsumura Hokuto.

His fingers twitch toward a new tab. Google’s white screen waits, empty, patient. Two words. One search away from sense.

He types the M—

Then Anzu barks. Sharp, high-pitched.

He startles.

She’s at the door, body vibrating with alert energy. Tail wagging like a metronome set too fast.

The doorbell rings.

Anzu’s bark turns shriller, circling the door like she’s warning him about an intruder.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, pushing back from the desk. The photo slips off and lands face-down on the floor, paper whispering against the wood.

He scoops Anzu up before she can launch herself at the door. She squirms, all heartbeat and fur, tail smacking his wrist.

Through the peephole—Yugo. Damp hair. Plastic bag in hand. That look on his face again—the one that says I’m here to fix you.

Shit.

He thinks about pretending he’s not home, but Anzu yaps right in his ear, ruining the illusion. So he opens the door.

“Morning!” Yugo’s too bright for this hour. “Hey there, princess!”

Anzu’s traitorous. She melts under his hand instantly, tongue out, eyes soft. Taiga can feel the small tremor in her body, the way she settles when Yugo touches her. Everyone does.

He doesn’t. Not anymore.

“What do you want?” The question comes out flatter than intended.

Yugo lifts the bag like an offering. “Katsudon from that place down the street from you that does famous breakfast sets.”

“I don’t—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know your mom sends those meal prep containers.” Yugo steps forward anyway, toes off his shoes without waiting. “But when’s the last time you ate something that isn’t microwaved?”

Taiga could argue, but the smell cuts through his protest. His stomach answers first.

He moves aside.

“Thanks,” Yugo says easily, walking in like it’s still his place. “Anzu-chan, you’ve gotten heavier. He’s overfeeding you again, huh?”

“The appropriate amount,” Taiga mutters, but sets her down. She bolts to him, nails clicking against the floor, tail a blur.

Yugo crouches, murmuring nonsense into her fur until she practically dissolves into his hands. The sound of it—domestic, stupidly gentle—rubs something raw in Taiga’s chest.

Too easy. Yugo fits too easily here. The space rearranges itself around him, like it’s been waiting. Like the last few months of distance were a pause, not an ending.

“Kitchen?” Yugo asks, still kneeling.

Taiga nods toward the table.

Yugo moves with memory, unpacking containers, splitting chopsticks. Taiga stands useless beside him, watching steam rise from perfect rice, yolk trembling at the edge of collapse.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Shut up and eat,” Yugo interrupts, no heat behind it. “I was in the neighborhood anyway.”

A lie. Yugo’s place is twenty minutes away by train. That restaurant’s not cheap for a college student.

Taiga lets it slide because the truth would make the air heavier.

They eat in near-silence. The food’s good—too good. He hates that it tastes like care.

Halfway through, Yugo speaks, tone light but careful. “So. You’ve been skipping classes.”

Taiga’s chopsticks still mid-air. “Who told you?”

“Does it matter?” A shrug. “Three weeks, yeah?”

He sets the food down. Appetite gone. “If this is an intervention—”

“I’m here because I’m worried about you.” No hesitation. Just the steady Yugo tone that used to calm him and now grates. “You came back from London different, and you’ve been getting worse instead of better.”

“Different.” The word feels dirty. “Sure.”

“Taiga—”

“You want to know why?” His voice sharpens. “Because I should’ve taken time off. But no. My parents decided pretending nothing happened was healthier. Push through, repeat the year, keep up the illusion.”

“They wanted you to get back on track. That’s not—”

“They wanted the old version. The one who didn’t choke on stage. The one who didn’t—” He stops, jaw tight. “I’m not that person.”

“You are the same person.”

He laughs. It sounds wrong. “I’m the guy who couldn’t handle London. The dropout prodigy. The fraud.”

Yugo watches him, silent. That same expression he gets when a melody’s close to breaking apart. Searching for a fix.

“You could transfer to something else,” Yugo says finally. “Photography, maybe. You’re good at it.”

Taiga’s eyes flick to the camera on the desk. Cold metal. “Right. From one failure to another.”

“It’s not failure if it fits.”

“What I want…” He stops. The words dissolve. Yesterday he wanted to vanish. Today, he isn’t sure.

Anzu pads over, rests her paws on his leg. Warm weight, steady breath. Easier to understand than people.

He scratches her head. “I don’t know what I want.”

Yugo nods, like that’s a win. “That’s okay. But skipping all your classes isn't going to help you figure it out.”

Taiga looks down at Anzu again. The morning hums. The silence between them feels heavier than it should. “I’ve got class at one,” he says. “Keyboard Skills.” It sounds half-real, half-hope.

Yugo smiles—small, cautious, the kind that tries not to scare the moment away. “That’s good.  Aoyama-sensei, right? He’s supposed to be decent.”

“Decent enough.”

“I’m not making a big deal.” Yugo says, still smiling.

“You are.”

“Yugo’s smile doesn’t fade, but it does shift to something softer, more complicated. Fine. I’m glad you’re not giving up.”

That hits harder than it should. Because maybe he is.

“Speaking of not giving up,” Yugo says after a while, tone easing back into something lighter. “Jesse and I are meeting some people at Sampuku tonight. You should come.”

Taiga looks up. “People?”

“Jesse’s roommates. They’re good guys.” Yugo gathers the empty containers. “One studies flute. Quiet. The other’s studying dance, total opposite energy but they balance each other out somehow.”

“Great,” Taiga mutters. “Balance.”

“Come on.” Yugo glances over his shoulder. “When’s the last time you met anyone new?”

He doesn’t answer. Can’t. The number’s too big. “What time?” he asks instead.

Yugo’s whole posture shifts—shoulders unlocking, mouth softening into something that almost looks like relief. “Nine. Just food and drinks. Nothing heavy.”

“Fine. But if they’re boring, I’m leaving.”

“Deal.” Yugo’s grin feels too proud for something so small. He turns back to the sink. “And your 1:00—”

“I know,” Taiga cuts in. “I’ll be there.”

🎹

The fluorescent lights in practice room 7B hum too loud, washing everything in sterile white. Taiga’s fingers hover above the keys. Frackenpohl again. The melody bounces back at him, simple and mocking.

Three hours. He’s been stuck on the same eight measures for three hours. His left hand still stumbles over the accompaniment pattern that should be muscle memory by now.

Pathetic.

He plays through it again.

Right hand carries the melody—fine. Clean. The kind of melody a beginner could play half-asleep.

Left hand provides the bass line and inner voices, nothing complicated, nothing that should challenge someone who once performed Rachmaninoff concerti for packed concert halls.

But his timing is off. The left hand rushes ahead, then lags behind. Always half a beat too fast or too slow. Like it’s forgotten that his hands used to know each other.

The harmony collapses.

Ugly sound.

He stops. His breath catches.

“Again,” he mutters, the same word Professor Henley used to spit at him in London.

“Again, Mr. Kyomoto. And this time, perhaps you could try playing like you actually belong here.”

He presses his fingers back into position. They tremble. The muscles remember, but they’ve grown timid—years of training dulled by three weeks of avoidance. Every note feels foreign, like someone else’s language.

The first bars are fine. Predictable. Then the left hand joins, and everything fractures. The rhythm slides out of place, the sound thickens, and the keys blur into something that barely resembles music.

He stops. Starts again. Stops.

Professor Henley is in his head again. “This is what happens when talent isn’t supported by discipline, Mr. Kyomoto. Raw ability means nothing without consistent work.”

Right. Discipline.

The worst part is that the piece isn’t even difficult. Week 1 material. Beginner stuff. The kind of exercise first-years get to build coordination. And he can’t even play it cleanly.

His phone buzzes against the music stand. 8:37 PM.

Shit. Yugo. 9:00. Sampuku.

He should leave. He won’t. Not yet. Not with the piece left unfinished.

But his hands ache, his wrists stiff, and his brain fogged. The practice room feels smaller with each failed attempt. The light too sharp. The air too stale.

He forces one last run. The fingers obey, mostly. The left still stumbles, but not fatally. Good enough. Maybe.

Silence follows—heavy, cold, accusing. Three hours for eight measures. He used to finish whole movements in that time. Used to be someone worth listening to.

Taiga reaches for his camera, a reflexive gesture that’s become habit over the past months. Cameras don’t judge. They just see.

He looks through the viewfinder—black and white keys under institutional light. The open score marked with pencil scars: circled notes, angry reminders. A crime scene of mediocrity.

He half-presses the shutter. The LCD screen flickers to life. Just the piano. Just failure, framed and silent.

Then the screen ripples.

The room disappears.

He blinks.

He’s somewhere else—on a couch, late light bleeding through curtains. The air glows gold. A coffee table cluttered with photo albums, half-empty beer bottles, wasabi peas.

His hands look older. Broader. Calm. They move through the stack of photos with an ease that feels earned. Each one sharp, alive—light caught mid-laugh, motion frozen just before it fades. Not the hollow, technically perfect shots he takes now. These have warmth.

His phone reads June 2022. Seven years from now.

Anzu runs through one frame, gray fur silver in the sun, waves behind her. His throat tightens.

“Remember this one?”

The voice pulls him sideways. Familiar somehow, like a song half-heard before.

He turns.

His breath catches.

Matsumura Hokuto sits beside him—old, strong lines, glasses framing a face that shouldn’t feel this known. Hair long, soft. When he smiles, everything inside Taiga stutters.

Beautiful. That’s the only word that fits.

“The ryokan owner took this,” future-Taiga says. The sound of his own voice is strange—warm, unguarded. “You were so embarrassed about asking.”

“I wasn’t embarrassed.” Hokuto laughs, quiet, like wind over glass. “I was being considerate. He was busy.”

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

Anzu lifts her head from Hokuto’s leg, slow and content. She is older, heavier. But still Anzu. Still his. The sight punches air from his lungs.

Future-Taiga reaches for another photo, but Hokuto’s hand stops him, easy, sure. The kind of touch that doesn’t ask permission.

“Taiga.” His voice carries something fragile beneath it. “Before we finish this…”

“Mm?”

“Seven years.” Hokuto’s thumb traces his knuckles. “We’ve been doing this for seven years.”

“Technically six years and ten months, but who’s counting?”

“I am.” A small smile, trembling at the edges. “I’ve been counting every day since you finally stopped running away from me.”

The words hit like a dissonance—sweet and sharp. “Hokuto—”

“Let me say this.” Hokuto’s hand tightens around his. “Please.”

Taiga nods. The air feels thin.

“Seven years of mornings where I wake up and you’re there. Seven years of you leaving socks on the bathroom floor and stealing the blankets and getting annoyed when I practice scales too early.” Hokuto’s voice steadies, building rhythm. “Seven years of watching you take pictures of everything—us, Anzu, random strangers—like you’re proving good things exist.”

Anzu shifts, sensing the tension in the room. She stands, stretches, then settles more firmly against both of them.

“Seven years,” Hokuto continues, “and I still can’t believe you chose this. Chose me.”

Future-Taiga exhales, something soft and disbelieving caught in his throat. “Hokuto. You know that’s not—”

He watches Hokuto move, every gesture measured, deliberate. Even nervous, he’s composed—fingers steady as he reaches into his pocket.

The air thickens. Taiga’s pulse jumps, an uneven rhythm beneath his ribs.

“I know what I know.” Hokuto’s hand emerges with something small, glinting. “Which is that I want seven more years. And seven after that. And however many we can steal from the universe.”

The ring catches the light, simple and clean. White gold, no flourish. The kind of beauty that doesn’t announce itself.

Hokuto holds it out like an offering, or maybe a test. “Marry me,” he says, voice cracking on the last word. “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.”

The silence feels alive. Heavy. Taiga can’t look away from the ring, or the hand holding it, or the man attached to it.

His future self speaks, quieter than breath. “I don’t—” He stops. Swallows. “What if I mess it up?”

“You won’t.”

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

“Then I’ll wait.” Hokuto’s certainty is maddening, calm as gravity. “I’ve gotten good at it.”

A small sound escapes him—half a laugh, half a collapse. “Seven years and you still think I’m worth all this trouble?”

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

He looks down. Photos everywhere. Pieces of time scattered across the table—proof that maybe he stayed long enough to matter.

Anzu’s tail flicks once, slow, as if even she understands what’s being asked.

He can feel the ring’s weight already, though it’s not on him yet.

“Okay,” he says, finally, his voice small. “Yes. Okay.”

The smile that spreads across Hokuto’s face could power the entire city. He slips the ring onto Taiga’s finger with careful reverence, and it fits perfectly. Of course it does, because this is Hokuto, who notices everything and forgets nothing.

The kiss tastes familiar—salt, wasabi, relief. Warm. Real.

Anzu pushes between them with a tiny whine, impatient, demanding attention.

They break apart laughing.

She clambers onto both their laps, tail wagging, small body bridging them like punctuation at the end of a sentence.

“Think she approves?” Hokuto asks, scratching behind her ears.

“She better.” His voice is lighter now, unguarded. “She’s going to be the ring bearer.”

The image flickers—

Light fractures.

He blinks, and the gold room dissolves into sterile white.

And he’s back.

The screen shows nothing—just piano keys, the Frackenpohl page, static light. No ring. No Hokuto. No warmth.

His chest aches like something’s been torn out mid-beat. The vision lingers under his skin, too vivid to dismiss. He can still taste the salt of beer, the faint sweetness of Hokuto’s mouth, the quiet weight of a ring that no longer exists.

Seven years. Marriage. A life he can’t possibly have.

He rubs at his hand where the ring should be, as if the metal might reappear through sheer disbelief.

Matsumura Hokuto.

The name loops through his head, same tempo as his pulse. He needs to know who this man is. Why his name, his face, his laugh are buried inside Taiga’s head like they’ve always been there.

His phone buzzes.

Yugo: Already here with Jesse. Where are you?

Shit. Sampuku.

He stuffs the camera into his bag, not bothering to power it off, and yanks his jacket from the chair. The zipper snags. Typical.

The corridors are mostly empty now, just the faint echoes of someone’s distant practice bleeding through soundproof doors. His footsteps bounce off polished floors, sharp and hollow.

Outside, rain sharpens the air. Clean, metallic. The kind that soaks into skin fast. He walks fast, half-running, thoughts still splintering around what he saw.

Seven years of mornings where I wake up and you’re there.

The phrase hums in his head, too intimate, too impossible. How do you go from never meeting someone to that? To belonging?

The station lights blur past. The train swallows him in noise and motion. Reflections in the window stare back—his face, washed pale by fluorescent glare. Same sharp edges. Same tired eyes. No trace of the man in the vision.

He presses a hand to the glass, half-expecting it to give.

It doesn’t.

Sampuku hides in the narrow veins of Golden Gai, half-swallowed by smoke and laughter. The kind of place that doesn’t want to be found unless you already know where to look.

Lantern light spills down the alley, red and uneven. The air smells of charcoal, soy, and rain-soaked pavement.

Taiga hesitates outside, heartbeat tripping over itself. Through the fogged glass, he can make out silhouettes—bodies leaning close, heads tipped in conversation.

He tells himself to move. Just a door. Just people.

He pushes through.

Heat hits first, then noise. Voices stacked over each other, overlapping laughter, the metallic ring of chopsticks against plates. Smoke curls upward, twisting around the light like it’s alive. Everything too bright, too loud, too close.

He scans the room, trying to find Yugo.

There, near the back. The slope of his shoulders is unmistakable. Jesse beside him, gesturing wildly mid-story.

There were two others at the same table.

Taiga’s gaze lands on the nearer one first—broad shoulders, steady posture, hands loose around a cup. Easy confidence.

Then the person beside him turns slightly, and all sound drops out.

Dark hair, soft waves catching light. Calm profile. The quiet composure that matches every frame burned into Taiga’s memory.

Matsumura Hokuto.

The world tilts.

Even under the dim lantern glow, even across a room full of strangers, it’s him. No question. Every line matches. The face from the photograph that hasn’t been taken yet. The man who will, apparently, ask him to marry him.

The man who will eventually die.

Hokuto laughs at something Jesse says. The movement is small, unguarded. It lands like a chord struck too close to his ribs.

Beautiful. The word forms before he can stop it. Not the shallow kind—something quieter, heavier. It hurts.

His body acts before his mind. A step back. Then another. Shoulder hits the doorframe. Solid. Real. A tether.

“Taiga!”

Yugo’s voice cuts through everything. Sharp. Too loud.

Heads turn. Jesse’s too. Then the others.

And Hokuto looks up.

Their eyes catch—across distance, smoke, noise. Recognition slams through him, unearned but absolute. Something passes between them—electric, weightless, wrong and right at once.

Hokuto’s expression shifts. Surprise first, then something warmer. Like relief. Like he’s been waiting.

Taiga bolts.

He spins, shoving the door open hard enough for it to bang against the wall. The alley air hits him like a slap—wet, cold, real. He doesn’t stop.

His camera bag smacks against his hip with every stride, the strap biting into his shoulder. The ground’s slick from the earlier rain, light bouncing off puddles in warped reflections. His reflection. Distorted.

He doesn’t look back. Can’t.

The sounds of the izakaya chase him down the alley—laughter, clinking glasses, Yugo’s voice cutting through the rest. “Taiga! Wait!”

He keeps moving.

🪈

The silence that follows the abrupt departure stretches thin across their corner table. Hokuto blinks at where Kyomoto Taiga previously stood, the impression of dark eyes and a startled expression still burning behind his eyelids. That moment of recognition lingers in his chest like the last note of a song he can’t quite place.

“What the hell just happened?” Shintaro asks, his voice cutting through the izakaya’s ambient noise. He’s half-risen from his seat, staring at the door where Taiga disappeared. “Did we do something wrong? I didn’t even get to introduce myself properly.”

Jesse runs a hand through his hair, his usual bright energy dimmed by confusion. “I have no idea. He just… bolted.” He looks toward the entrance where Yugo has pushed through the crowd, presumably chasing after his childhood friend. “Should we go after them?”

Hokuto remains seated, his hands resting on the table’s worn wood surface. Something about that brief eye contact refuses to leave him alone—the way Taiga had looked at him not like a stranger, but like someone trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces.

“Maybe we should give him space,” he says quietly, though he’s not sure why he suggests it.

The restaurant continues its evening rhythm around them, other patrons oblivious to the small drama that just unfolded. Steam rises from neighboring tables laden with yakitori skewers and beer bottles, conversations flowing in warm, honey-colored light.

Shintaro finally sits back down, but his restless energy fills the space around him. “Seriously though, what was that about? He looked like he’d seen a ghost or something.”

Jesse drums his finger against his beer glass, the sound barely audible over the surrounding chatter. “You know,” he says slowly, “I’ve met Taiga a few times since Yugo and I started dating. He’s never been exactly… social. But this was different. More intense.”

“Different how?” Shintaro leans forward, his curiosity apparently overriding any concern for privacy.

Jesse considers the question, his expression growing more serious. “Taiga and Yugo grew up together, right? Best friends since they were kids, both music nerds, went to the same schools. But when Taiga got into the Royal College of Music in London...” He pauses, seeming to weigh his words carefully.

Hokuto finds himself listening with unexpected attention. The name Royal College of Music carries weight in their world. It’s the kind of opportunity that musicians dream about, the sort of achievement that gets announced in conservatory newsletters and whispered about in practice room hallways.

“What happened in London?” Shintaro asks, echoing the question that’s forming in Hokuto’s mind.

“I don’t know all the details,” Jesse admits. “Yugo doesn’t really talk about it, and Taiga…” He shrugs helplessly. “Taiga doesn’t talk about anything, really. But he came back different. Angry. Like something fundamental broke while he was there.”

Hokuto’s chest tightens with a familiar ache. He knows something about fundamental things breaking, about the space between who you used to be and who you become after disappointment reshapes you. “He transferred back here?”

“Yeah, repeating his second year.” Jesse’s voice carries a note of sadness. “Yugo tries to stay connected, but it’s hard. Taiga pushes everyone away now. Apparently skips classes, avoids social situations, basically lives like a hermit except for his photography.”

“Photography?” Hokuto asks, though he’s not sure that detail matters.

“His parents bought it for him to help him cope with London. He carries this camera everywhere. Yugo says it’s like he’s documenting the world instead of participating in it.” Jesse takes a sip of his beer, then adds quietly, “I think it scares Yugo sometimes. How far Taiga’s retreated from everything he used to love.”

Shintaro fidgets with his chopsticks, spinning them between his fingers. “That’s really sad,” he says, and his usual energetic tone has softened to something more genuine. “Being that talented and then just... giving up?”

“I don’t think he’s given up,” Hokuto says, the words coming out before he’s fully thought them through. Both Jesse and Shintaro look at him with surprise, and he feels heat rise in his cheeks. “I mean, I don’t know him. But sometimes when people retreat, it’s because they’re protecting something. Not because they’ve lost it.”

Jesse’s expression grows thoughtful. “That’s… actually really insightful.”

“Maybe,” Hokuto says, immediately wanting to downplay his observation. “I could be wrong.”

But he thinks about the way Taiga had looked at him. Recognition that seemed to surprise Taiga as much as it had surprised Hokuto.

The front door opens again, and Yugo reappears, weaving through the tables toward them. His face carries the particular strain of someone who’s just had a difficult conversation, though he tries to mask it with a smile as he approaches.

“Everything okay?” Jesse asks immediately, reaching for Yugo’s hand as he sits back down.

“Yeah,” Yugo says, but his voice lacks conviction. “He just... needed some air. You know how it is.”

Hokuto doesn’t know how it is, actually, but he recognizes the careful way Yugo speaks about his friend. The protective deflection, the subtle shifting of focus away from whatever pain exists beneath the surface.

“Is he coming back?” Shintaro asks.

“No,” Yugo admits, his shoulders sagging slightly. “He said he had to go. Something about needing to think.”

They sit in uncomfortable silence for a moment, the festive atmosphere of the izakaya feeling suddenly incongruous with the weight of whatever just happened.

“I’m sorry,” Yugo says finally. “I really wanted you guys to meet him. I thought maybe...” He trails off, shaking his head.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Hokuto says gently. “Sometimes timing just isn’t right.”

Jesse squeezes Yugo’s hand. “Maybe next time will be better.”

“Maybe,” Yugo agrees, but he doesn’t sound convinced.

Hokuto finds himself staring at the empty chair across from him, still feeling the lingering echo of that strange moment of connection. Kyomoto Taiga, child prodigy turned hermit, carrying a camera like armor and avoiding everything that once defined him.

He thinks of his own moments of retreat, of times when kindness felt too risky and isolation seemed safer than the possibility of disappointment. The impulse to protect yourself by pushing others away before they can leave on their own.

“Next time,” Hokuto says quietly, and means it.

Something tells him there will be a next time, though he can’t explain why he’s so sure. The feeling lingers as they order food and gradually shift the conversation to lighter topics—like the phantom weight of a melody he can’t quite remember, playing just at the edge of his consciousness.

🪈

The lecture hall feels different in the morning light. Hokuto pushes through the heavy doors fifteen minutes before Music History begins, expecting to find the space mostly empty save for the occasional early-arriving student.

Instead, he spots Tanaka Juri already settled in their usual spot—third row from the back, center aisle—surrounded by his laptop, an impressive array of notebooks, loose papers, and what appears to be a borrowed textbook with someone else's name scrawled across the cover.

“Morning,” Hokuto says as he slides into the seat beside Juri, noting the focused intensity with which his friend flips through pages of handwritten notes.

Juri glances up, his characteristic smirk softened by something that might be actual concern. “Hey. You’re early today.”

“So are you.” Hokuto sets his bag down carefully, pulling out his own notebook—neat, organized, color-coded with tabs that Yuina had given him for his birthday. It’s a stark contrast to Juri’s controlled chaos. “Everything okay?”

“Define okay,” Juri says, closing one notebook and opening another. His fingers drum against the desk’s surface, a nervous habit Hokuto has noticed appears whenever Juri talks about anything more serious than weekend plans or complaints about their professors. “Mori-sensei cornered me last Tuesday after Piano Forum. Apparently, I’ve been volunteered for a special project.”

The way Juri says “special project” carries the particular tone of someone who’s been assigned extra work without being asked first. Hokuto waits, having learned that Juri prefers to reveal information at his own pace rather than being pressed for details.

“Remember Kyomoto Taiga?” Juri continues, and Hokuto’s attention sharpens involuntarily. “The guy who’s been skipping classes for the past three weeks? Turns out he’s Mori-sensei’s former protégé. The child prodigy who studied at the Royal College of Music before transferring back here.”

Hokuto nods carefully, keeping his expression neutral. The phantom weight of last night’s encounter sits heavy in his chest—that moment of startling recognition, the way Taiga had looked at him like he was solving a puzzle with missing pieces before fleeing the izakaya entirely.

“Anyway,” Juri says, seemingly oblivious to Hokuto’s internal reaction, “Mori-sensei has decided that I’m the perfect candidate to help Kyomoto catch up on everything he’s missed. Three weeks of material, apparently. Baroque Period, late Baroque masters, music of the French Court—basically everything we’ve covered since the semester started.”

“That’s… a lot,” Hokuto offers, though his mind is still processing the information.

“Gets better,” Juri continues, though his tone suggests it decidedly does not get better. “Nagata-sensei emailed me this morning about our research paper.”

Hokuto remembers. They’d chosen the topic weeks ago, had even started gathering sources and dividing up the research responsibilities. It was supposed to be straightforward—a collaboration between two students who worked well together and complemented each other’s strengths.

“She wants to make it a three-person group,” Juri says, and Hokuto already knows where this is heading. “Guess who our new third member is going to be?”

“Kyomoto,” Hokuto says quietly.

“Bingo.” Juri leans back in his chair, running a hand through his ash-brown hair. “So now I’m tutoring him and we’re all working together on this paper that’s worth 20% of our grade. No pressure, right?”

The lecture hall continues to fill around them as other students trickle in, conversations creating a low hum of background noise. Hokuto watches them settle into their seats—some still clutching coffee cups, others frantically reviewing notes from previous classes.

“Have you met him before?” Hokuto asks, keeping his voice carefully casual. “Kyomoto, I mean.”

Juri nods. “Only when Mori-sensei introduced us last Tuesday. Before that, I’ve seen him around campus a few times, but we’ve never actually talked. He has this reputation, you know? People whisper about him in the practice rooms. ‘The child prodigy who came back broken from London.’ That kind of thing.”

Something uncomfortable twists in Hokuto’s stomach at the casual cruelty of the description. He thinks about what Jesse had said last night—that Taiga had retreated into photography, documenting the world instead of participating in it. The image of someone using a camera as armor, keeping safe distance between himself and everything that might hurt him.

“When do we start working with him?” Hokuto asks.

“Today, supposedly.” Juri closes his notebook with more force than necessary. “I just hope he actually shows up. Attendance isn’t exactly his strong suit these days.”

“Maybe he will,” Hokuto says, and finds himself hoping it’s true. “Sometimes people surprise you.”

Juri gives him a sideways look, something speculative in his expression. “You sound like you know something about that.”

“Don’t we all?” Hokuto replies, which isn’t really an answer but seems to satisfy Juri’s curiosity.

The door opens with a soft click, and Hokuto looks over his shoulder instinctively.

Taiga steps inside.

The recognition hits immediately—that same jolt of inexplicable familiarity that had caught him off guard at the izakaya. But this time, without the crowded restaurant and the overlay of voices and clinking dishes, the feeling is sharper, more focused.

Taiga pauses in the doorway, scanning the lecture hall, and when his eyes find Hokuto’s, the world seems to narrow to just that connection.

Something passes between them—not quite understanding, but acknowledgment. Like two people recognizing a song they’ve heard before but can’t quite place.

Taiga’s expression is guarded, wary, but underneath Hokuto senses something that might be curiosity. Or maybe confusion. The same confusion that’s been sitting in Hokuto’s chest since last night, unexplained and persistent.

Hokuto wants to say something, but the words don’t come. What would he say? Sorry my presence made you run away from dinner? Do I know you from somewhere? The questions feel too big, too strange for a Friday morning in a lecture hall filled with the mundane reality of music theory textbooks and half-empty coffee cups.

“Kyomoto!” Juri’s voice cuts through the moment, bright and welcoming in the way that only Juri can manage when he's decided to charm someone. “Over here.”

Taiga’s gaze shifts to Juri, and the spell—if it was a spell—breaks. Hokuto feels oddly deflated, like he’s just missed catching something important that was falling through his fingers.

“I was hoping you’d show up,” Juri continues, waving Taiga over with an easy smile. “We need to get you caught up on everything you’ve missed. Three weeks of material, starting with late Baroque masters and ending with the French Court composers. It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

Hokuto watches Taiga’s face carefully. There’s hesitation there, the kind of careful consideration that suggests he's weighing whether to stay or leave.

For a moment, Hokuto thinks he might choose to leave. There’s something in his posture, the way his hand rests on the door frame like he's keeping an escape route open.

But then Taiga steps fully into the room, letting the door close behind him.

He moves with the kind of quiet precision that Hokuto recognizes in other musicians—economical movements, nothing wasted or unnecessary. Even his casual clothes seem deliberately chosen: dark jeans, a black graphic t-shirt that’s probably more expensive than it looks, sneakers that have seen better days but still carry a certain understated style.

“Mori-sensei said you’d help me catch up,” Taiga says when he reaches their row. His voice is melodic, with a slight roughness that might be from tiredness or simply the way he speaks. There’s no warmth in it, but no hostility either—just careful neutrality.

“That’s the plan,” Juri says, gesturing to the empty seat beside him. “Sit, sit. We’ve got about ten minutes before Nagata-sensei gets here, which should be enough time to give you the basics of what we’ve covered so far.”

Taiga glances at the seat Juri is indicating—the one that would put Juri between him and Hokuto—then briefly at Hokuto himself.

For just a moment, their eyes meet again, and Hokuto feels that strange pull of recognition. Not romantic attraction, exactly, though there’s something there. More like... resonance. Like standing too close to a piano when someone strikes a chord, feeling the vibration in your bones.

Taiga looks away first and takes the seat beside Juri.

Hokuto tries not to feel disappointed by the choice, though he’s not entirely sure why he would be. It’s practical, really. Juri is the one who’s supposed to be tutoring Taiga, so of course they should sit together. It makes perfect sense.

“So,” Juri says, pulling out his notebook and flipping to a page covered in his messy handwriting, “we started with an overview of the Baroque Period, focusing on the stylistic characteristics and historical context. The main thing to remember is that by 1700, we’re looking at the late Baroque era, which means...”

Hokuto half-listens to Juri’s explanation, instead finding himself acutely aware of Taiga’s presence just one seat away. He can see Taiga’s profile from this angle—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark hair falls slightly across his forehead, the careful attention he's paying to Juri’s rapid-fire summary of musical periods and compositional techniques.

There’s something almost fragile about him, despite the defensive way he holds himself. Like someone who’s been handling something precious and is terrified of dropping it.

Hokuto recognizes the feeling. He’s carried it himself, though perhaps for different reasons.

“The concerto form was really hitting its stride during this period,” Juri continues, gesturing with his pen as he talks. “Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos, Handel’s concerti grossi—all of these were pushing the boundaries of what instrumental music could do.”

Taiga nods occasionally, asking brief questions that demonstrate he’s actually listening despite his apparent reluctance to be there. His questions are good ones, too—the kind that show musical intelligence and training, even if that training has been dormant for a while.

“What about the French influence?” Taiga asks. “Lully, Rameau, how did their work in opera translate to instrumental music?”

“Good question,” Juri says, looking pleased. “That’s actually what we covered in Week 3…”

As Juri launches into an explanation of French Baroque characteristics, Hokuto allows himself to really look at Taiga. Not staring, exactly, but observing in the way he might study a piece of music before performing it—trying to understand the structure, the subtle details that make it work.

Taiga is beautiful, he realizes with mild surprise. Not in an obvious way, not in the manner of someone who expects to be noticed or admired. It’s quieter than that—something in the careful symmetry of his features, the way morning light from the lecture hall’s narrow windows catches the brown of his eyes and makes them seem deeper, more complex.

But it’s more than just physical appearance. There’s an intensity to him, a sense that he’s carrying thoughts and feelings that run deeper than surface conversation about Baroque composers and musical forms. The kind of depth that suggests interesting contradictions, hidden vulnerabilities beneath a carefully maintained facade.

Hokuto doesn’t let himself dwell on the observation. Beautiful people exist in the world, after all, and noticing beauty doesn’t necessarily mean anything beyond basic aesthetic appreciation.

Besides, there are more important things to focus on—like the fact that Professor Nagata has just entered the lecture hall, her arms full of books and papers, her expression carrying the particular intensity of someone who has strong opinions about musical history and isn’t afraid to share them.

“Good morning, everyone,” Professor Nagata calls out as she makes her way to the front of the room. “I hope you’ve all been reviewing your notes from last week, because today we’re diving deep into Baroque concert and opera...”

Hokuto pulls out his own notebook, forcing his attention away from Taiga and toward the familiar rhythm of academic life.

But even as he prepares to take notes, he's still aware of that quiet presence one seat away—still wondering about the strange moment of recognition that seems to hover between them, unexplained and persistent.

🪈

When Professor Nagata dismisses the class, the lecture hall empties with its usual Friday afternoon urgency—students eager to begin their weekend or escape to practice rooms before the good ones are claimed. Hokuto gathers his notes slowly, giving himself time to process the dense information about Baroque concerto forms and French opera traditions. His handwriting fills two pages with careful annotations, questions noted in the margins for later research.

“Don’t go anywhere yet,” Juri says, catching both him and Taiga before they can follow the exodus. “We need to sync schedules.”

Taiga pauses halfway through shouldering his bag, that guarded expression settling back over his features. “Sync schedules?”

“For the research project.” Juri pulls out his phone, swiping to his calendar app with practiced efficiency. “We’ve got four weeks to pull together a comprehensive analysis of Orfeo ed Euridice, which means we need to coordinate who’s researching what and when we’re meeting to piece it all together.”

Hokuto settles back into his seat, notebook still open. The practical side of group work has always appealed to him—the clear structure, the defined roles, the way individual contributions build toward something larger. It’s like chamber music, where each instrument has its part but the real beauty comes from how they blend together.

“Plus,” Juri continues, shooting a pointed look at Taiga, “I need to figure out your classes so I can help you catch up. Mori-sensei made it pretty clear that my tutoring duties extend beyond just this project.”

Taiga’s jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he pulls out his own phone with reluctant resignation. “Fine. What do you need to know?”

For the next few minutes, they compare schedules with the methodical precision of musicians learning a new ensemble piece. Juri talks quickly, enthusiasm building as he outlines his vision for their research approach. His ideas are good—thorough without being overwhelming, creative without losing academic rigor.

When they start comparing specific class schedules, Taiga’s eyebrows lift in mild surprise. “You’re in Tsuburaya’s Saturday Ear Training? The 1:30 section?”

“Yeah.” Hokuto nods, though he’s not surprised by the revelation. He’s noticed Taiga’s name on the roll call for weeks—always called, never answered. “And Moriya-sensei’s Monday Liberal Arts. Seven am.”

“Shit.” Taiga runs a hand through his hair, that familiar gesture Hokuto has started to recognize even in their brief acquaintance. “I didn’t realize we had classes together.”

Juri glances between them with obvious amusement. “Well, that makes tutoring easier. Hokuto can help fill you in on what you’ve missed in both classes” He scrolls through his phone again, fingers moving quickly. “I’ve got Theory III with both of you on Saturday evenings, so we’re already synced there.”

“Actually,” Taiga says, and something in his tone shifts—becomes more focused, almost businesslike. “I have something else on my schedule you should know about. Mori-sensei assigned me to judge a high school music competition in two weeks. Saturday afternoon.”

Hokuto looks up from his notes. “Which competition?”

“Some talent showcase in Shibuya. High school students, mixed categories.” Taiga shrugs like it’s no particular importance to him, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that suggests otherwise. “I tried to get out of it, but apparently it’s part of my ‘reintegration process.’”

The words hit Hokuto with unexpected recognition. “Shibuya Arts Academy?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.” Taiga’s gaze sharpens. “Why?”

Hokuto feels a strange flutter in his chest. “One of my students is competing. She’s performing ‘Clair de Lune’ on flute.”

For a moment, Taiga just stares at him. Then something almost like humor flickers across his expression. “Your student.”

“She’s sixteen, really talented but struggles with performance anxiety.” Hokuto finds himself leaning forward slightly, protective instincts stirring. “She’s been working on that piece for months. It means a lot to her.”

Juri looks between them with growing interest. “Okay, that’s either the weirdest coincidence ever, or the universe has a sense of humor.”

Taiga doesn't respond to that, but Hokuto notices the way his fingers drum against his phone case—a restless rhythm that speaks of nervous energy.

Juri clears his throat. “Right, so competition aside, we need to nail down our first proper meeting. When can we all sit down and start hammering out this research paper?”

They settle on Saturday evening, right after their Theory class ends at nine. There’s a family restaurant near campus that is open 24 ours, the kind of place where students can spread out papers and talk through ideas without feeling rushed.

“I can take historical context,” he offers, falling back on familiar academic territory. “Gluck’s reform movement, the theoretical writings. I’ve got decent library access.”

“Perfect.” Juri grins. “I’ll handle the musical analysis—harmonic language, orchestration, all the technical stuff that makes professors happy.”

That leaves Taiga with cultural impact and reception history, which seems fitting somehow. The way art moves through the world, how it’s received and transformed and understood differently across time and context. Hokuto wonders if Taiga sees the parallel—how his own relationship with music has shifted, how his reception of his own talent has changed.

“Cultural impact and influence on later composers,” Taiga says, accepting the assignment without complaint. “I can work with that.”

They exchange contact information with the businesslike efficiency of classmates rather than friends, though Hokuto notices how carefully Taiga inputs their numbers, double-checking each digit.

When they finally pack up to leave, the lecture hall has long since emptied except for them. The late afternoon light slants through the windows at sharp angles, casting long shadows across the tiered seating. Hokuto moves slowly, giving himself time to process everything that’s been arranged.

As they walk toward the exit together, Hokuto finds himself wondering what Taiga sees when he looks at him. Whether there’s any echo of the recognition he felt himself, that sense of standing at the edge of something important.

🎹

He wakes like someone dragged him up from the wrong depth. The kind of waking that hurts, sharp and airless.

Ceiling. White, cracked. He stares until his heartbeat slows and the leftover dream dissolves—light in his eyes, a ring biting his finger, someone asking him to marry them. Someone faceless.

Anzu stirs against his side. A small shift of warmth turning alert all at once. Her eyes catch what little light there is—black, sharp, waiting. The tail starts up, tentative, like she’s asking if this counts as morning or just another false alarm.

“I’m up,” he mutters, hand finding the space between her ears. “Don’t start celebrating.”

She ignores him. Dogs always do. A long stretch, front legs out, spine curved like a bow, then the jaw-crack yawn that could almost be a growl. She hops down, nails clicking once against the floor. Waits by the door.

Cold wood under his feet. He sits there for a moment, not ready to move but too awake not to. The room feels empty in that specific way—shadows cutting sharp lines across the walls, the hum of the city still half-asleep outside. Tokyo before dawn always sounds like something rehearsing.

The phone on the nightstand catches his eye. Black screen, faint reflection of his face. He reaches for it anyway.

5:07 a.m.

Three notifications from the group chat Juri started after yesterday’s class.

He opens the chat.

Juri [11:47 PM]: reminder @ kyomo, we have piano forum at 10 am

Hokuto [7:32 AM]: Good morning. Kyomoto, we have an Ear Training quiz today on interval recognition. I have notes if you need them.

Juri [7:45 AM]: oh shit a quiz?! i have a 7-hour break after forum. want me to book a practice room? we can cram together.

He stares at the thread until the words start losing shape. That easy way they assume he’ll show up. That he’ll need help. That they want to help.

It’s been a long time since anyone planned around him.

He opens the app that sits below the group chat. Still unread.

savras2028.

The username pulls something loose in his chest—flickers of that dream again. Wedding bands. A name that still hums like a chord struck too hard.

Matsumura Hokuto.

His thumbs hover above the keyboard. He could answer the group chat, pretend it’s easy—Yeah, I’ll be there. Yeah, I’ll study. Yeah, I’ll try.

Instead, the phone hits the nightstand with a soft thud. He stands.

Anzu trails after him, a shadow with a tail. Past the neat kitchen, his mother’s meal prep lined in identical containers. Past the couch with the camera bag still on it. Out to the balcony, where the city waits like it always does, too alive for him to touch.

The sliding door sighs open. Air rushes in, damp and cold, tasting faintly of rain and exhaust. Tokyo stretches below—towers, glass, and the low hum of everyone else’s purpose.

Anzu finds her corner. Routine. No hesitation.

Taiga leans on the railing and watches light bleed between buildings, the sky caught between grey and gold.

5:15 a.m. He has Piano Forum in less than five hours.

He could go. Sit in the back, pretend to listen to Professor Mori talk about posture and professional polish. Pretend he still wants to play for something more than noise.

His hands twitch at the thought.

Skipping would be easier. But easier always looks too much like failure.

Anzu finishes, turns toward him, waiting again. Small, patient thing. Constant in ways people aren’t.

“Yeah,” he says. “Breakfast first.”

The kitchen wakes with him. Same movements, same order. Scoop the food, pour the water. The bowls his mother picked out—white ceramic, faint blue rims.

“Even small dogs deserve nice things,” she’d said. He hadn’t argued.

Coffee next. Black. Bitter. Something to fill the air.

Anzu eats like she always does—head down, jaw working with purpose. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just hunger, then satisfaction. A simple equation he can’t solve anymore.

The phone buzzes somewhere in the bedroom. Probably them again. More good intentions disguised as messages.

He doesn’t move. The coffee tastes wrong, too thin, like burnt noise. He drinks it anyway.

Outside, the sky starts turning pale. Another day he doesn’t remember asking for.

Anzu finishes, looks up. Eyes bright. Tail wagging slow and certain. She’s content. Perfectly sure of her place in the world.

Taiga envies that kind of math—the clean subtraction of need and fulfillment. No prophecy, no blurred edges. Just now.

Maybe that’s enough.

He picks up the phone.

Taiga [5:47 AM]: yeah. forum at 10, ear training at 1:30. quiz.

Taiga [5:48 AM]: practice room sounds good. thanks.

Send. Too fast to take back.

Not enthusiasm—just proof he’s still breathing.

The reply comes almost immediately:

Juri [5:49 AM]: holy shit you’re awake early. did you actually sleep or just give up on trying?

Something close to a smile twitches at his mouth.

Taiga [5:50 AM]: gave up. coffee’s helping.

Juri [5:51 AM]: fair enough. i’ll grab practice room B7 after lunch. it has the good piano.

Hokuto [5:52 AM]: I’ll bring interval worksheets. And snacks if anyone needs them.

Kindness again. Too much of it. Hokuto offers food like it’s easy. Like it means nothing. Like Taiga’s worth the trouble.

Someday, those hands will shake holding a ring. Seven years of certainty behind them.

He stares at the screen until the words lose shape.

Taiga [5:53 AM]: see you then.

🎹

The door’s cracked open, voices leaking through—low, careless, wrapped in the stale metal scent of old carpet. Taiga slows before he reaches it, fingers tight around the strap of his bag.

He pushes it open anyway.

The room feels smaller than it should. The piano takes up all the air—black surface gleaming too bright under fluorescent lights. A few students scattered around: talking, scrolling, pretending to study. Background noise.

Juri’s easy to find. Front row, half-slouched, leg hooked over a chair arm like he owns the place. He’s laughing at something, mouth sharp, eyes brighter than they should be this early.

Taiga hesitates. Doesn’t want to, but does.

Then Juri spots him.

“Kyomo!” The name lands like a slap disguised as a joke. “You made it. I was starting to think you’d bailed again.”

Taiga keeps walking, ignoring the sting. His eyes catch the piano, hands twitch at his sides before he buries them in his pockets. “I’m here,” he says. Flat.

“Good.” Juri drops his leg, leans forward. “Because you’re up first.”

Taiga freezes. “What?”

“Your performance,” Juri says, grin widening. “You know, thing we’ve been doing for the past two weeks? Mori-sensei’s been looking forward to hearing you.”

Something drops in Taiga’s stomach. His fists close inside his pockets, nails biting skin. “I didn’t know about that.”

“I texted you,” Juri says, raising a brow.

He checks his phone. There it is—buried under everything else.

hey, don’t forget student performances in forum tomorrow. mori-sensei’s probably gonna call on you first since you’ve been mia. might wanna pick something to play.

He hadn’t seen it. He hadn’t seen much of anything last night. Too busy trying to make sense of things that don’t make sense.

“Great,” he mutters, shoving his phone back into his pocket. “Fantastic.”

Juri’s smirk widens. “You’re welcome.”

The door swings open again, and Professor Mori strides in. His eyes land on Taiga the second he enters, sharp and assessing—something like pity hiding underneath.

Taiga looks away.

“Good morning,” Mori says, setting his bag down, tone even and heavy enough to straighten everyone’s spine. “We are supposed to have a guest artist coming up, but she is running late. We’ll have Kyomoto-kun perform for us since he was absent from the past few meetings.”

He doesn’t move. The air feels thick, the walls too close. Everyone watching, pretending not to. The fallen one, the prodigy gone quiet.

“Kyomoto-kun,” Professor Mori says again, his tone firmer this time. “The piano is waiting.”

He moves because that’s what’s expected. Step by step until he’s at the piano. It gleams like it knows.

He sits. Hands hovering above the keys, mind blank. He hasn’t practiced. Hasn’t chosen a piece. Hasn’t been here in weeks.

Something. Anything. Chopin? Debussy? Something simple, something he can fumble through without completely humiliating himself.

But everything feels too heavy, too loaded with meaning.

He stares at the keys, his fingers trembling. The silence stretches. Someone coughs. Someone else shifts in their seat. The sound is deafening.

Bach. Overture in G minor. BWV 822. Simple. Safe. Something his hands should remember.

But his hands don’t remember. Not anymore.

The first chord lands hollow. The next few phrases limp along, mechanical, stripped of pulse. Third bar—wrong note. Major turns minor, sound splintering in the air.

He keeps going. Always keeps going.

Each bar drags. His fingers remember the map but not the meaning. Notes slip, collide, fracture. The rhythm limps.

Bach’s supposed to sound regal—sharp, deliberate. His version just sounds… careful. Asking permission to exist. The trills hiccup. The ornaments blur. His left hand falls a beat behind, then two. Every sound feels like an accusation.

He can feel Mori’s stare from across the room—cold, measuring. The others try to stay still, but their unease fills the air. A cough, a chair leg scraping. The hum of the lights louder than the music.

The development section comes. He tightens his jaw. This is where it usually breathes—two voices weaving cleanly together. Not today. The bass slips again, syncopation gone.

Another wrong note. Then another. He feels the wince ripple through the room.

He should stop. Just lift his hands, walk away, let it die in silence. But stopping would be worse. Proof that he really has fallen as far as they whisper he has.

So he pushes through. The music limps along, a shadow of what it should be.

The final cadence lands, thin and uneven. He lets his hands fall to his lap. The quiet that follows is heavy. Not respect—discomfort. The kind people fill with polite lies later.

Taiga doesn’t look up. He stares at the keys, at his hands resting in his lap, anywhere but at the faces staring back at him.

“Well,” Professor Mori says finally, too measured. “That was Bach’s Overture in G minor.”

Taiga’s jaw tightens. Of course he has to state the obvious. Of course he can’t just let it end.

“Your interpretation of the French Overture style needs work,” Professor Mori continues, stepping closer to the piano. “The dotted rhythms should be more pronounced, more regal. And your ornamentation...” He pauses, probably searching for a diplomatic way to say it was terrible. “Could use refinement.”

Taiga nods, not trusting himself to speak. The criticism is fair, constructive even. But it feels like salt in a wound that’s already raw.

“However,” Professor Mori adds, softer now, “I can hear the musical foundation is still there. With practice, you can rebuild what you’ve... set aside.”

Set aside. Like it was a choice. Like he decided one day that he didn’t want to be good anymore.

“The tempo in the development section,” Professor Mori says, moving to stand beside the piano. “It rushed. Bach’s counterpoint requires patience. Each voice needs space to breathe. And your left hand...” He demonstrates a passage, his fingers moving with the kind of effortless precision that Taiga used to take for granted. “See how the bass line supports the melody without overpowering it?”

Taiga watches Professor Mori’s hands, and for a moment, he remembers what it felt like when playing was easy. When his fingers moved without thought, when the music flowed through him instead of fighting against him.

The memory burns out fast.

“That’s enough for today,” Professor Mori says, stepping back. “Thank you, Kyomoto-kun.”

Taiga stands, his legs unsteady. The other students are already looking away, their interest fading now that the spectacle is over.

He makes his way back to his seat, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor.

Juri waits with that half-smile that never means one thing. “Not bad,” he says quietly as Taiga sits down.

Taiga shoots him a look. “Don’t.”

“I’m serious.” Juri’s voice drops lower. “You think I haven’t had performances like that? Everyone has. The difference is you’re being harder on yourself than anyone else in this room.”

Taiga doesn’t respond. He can’t tell if Juri is being genuine or just trying to make him feel better. Either way, it stings.

The guest artist finally arrives—some pianist whose name Taiga doesn’t catch—and the focus shifts away from him. He should be relieved, but the knot in his chest doesn’t loosen. If anything, listening to someone else play with confidence and skill just makes the contrast sharper.

The class drags on. The pianist plays something technically impressive but emotionally vacant, and Taiga finds himself making mental notes about phrasing and dynamics before catching himself. Old habits. One he’s supposed to be done with.

When Professor Mori finally dismisses them, Taiga’s already halfway to the door. No bows. No small talk. Just motion. Bag over his shoulder, eyes down.

“Kyomo!” Juri’s voice cuts through the scrape of chairs. “Hey—wait up!”

He doesn’t. The hallway’s too bright, too clean. Lights buzzing overhead like insects. His chest feels tight, breath coming shallow.

“Kyomo!” Juri’s voice is closer now, and Taiga can hear the sound of hurried footsteps behind him. “I booked us a practice room for the Ear Training quiz, remember? We talked about this.”

Right. The quiz. Another chance to fail publicly. Perfect.

He keeps walking.

“Seriously?” Juri catches up to him, slightly out of breath. “You’re just gonna bail? Again?”

Taiga stops so abruptly that Juri nearly runs into him. When he turns, his expression is flat, empty. “I’m not in the mood for your pity party right now.”

Juri blinks. “Pity party? What are you talking about?”

“The whole ‘not bad’ thing back there. The fake encouragement. I don’t need it.” Taiga’s voice is low, controlled, but there’s an edge to it that makes Juri take a step back.

“It wasn’t fake,” Juri says, his usual smirk nowhere to be found. “I meant it.”

“Sure you did.” Taiga turns and starts walking again, faster this time. “Save it for someone who believes in fairy tales.”

“Kyomo—”

But Taiga is already gone, pushing through the exit doors and out into the afternoon air.

The campus courtyard spreads out before him, students scattered across benches and walkways, their voices blending into white noise that he can tune out if he tries hard enough.

He needs a cigarette. Maybe a whole pack. Somewhere no one will look at him like he’s broken in slow motion.

The smoking area is tucked behind the administrative building, a small concrete space with a few metal ashtrays and a view of the parking lot. It’s not glamorous, but it’s usually empty during class hours, which makes it perfect for his current needs.

He’s halfway there when movement catches his eye.

Hokuto is crouched down beside one of the benches near the library, his flute case set carefully on the ground beside him. There’s a girl sitting on the bench—first year, maybe, based on the nervous way she’s clutching her bag. She’s crying, not the dramatic kind of tears that demand attention, but the quiet, embarrassed kind that people try to hide.

Hokuto’s talking to her, holding a pack of tissues out to her like it’s nothing. Like kindness costs him nothing.

Taiga stops walking. Something about the scene makes his chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with his earlier humiliation.

The girl takes the tissues, dabs at her eyes. Hokuto waits, still and steady, giving her space. No rush, no filler words. Just silence that doesn’t demand anything.

After a moment she says something, faint laugh breaking through the last of it. Hokuto smiles. Not big. Just enough to shift the air. Real.

Taiga can’t look away.

She laughs again, shoulders loosening. Hokuto stands, lifts his case, says something that makes her smile once more before he turns to leave.

The girl stays for a beat, staring after him, then gathers her things and walks off in the other direction.

Taiga realizes he’s still standing there, staring like an idiot.

Hokuto notices too. Their eyes meet across the courtyard

For a moment, neither of them moves. Then Hokuto starts walking toward him, his expression curious but not unfriendly.

“Hey,” Hokuto says when he’s close enough. “Weren’t you in Piano Forum just now?”

“Yeah.” Taiga’s voice comes out rougher than he intends. “Had a thrilling performance.”

Hokuto doesn’t bite. Just studies him, that steady kind of focus that feels invasive without meaning to. “Are you okay?”

The question lands wrong. Too simple. Too honest. Nobody asks that unless they want to feel good about asking. But Hokuto looks like he means it.

“Fine,” he says automatically. Then, because he’s apparently incapable of leaving well enough alone, “Helping a friend?”

Hokuto glances back toward the bench. “Oh, her? She was having trouble with her theory assignment. I just—”

“Girlfriend?”

“No.” Hokuto shrugs. “I don’t know her. She looked upset, so...”

So he helped. Of course he did. Because that’s the kind of person Hokuto is, apparently. The kind who stops for crying strangers and offers tissues and patient ears and whatever else people need.

The kind who would jump into train tracks to save someone.

The vision rushes back—the phone call, the voice explaining about the train accident, about Hokuto saving a mother and baby but not himself. About dying on impact.

“Let me guess,” Taiga says, his voice sharpening. “You’re the type who’d jump onto train tracks if someone fell in.”

It’s meant to sting, to push Hokuto away before this conversation goes somewhere Taiga isn’t ready for.

But Hokuto doesn’t flinch. He just goes still, gaze distant. “Actually,” he says quietly, “I think about that sometimes.”

Taiga blinks. “What?”

“Whether I would. Whether I’d be brave enough.” Hokuto looks past him, eyes far away. “There was this incident a few years ago at Shizuoka Station. A man fell onto the tracks—drunk, I think—and three people jumped down to help him. They all made it out safely, but I remember watching the news coverage and wondering if I would have done the same thing.”

The calm in his voice makes Taiga’s skin crawl. Like he’s talking about the weather.

“And?”

Hokuto looks back at him. There’s something raw in his expression, something that makes Taiga want to look away. “I think I would. Even if it meant...”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

Even if it meant dying.

Taiga’s chest goes cold. The vision snaps back—the call, the hospital, the explanation about heroism that felt more like a death sentence.

“That’s stupid,” he says, too fast, too sharp. “Throwing your life away for strangers.”

Hokuto raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”

“Yes.” The word comes out like a snap. “You have people who care about you. A family. Friends. What about them?”

“What about the person on the tracks?”

The simplicity cuts deeper than an argument. There’s no righteousness in Hokuto’s voice. Just genuine confusion, like he can’t understand why this is even a debate.

“You can’t save everyone,” Taiga says finally.

“No,” Hokuto agrees. “But you can try to save someone.”

The space between them fills with noise—voices, footsteps, the faint echo of a piano from somewhere distant. Life carrying on.

Taiga’s hand finds the dog tag under his shirt. Cold metal, grounding. “I need a cigarette,” he says abruptly.

“Those things will kill you,” Hokuto says. No judgment. Just observation.

“Not as fast as train tracks.”

The joke falls flat. Hokuto’s expression shifts into something that might be concern. Taiga immediately regrets opening his mouth.

“We should go,” Taiga says, stepping back. “Tanaka’s probably wondering where we disappeared to.”

“Probably,” Hokuto agrees, but he doesn’t move.

They stand there for another moment, the silence stretching. Taiga wants to say something else, but he doesn’t know what.

Instead, he turns and walks away.

He dares look back, and finds Hokuto following his lead.

🎹

The room smells like old wood and sweat. Years of it, soaked into the grain. Taiga pushes the door open and gets hit by the mix—rosin, metal polish, that faint dampness from the felt hammers.

It should be comforting. Instead, it feels like walking into a trap.

Juri’s already there, bent over sheet music, earbuds in. He looks up as they enter—first surprised, then confused, then something like relief.

“Well, well,” he says, pulling out one earbud. “Look who decided to show up after all.”

Taiga drops his bag beside a chair, harder than necessary. “Smoke break helped.”

Juri just smirks and doesn’t push. Taiga files that away as a small mercy.

Hokuto sets his bag down slower, careful like always. He unzips it, pulls out three bottled lattes, then a white box. He places it on the small table between the chairs.

“I thought we might want something to eat before we start,” he says, opening the box to reveal six perfectly shaped onigiri.

They’re not the uniform triangles you’d buy at a konbini. These are clearly handmade, with slightly uneven edges and different fillings visible through the rice.

Taiga stares at them. “You made these?”

“This morning.” Hokuto lines up the bottles. “I had leftover rice and thought...” He stops, glancing down. “If you don’t want them, that’s fine.”

“No, it’s—” Taiga cuts himself off before it turns into thanks. “They’re fine.”

Juri’s already halfway through one. “Shit, these are good. What’s in this one?”

“Tuna mayo,” Hokuto says, settling into his chair. “The others are salmon and pickled plum.”

They eat in near silence. Somewhere down the hall, someone runs scales—clumsy, loud, human.

Taiga takes small bites. The rice tastes clean, seasoned just right. Careful hands made this. Too careful. It sits heavy in his chest.

“So,” Juri says after a while, brushing crumbs from his fingers, “Ear Training quiz in a few hours. You both ready to fail spectacularly?”

Hokuto gives him a look. “Speak for yourself.”

“I’m being realistic.” Juri leans back in his chair, phone in hand. “Tsuburaya-sensei is brutal with the harmonic progressions. Last week she had us identify diminished sevenths in four different keys, and I swear she was making some of them up.”

Taiga picks at the edge of his second onigiri, half-listening. They talk like normal students. Like that’s still possible.

“What about you, Kyomo?” Juri turns to him, tone easy but eyes sharp. “You’ve been MIA for most of the semester. How’s your interval recognition?”

“Fine,” Taiga says automatically.

“Define fine.”

He meets Juri’s stare, irritation flickering. “I can tell the difference between a major third and a perfect fourth, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.” Juri’s voice softens, almost cautious now. “Look, I get it, okay? The pressure thing. The feeling like you have to be perfect or you’re nothing.”

The words hang there, heavier than they should. Taiga looks up despite himself. Juri’s playing with his phone, avoiding their eyes.

“I’m here on scholarship,” Juri continues. “Full ride, which sounds great until you realize it means you can’t afford to fail anything. Not even once. Every quiz, every assignment, every fucking sight-reading exercise—it all matters. Because if your grades slip, if you don’t maintain the standard they expect...” He shrugs. “Then you’re just another kid from Chiba who thought he was special.”

The honesty lands harder than Taiga expects. He’s never thought about it that way—failure as a door slamming shut, not just a bruise to the ego.

“But that’s different,” Taiga says.

He immediately regrets it when Juri’s expression hardens. “How?”

He’s stepped into something he can’t walk back. How does he explain the opposite weight? Having too much—too much help, too many expectations, too many people who decided he was supposed to matter? How does he say that what scares him isn’t losing anything, it’s proving he was never worth it?

“I just meant—” He stops, frustrated with himself. “Never mind.”

Hokuto’s been quiet, the way he gets when he’s watching everything. Then he speaks. “Different pressures, maybe. But the fear’s the same, isn’t it?”

Both of them look at him.

Hokuto unwraps another onigiri, calm, eyes down. “Being afraid that you’re not good enough,” he says softly. “That everyone else can see something you can’t. That you’re just... pretending to belong here.”

Taiga wants to argue. He wants to tell him he fits here more than either of them ever will. But the way Hokuto says it—steady, almost fragile—kills the impulse.

“Yeah,” Juri says after a pause. “That’s it exactly.”

Taiga takes a sip of his latte to buy silence. Too sweet. Too easy. The kind of sweetness that hides bitterness underneath. The room feels smaller now, their words hanging in it like heat.

“The quiz,” he says finally, the escape hatch in his voice clear. “What do we need to review?”

Juri brightens at the shift. “Right. So the format our class did last Thursday was interval identification, chord progressions, and rhythmic dictation. The rhythmic stuff is where I crashed and burned.” He pulls out his laptop, connecting it to the room’s small speakers. “Hokuto, you’re good with rhythms, right? Wind players usually are.”

“I can help,” Hokuto agrees. “Though I might need backup on the chord progressions.”

They start sorting through their things—sheets spreading across the table, pencils, notebooks, scraps of paper scrawled with half-legible annotations. It feels almost ritualistic, like each item placed between them builds some invisible order.

Taiga watches, slow to join in. Their rhythm together is natural, almost practiced, though he knows they barely know each other. That ease is foreign to him. He’s used to walls. To noise without warmth.

But as Juri cues up the first practice exercise and Hokuto adjusts his chair to get a better view of the laptop screen, Taiga finds himself relaxing slightly. Maybe it’s the onigiri, or the way neither of them has mentioned his earlier breakdown in Piano Forum.

Maybe it’s just the relief of having something concrete to focus on.

“Okay,” Juri says, finger hovering over the play button. “Ready to get your asses kicked by some interval training?”

Taiga picks up his pencil. “Let’s do it.”

🎹

The last interval hits—perfect fifth. Taiga hesitates, pencil hovering just a second too long before he writes it down. Around him, chairs scrape, paper shuffles, the rustle of people who already know how they did.

Not perfect. But not a disaster either. The rhythmic dictation had tripped him—the syncopations sliding just out of reach, like a heartbeat skipping time.

“How’d it go?” Hokuto asks quietly, sliding his own pencil into his bag.

“Fine.” The word comes out too sharp. He softens it with a shrug. “Could’ve been worse.”

Hokuto nods, though something in his expression suggests he heard the deflection. He waits while Taiga gathers his things, not rushing or offering empty reassurances. It’s a small kindness that makes Taiga’s chest tight.

They leave with the rest of the class. Footsteps echo against the hallway tiles, rhythm steady, unhurried. Afternoon light spills through the high windows, slanting gold across the floor.

Taiga checks his phone. They have two and a half hours until they’re supposed to meet Juri for Theory.

“Want to study together?” Hokuto asks as they reach the doors. “For tonight’s class, I mean. Ohno-sensei may not look like it, but he can be... intense with the chromatic harmony stuff.”

The question hangs there, too easy, too open. Taiga’s first instinct is the usual—say no, walk off, disappear. Distance is safer. Always has been.

But Hokuto is looking at him with those quiet, dark eyes.

“Okay,” Taiga says before he can stop himself. “Where—”

His phone buzzes. Hokuto’s too. Notifications from the Music Theory group chat.

Ohno-sensei’s Assistant (3:31 PM): Class canceled tonight due to emergency. Apologies for short notice.

“Well,” Hokuto says, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “Guess we have the rest of Saturday off.”

Another buzz. Juri this time.

Juri (3:32 PM): emergency = sensei probably fell asleep in his office again lol

Juri (3:32 PM): want to work on the Gluck project instead? I’m heading to gusto 5 min from campus.

Hokuto (3:34 PM): That works for me. See you there in 10?

Juri (3:34 PM): 👍

Taiga sends a quick sure and pockets his phone. “Guess we’re doing research instead.”

They walk across campus at an easy pace. The air feels softer now—late spring sunlight, students spread out across the grass, laughter carrying from somewhere near the fountain.

Normal noise. Almost pleasant.

“Did you ever think about quitting?” The words slip out before he can stop them.

Hokuto glances over. “Music, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes.” Hokuto adjusts his bag strap, gaze somewhere ahead. “When I was younger, I used to wonder what it would be like to be normal. To have hobbies instead of... this.” A faint, self-conscious gesture toward the conservatory buildings. “But then I’d pick up my flute, and it felt like breathing again.”

Taiga doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. He knows that feeling—used to, anyway. Before London turned sound into something that hurts.

They stop at the crosswalk. The family restaurant sits across the street—glass windows catching the sun, people inside laughing.

The light turns green. They step into the crosswalk, and Taiga is thinking about Gluck, about the research paper they need to outline, when someone slams into his shoulder.

The impact sends him stumbling sideways, balance gone, his bag sliding off his shoulder.

For a moment, he’s falling—time suspended, the pavement rushing up to meet him—

Then Hokuto’s hands catch him. Strong fingers wrap around his upper arm, steadying him, pulling him upright.

For a second, the world freezes. The smell of soap and cologne. Warm fingers against his sleeve. Gold flecks in dark eyes.

“You okay?” Hokuto asks, but his voice sounds distant, muffled.

Taiga can’t answer. The world has narrowed to this moment—Hokuto’s hands warm against his arm, the way the afternoon light catches in his hair, the careful concern in his expression.

He should move. Step back. Break it. But his body doesn’t listen. Neither does Hokuto’s.

“Oi, sorry!” The person who knocked into him—a guy in a delivery uniform, phone pressed to his ear—calls out without stopping. “Didn’t see you there!”

The spell cracks. Hokuto’s hands drop. Taiga steps back fast, heat crawling up his neck.

“I’m fine,” he says, rough. He adjusts his bag, avoiding Hokuto’s gaze. “Just... wasn’t paying attention.”

“Are you sure? You looked—”

“I’m fine,” Taiga repeats, more firmly this time. He starts walking toward the restaurant, needing movement, needing distance from whatever just happened. “Come on. Tanaka’s waiting.”

He hears Hokuto’s footsteps follow. Quieter now. The space between them feels heavier.

Inside the restaurant, bells chime overhead—bright, ordinary. The smell of coffee and fried oil hits him first. Juri waves them over, surrounded by papers, laptop open, chaos contained in a booth.

Normal, he tells himself. This is normal. Group projects, caffeine, noise.

But his arm still burns where Hokuto’s hand had been.

And when he slides into the seat beside him, the space between them feels too small. Too charged.

🪈

The onions whisper as they meet the heat, a slow unraveling of sharpness into something sweet. Hokuto stirs them carefully, the wooden spoon moving in small, patient circles. The pale pieces turn translucent, then golden at the edges, catching the light like fragments of late afternoon.

Beside him, his mother works in her quiet rhythm—peeling, slicing, moving through the kitchen with the calm precision of someone who’s done this her whole life.

“Almost ready for the stock,” Riko says, glancing at the timer. “You’re getting good at this.”

He nods, though his mind isn’t really here. It drifts—back to that crosswalk, the shock of contact when Taiga stumbled, his hands gripping warmth before he could think. The way those dark eyes had met his, startled, unreadable. The memory still hums faintly under his ribs, like something unfinished.

From the living room, his siblings’ voices spill into the kitchen—bright, familiar chaos.

“You can’t just skip three spaces!” Yuina’s voice cuts through, sharp and indignant. “That’s not how the game works!”

“But look, it says ‘shortcut to temple,’” Masaya argues, the board clattering faintly. “I’m following the instructions!”

“That’s for the other temple, dummy! You have to land on the exact space first.”

The sound makes Hokuto’s mouth soften into a smile he doesn’t notice. He adds the grated apple to the pot, and the sweetness mingles with the warmth of onion.

“Hoku-nii!” Masaya’s voice breaks through the steam. “Tell Yuina-nee she’s being mean!”

“Tell Masaya he’s cheating!” Yuina fires back before Hokuto can answer.

“Play fair,” he says without looking up. His tone is quiet but carries just enough weight to reach them. “Both of you.”

The room settles almost instantly—soft laughter, a rustle of the board being rearranged.

Riko chuckles beside him. “Some things never change. Remember when you used to referee their fights over toy trains?”

He does. Masaya’s tears over the blue engine, Yuina’s stubborn defense that it was her turn. He must have been twelve then, maybe younger—learning too early how to keep the peace, how to trade his own turn for silence.

“They were easier to manage back then,” he says, adding the chicken stock. The pot sighs as the steam lifts, carrying a scent that feels almost like memory itself.

“Were they? Or were you just more willing to sacrifice your own wants to keep everyone happy?”

The words touch something soft and unguarded. He doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps stirring, watching the broth turn cloudy, the bubbles rising and disappearing. Silence has always been the easiest way to recover.

“The potatoes,” his mother says after a moment, her voice gentler now. She passes him the cutting board. “Careful with the corners. You want them to hold their shape.”

He nods, wiping his hands before taking the knife.

The rhythm returns—steady, familiar. Each slice lands clean against the wood, guided more by memory than thought. This kitchen has shaped him as much as any classroom ever did. It’s where he learned quiet responsibility, the language of care spoken without words.

“You’ve been distracted since you got home,” Riko says, watching him. “More than usual.”

His hand hesitates for just a heartbeat. “Just tired. Lots of schoolwork.”

“Mm.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “Or maybe it’s that mystery person you keep checking your phone for.”

Heat rises beneath his collar before he can stop it. “I don’t—”

“Three times during lunch,” she continues mildly. “Twice while we were watching the news. And just now, when you thought I wasn’t looking.” Her smile is small, knowing. “Is it someone from school?”

He wants to deflect, to hide behind small talk about dinner or Yuina’s exams, but his mother has always known how to read silence.

“Maybe,” he says at last, the word leaving him like an exhale he’s been holding too long.

“Someone special?”

The question lingers in the warm air. Special feels too light, too simple for whatever it is that draws him toward Taiga—the quiet gravity of those dark eyes, the way he carries his own distance like armor. Hokuto doesn’t know what to call it, only that it unsettles something deep in him.

“I’m not sure,” he murmurs. “It’s complicated.”

“The good ones usually are.”

From the living room, Masaya’s triumphant cheer cuts through the moment. “Ha! I made it to the shrine first!”

“That’s because you cheated three turns ago,” Yuina grumbles, her voice half a complaint, half laughter.

The sound tugs a smile out of him before he can help it.

Hokuto adds the carrots and potatoes to the pot, watching them sink beneath the surface. The broth thickens slightly as it begins to simmer, carrying that faint sweetness of apple and onion through the air. It will take time now for the flavors to blend, for everything to soften just enough.

“Tell me about them,” his mother says, leaning back against the counter. Her tone is casual, but there’s warmth beneath it, a quiet invitation.

He hesitates. How do you describe someone who slips away the moment you try to understand them? Someone who flinches at kindness, whose hands tremble when they think no one sees?

“He’s a pianist,” Hokuto says at last. “Second year, like me. He’s… brilliant. Was a prodigy once. But something happened abroad, and now he won’t play like he used to.”

“Won’t, or can’t?”

“Both, maybe.”

Riko nods slowly, as if that makes perfect sense. “And you want to help him.”

It isn’t really a question, but he answers anyway. “I want to understand him,” Hokuto says softly. “He’s… there’s something about him that feels familiar. Like I’ve been waiting for him without realizing it.”

“That sounds like a crush to me.”

The words make his chest tighten. A flush creeps up before he can stop it. Is that what this is—this pull toward someone who keeps their walls so carefully built? This urge to reach across the distance, even when it feels like rejection waiting to happen?

“I barely know him,” he murmurs.

“Sometimes knowing and recognizing are different things.”

She says it simply, the way only someone who has lived long enough to believe such things can. As though the heart doesn’t need introductions, only recognition.

The timer chimes softly then, saving him from an answer. Hokuto lifts the lid, and a wave of warmth escapes. The vegetables are tender now, holding their shape just as his mother instructed. Almost ready.

“The roux,” his mother says, handing him the small packet.

He turns off the burner, waiting for the bubbling to quiet. When he drops the blocks in, they melt slowly, dissolving into the broth until it deepens into a rich, dark gold. He stirs gently, careful not to rush.

“When do you go back?” Riko asks after a moment.

“Tomorrow morning. Early train.”

“Will you see him soon?”

He thinks of the group chat, of Juri’s bright messages and Taiga’s brief replies—words that seem to cost him more than they should. But still, he shows up. Always shows up.

“Probably,” Hokuto says. “We’re working on a paper together.”

“Good. Don’t let him disappear on you.”

Her words sound simple, but they land heavier than she probably means them to. His mother has seen him do this before—pouring quiet care into people who drift away anyway. She knows how easily he confuses acceptance with love.

“What if he wants to disappear?” he asks, the question slipping out before he can catch it.

“Then you let him know he doesn’t have to. Not from you.”

The curry simmers softly between them, filling the kitchen with warmth that clings to skin and breath. Through the doorway, Hokuto can see Yuina helping Masaya count spaces, her voice low and patient. The smallness of the scene steadies him—this house that has always been too full, too fragile, yet still whole.

Soon, he’ll be back in Tokyo. Back to the shared silences of their apartment, to the sound of Taiga’s careful footsteps and the distance he carries like a shadow.

His phone buzzes faintly on the counter.

He reaches for it almost without thinking. The screen lights up with their group chat, Juri’s name flashing first.

Juri (4:47 PM): finished my section!! anyone want to compare notes before we meet thursday?

Hokuto (4:48 PM): I’ll read it tonight. Good work.

He waits. The seconds stretch a little too long, the quiet filling with possibility. Sometimes Taiga answers. Sometimes he doesn’t.

Taiga (4:52 PM): yeah. send it over.

Just four words, but they’re enough. Proof that wherever Taiga is, he’s still there—still orbiting in that quiet, steady way that makes Hokuto’s chest ache with something almost like relief.

“There,” Riko says softly, watching him from across the counter. “That’s what a crush looks like.”

He tries to hide the smile tugging at his mouth, but it’s too late. It’s already there—small, unguarded, caught in the light of the simmering curry.

🪈

The dishes clink softly in the soapy water, each sound small and ordinary against the hush that has settled over the house. Hokuto works slowly, watching the faint gold of curry dissolve into the sink’s spiral of warmth. Steam gathers around his hands, soft and fleeting.

Behind him, Yuina stacks plates with the same quiet precision their mother uses, while Masaya makes a show of wiping the table—his movements wide, theatrical, too much energy for such a small space.

“You missed a spot,” Yuina says, eyes still on the chopsticks she’s arranging.

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

The rhythm of it all feels familiar—the easy teasing, the sound of running water, the faint hum of the refrigerator. Without their mother in the room, the kitchen feels different. Not empty, just gentler. She’d gone to call their grandmother, leaving the three of them to finish what she started. What remains is silence, but not the heavy kind. The comfortable kind that comes from knowing each other’s patterns by heart.

“Hoku-nii,” Masaya says suddenly, abandoning his halfhearted cleaning. “Mom said you have a crush.”

The pot nearly slips from Hokuto’s hands. “She what?”

“When you were checking your phone during the news. She whispered it to me.” Masaya’s grin is immediate, mischievous. “So who is it? Do we know them?”

“It’s not—” Hokuto sets the pot in the drying rack with more force than he means to. “It’s complicated.”

Yuina looks up, the faint gleam of interest in her eyes. “Complicated how? Like, they’re already dating someone? Or complicated like you’re overthinking it?”

“Definitely overthinking,” Masaya says immediately. “Hoku-nii overthinks everything. Remember when it took him three weeks to decide whether to switch flute teachers?”

“That was different,” Hokuto protests, reaching for the rice cooker. “That was about my education.”

“And this is about your happiness,” Yuina replies, her tone matter-of-fact. “Which is arguably more important.”

The rice cooker comes apart in quiet pieces—lid, inner pot, steam vent—each one rinsed and placed neatly aside. He works by instinct, movements practiced from years of repetition, but his thoughts keep slipping elsewhere. Back to his phone, to the glow of the screen and the simplest of messages.

Four words. Yeah. Send it over.

Not much, really. But from Taiga, it feels like more than it should. A small, steady proof that he hasn’t disappeared into silence.

“So?” Masaya leans closer, elbows on the counter, eyes bright with curiosity. “What’s their name? What do they look like? Are they cute?”

“Masaya.” Hokuto’s voice carries a soft warning, though it lacks conviction.

“Come on, we’re your siblings,” Masaya insists. “We’re supposed to give terrible advice and embarrass you. It’s part of the job description.”

Yuina snorts, her lips twitching. “Speak for yourself. I give excellent advice.”

“Like when you told me to ask Natsuki-chan to the school festival by practicing my confession on our neighbor’s cat?”

“That was practice! And it worked, didn’t it? You asked her.”

“And she said no because I spent the whole time talking about how cats have better hearing than humans.”

Hokuto can’t help the small laugh that escapes him. It feels light, unguarded. This gentle noise, the warmth that lingers after laughter, is what he misses most about home. The way his siblings can dissolve any heaviness before it has time to settle.

“His name is Kyomoto Taiga,” he says finally, not quite meeting their eyes. “He’s a pianist.”

The silence that follows isn’t teasing. It’s full, watchful. When he looks up, both Yuina and Masaya are studying him with an odd mix of curiosity and something else—concern, maybe, or surprise.

“A pianist,” Yuina repeats slowly. “Like, conservatory level?”

“He’s in my year. Second year.”

“Is he good?” Masaya asks, voice softening just a little, as if he already senses that this name carries weight.

Hokuto thinks of the way Taiga plays when he forgets to hold himself back—the sudden brightness, the ache that hides inside every note. “Very good. Was supposed to be, anyway.”

“Supposed to be?”

“Something happened,” Hokuto says quietly. “He doesn’t really play anymore. Not like he used to.”

Yuina sets the chopsticks aside, folding her hands on the counter. “And you want to help him get back to it.”

It’s not a question, but he nods anyway, because denying it feels dishonest. “Maybe. I don’t know if he wants help.”

“Do you like him because he’s broken?” Masaya asks, his tone so direct it almost startles Hokuto. “Because that’s kind of messed up, Hoku-nii.”

“Masaya!” Yuina elbows him sharply.

“What? I’m just saying. He always tries to fix people. Remember when he brought home that stray cat with the hurt paw? Or when he tutored Yoshizawa-kun for months even though he was supposed to be studying for entrance exams?”

“That’s different,” Hokuto says quickly, though the heat rising in his neck betrays him. “This isn’t about fixing anyone.”

“Then what is it about?” Yuina’s voice softens, curious rather than accusing.

He turns back to the sink, to the small foam of bubbles clinging to his fingers. The scent of curry still lingers faintly on his skin, sweet and warm. He doesn’t know how to explain the feeling—the way Taiga’s presence feels less like discovery and more like remembering something he’s never known.

“I don’t know,” he admits, almost to himself. “When I look at him, it’s like… like I’ve been waiting for him without realizing it. Does that make sense?”

“No,” Masaya says immediately. “That sounds like something from one of Yuina’s romance novels.”

“Shut up,” Yuina mutters, but there’s color in her cheeks. “Actually, that’s… kind of romantic, Hoku-nii. In a weird way.”

“It’s not romantic. It’s confusing.” Hokuto drains the sink, watching the water spiral away. “He ran away the first time he saw me. Literally ran.”

“Maybe he was just surprised,” Yuina offers. “Some people don’t handle unexpected feelings well.”

“Or maybe he thinks you’re a stalker,” Masaya adds, far too pleased with himself. “Have you been following him around campus?”

“I haven’t been following anyone around.”

“But you want to, right? That’s what the phone checking is about.”

Hokuto doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. The silence stretches long enough for both of them to exchange a knowing look.

“Okay,” Yuina says finally, sliding onto one of the stools at the counter. “Here’s what you do. Stop trying so hard.”

“I’m not trying hard.”

“I bet you bring him food during study sessions. That’s definitely trying hard.”

“How do you—”

“You practically raised us, nii-chan. I think it’s sweet,” she says gently. “But maybe overwhelming, for someone who’s already dealing with stuff.”

Masaya climbs up beside her, his legs swinging. “Yeah, be more casual. Like, ‘Hey, want to grab coffee?’ instead of, ‘I made you food with my own hands as a token of my affection.’”

“I didn’t say it was a token of affection.”

“You didn’t have to. It’s in your eyes, Hoku-nii. You get this look.”

“What look?”

“The same look you get when you’re playing something really beautiful,” Yuina says softly. “Kind of… hopeful. And scared at the same time.”

The words land gently but linger, like a note held just a little too long. Hokuto feels them settle somewhere deep, where he hides things even from himself.

“So what do I do?” he asks quietly.

“Be yourself,” Yuina says. “Just… maybe dial it back a little. Let him come to you sometimes.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then you’ll know,” Masaya says, his tone unexpectedly steady. “And you can move on.”

Hokuto lets out a faint breath that might be a laugh. “You two are terrible advisors.”

“But excellent observers,” Yuina counters, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “And we like seeing you happy.”

“Even if it’s over some mysterious pianist who runs away from restaurants,” Masaya adds, grinning.

The sound of their mother’s footsteps carries down the hallway before Hokuto can reply, her phone call apparently finished. He turns, drying his hands with a towel, just as she appears in the doorway.

Something in her expression makes Hokuto’s stomach tighten—the way her composure wavers at the edges, the slight tremor she tries to hide.

“Can you three sit with me in the living room?” she asks quietly. “There’s something we need to discuss.”

The towel slips from Hokuto’s fingers. Beside him, Yuina and Masaya go still, their chatter folding into silence.

“Mom?” Masaya’s voice carries a faint tremor, soft and uncertain, younger than his years.

“It’s okay,” Riko says quickly. Too quickly. “Just… let’s sit down together.”

They follow her into the living room in single file, each step a little slower than the last. Hokuto lingers behind them, the air thick with an unease that hasn’t yet found its shape.

The sugoroku board still lies open on the coffee table, pieces scattered mid-game, frozen as if time itself had paused.

Riko lowers herself onto the couch, smoothing her skirt with both hands—a small, nervous ritual. Hokuto chooses the armchair closest to her, while Yuina and Masaya take their places at either end of the couch, like quiet sentinels.

“That was your grandmother on the phone,” Riko begins, then hesitates. Her gaze shifts toward the window, to where the neighbor’s porch light falls across the small garden in pale gold. “Actually, no. That’s not where I should start.”

A cold awareness threads through Hokuto’s chest. He doesn’t know what she’s about to say, not exactly—but some part of him has been expecting it for years.

“Your father and I,” Riko says at last, her voice almost steady, “have decided to divorce.”

The words seem to hang in the air, fragile and unanchored, before they finally sink in. The silence that follows feels too still, too careful. Hokuto’s breath catches. Masaya makes a small sound—half gasp, half question—but no one moves to fill the space.

“It’s been a long time coming,” Riko says softly. “We’ve been trying to work things out for years, but… some things can’t be fixed. Not when both people have grown into different versions of themselves.”

“When?” Yuina asks. Her voice is calm, deliberate, but Hokuto hears the faint tremor beneath it.

“We’ll submit the papers next week. Your father will move out after that. He’s already found an apartment closer to his office.” Riko reaches over to squeeze Yuina’s hand, her smile small and sad. “Your grandmother will come stay with us, at least until you graduate and I can find steadier work.”

Masaya shifts slightly, his voice breaking through the quiet. “What about Hoku-nii’s school? The conservatory’s expensive, right?”

“Your father will still send money for school and other expenses,” Riko says firmly. “That’s one thing we agreed on. Your education is not negotiable. Any of yours.”

But Hokuto can hear the unspoken strain beneath her certainty—the way her words stretch around what they don’t say. He knows what tighter means, what sacrifices look like.

“I should have seen this sooner,” he murmurs. “I should have done more to help.”

Three pairs of eyes turn toward him. Riko’s expression softens, though there’s something like weariness behind it.

“Hokuto,” she says, gentle but unyielding. “This is not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault except two adults who couldn’t find their way back to each other.”

“But I could have been home more,” he insists quietly. “Helped with Masaya’s homework, or cooked dinner more often, or—”

“Or what? Fixed our marriage by making perfect rice?” Her voice is still soft, but it carries a sharp edge of truth. “Sweetheart, you’ve already given up too much. You’ve been trying to hold this family together since you were Masaya’s age. That was never your job.”

The words land with a quiet finality. Hokuto lowers his eyes, tracing the faint pattern in the fabric of his pants. He doesn’t argue, but something inside him resists—an old instinct that refuses to let go of responsibility.

He remembers evenings filled with the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of rain against the glass, when his father stayed late at work and his mother drifted into silence. He remembers reading to Masaya on the couch until the boy fell asleep, or standing beside Yuina at the kitchen counter, guiding her through homework she already understood.

He’d thought, back then, that he was just helping. That if he stayed steady enough, calm enough, maybe everything else would fall back into place.

“Will we still see Dad?” Masaya asks in a small voice.

“Of course,” Riko says. “This doesn’t change how much he loves you. It just changes where he sleeps.”

Yuina straightens beside her mother, chin lifting a little. “What do you need us to do?”

It’s such a Yuina thing to say—practical, clear-headed, already thinking in steps and solutions. Hokuto feels an ache of affection rise in his throat.

“Just keep being yourselves,” Riko answers. “Keep working hard in school. Keep taking care of each other.” Her gaze shifts to him, quiet but firm. “And stop trying to carry everyone else’s problems on your shoulders.”

“I don’t—”

“You do,” she interrupts softly. “You always have. Even now, I can see you calculating how to make this easier for all of us.” She reaches across the space between them and rests her hand over his. Her fingers are warm, steady. “But this time, let the adults handle the adult problems, okay?”

Hokuto nods, though it feels like something inside him resists the motion. He doesn’t know how to not take care of things. The habit has settled too deep—it’s stitched into him like a breath.

“So Grandma is really coming?” Masaya asks after a pause. His voice carries a small spark of curiosity, the kind that peeks through worry.

“She is,” Riko says. “She’s been wanting to spend more time with you three anyway. This just gives her an excuse.”

Yuina exhales a soft laugh. “She’ll want to redecorate. Remember last time she visited? She moved all the furniture around and declared our kitchen ‘inefficient.’”

“She also taught you how to make her dumpling recipe,” Riko reminds her.

“After criticizing mine for an hour.”

“That’s just her way.”

The faint humor that returns feels fragile but necessary, a small reprieve from the weight of the evening. They talk for a while longer—small details, questions, plans—until Masaya begins to yawn and Yuina starts stacking the abandoned game pieces on the table.

Riko presses a kiss to each of their heads before retreating down the hall. The house falls back into its quiet rhythm—the kind that deepens after news too heavy to name.

Hokuto lingers, collecting the dishes left on the coffee table, moving slowly as though the stillness might shatter if he’s not careful.

He moves through the house with deliberate care—checking that the doors are locked, that the kitchen light is off, that the kettle has been emptied. The small rituals steady him, give shape to the quiet.

In the kitchen, the air still carries a trace of curry and soap, faint warmth clinging to the sink. He wipes down the counter once more, not because it needs it, but because the motion keeps his hands from trembling.

Upstairs, the hallway is dim. Yuina’s door is already closed, Masaya’s cracked open just enough for the soft sound of his breathing to spill out.

Hokuto pauses there for a moment, just listening. He used to stand like this when they were small—waiting for the house to settle before he could let himself rest. Some habits never left.

When he finally steps into his own room, the air feels heavier. He sits on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, and opens it out of reflex. Two unread messages—one from Jesse about weekend plans, another from their group chat. Juri has shared a performance clip, bright with exclamation marks.

Taiga hasn’t replied.

Hokuto’s thumb hovers over the keyboard. He could tell them. My parents are getting divorced. Everything’s shifting. I don’t know how to stop trying to fix it.

But even thinking the words feels too heavy for a screen.

He sets the phone aside and lies back against his pillow. The quiet presses close now, wrapping him in all the things he can’t say aloud—the tremor in his mother’s smile, the steadiness Yuina forces into her voice, the way Masaya’s question had cracked in the middle.

He closes his eyes, but rest doesn’t come. Instead, his mind begins arranging numbers, solutions, the same way it always does when he feels helpless: tuition, rent, lessons, groceries. Ways to make it easier. Ways to make it right.

But somewhere beneath the calculations, something softer stirs. The slow realization that there is no fixing this. That no matter how carefully he plans, some things simply break—and maybe they’re meant to.

The thought frightens him. It also feels like truth.

He exhales and watches the ceiling blur into shadow. For the first time in years, he admits—quietly, to the dark—that he doesn’t know what to do.

🪈

The alarm cuts through the early morning hush, though Hokuto has been awake for a while, eyes tracing the pale light gathering at the edges of his curtains. Sleep had come in uneven pieces—moments of drifting, then sudden awareness, as though his body refused to forget the shape of last night’s truth.

His parents are getting divorced. The thought still feels unreal, like something he overheard about someone else’s family.

He swings his legs from the bed and crosses to the bathroom. Cold water, the shock of it, helps a little. In the mirror, his reflection looks almost calm—eyes tired but unsurprised.

Maybe he’d known all along, in some quiet corner of himself. The dinners filled with silence, the careful civility between two people who’d stopped really seeing each other.

Half an hour later, he’s dressed and moving through the kitchen, every motion deliberate. There’s no class today, but he’s meeting Taiga at the library soon—a thought that feels strangely out of place against everything else that’s unraveling. Jesse and Shintaro have their 9:00 class, which means the apartment is his for now, quiet enough for routine.

The fridge hums softly when he opens it. Mackerel his mother made him take home. Rice in the cooker. Miso paste. Pickled vegetables he’d made over the weekend. He gathers them one by one, letting the small order of preparation ground him.

He scores the fish, salts it, and sets the pan to heat. Steam curls up from the pot where miso dissolves into dashi, the scent warm and familiar. These small, practiced movements are what he can control—what stay steady when everything else feels uncertain.

The sound of a door opening draws him back. Shintaro steps out, hair tousled, jeans hanging loose on his hips, a t-shirt soft with sleep. Even this early, he carries a kind of easy rhythm, like his body hasn’t learned how to be still.

“Morning,” Shintaro says, stifling a yawn. He glances toward the stove, eyes brightening a little. “Smells good. Mackerel?”

“Mm.” Hokuto flips the fish, listening to the soft hiss as the skin crisps and curls. “Where’s Jesse?”

“Stayed at Yugo’s last night.” Shintaro stretches lazily, arms lifting over his head until his shirt rides up just enough to catch the light. “Said he’d meet me at class.”

There’s an easy fondness in his tone when he says their names, a quiet amusement that makes Hokuto’s chest ache in a way he doesn’t examine too closely. He’s noticed it before—the way Shintaro observes the world with warmth that expects nothing in return.

“The wellness seminar, right?” Hokuto asks, sliding the mackerel onto a plate.

“Physical and mental wellness for artists.” Shintaro makes small air quotes, though his voice stays thoughtful. “Apparently we’re learning about ‘sustainable practice habits’ and ‘managing performance anxiety.’ Could be useful, I guess. Some of the dancers in my program are already burning out.”

The rice cooker chimes. Hokuto opens it and stirs through the steam, the scent of freshly cooked rice mixing with the salt and miso in the air.

He begins portioning the rice into bowls, his movements slow and practiced. “How was your Golden Week?”

“Good. Boring.” Shintaro drops onto one of the kitchen stools, elbows on the counter. “Kanazawa is Kanazawa. My parents wanted to ‘check on my progress’ at school.”

Something in his tone makes Hokuto glance up. The words are light, but there’s a small crease between his brows that doesn’t quite smooth out. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just… you know how it is. They’re still not entirely convinced dance is a ‘real career.’” Shintaro’s shrug is casual, but his shoulders stay tense. “My brother’s doing well at the bank, so I think they’re hoping I’ll come to my senses eventually.”

“Will you?”

“Come to my senses?” The corner of Shintaro’s mouth lifts into a grin, brief but bright. “Probably not. I’m pretty committed to making terrible life choices.”

Hokuto lets out a quiet laugh, almost surprised by it. There’s something disarming about Shintaro’s defiance—how lightly he wears it, how he turns doubt into something that almost looks like joy.

“What about you?” Shintaro asks after a moment, tilting his head slightly. “How was home?”

The question lands softly but carries weight. Hokuto’s hands still for half a second over the miso ladle. He’s been expecting it, maybe even rehearsing an answer, but now that it’s here, the words scatter.

“Complicated,” he says finally, pouring the soup into bowls.

“Complicated how?”

He doesn’t look up right away. Instead, he arranges the pickled vegetables with careful precision. Shintaro watches him quietly, chin propped on his hand, his gaze open in a way that makes truth feel easier to offer.

“My parents are getting divorced,” Hokuto says, the words emerging low, steady.

For a moment, even the faint simmer of the miso seems to quiet. Shintaro’s posture shifts—stillness where there was motion, understanding before speech.

“Shit,” he says softly. “Hokuto, I’m… that’s really hard.”

“It’s been coming for a while,” Hokuto says, setting the bowls down on the counter. “I think I knew, deep down. They haven’t been happy for years.”

“That doesn’t make it easier, though.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

Shintaro slides off the stool, the wooden legs scraping softly against the floor. When he comes closer, the air shifts—faint salt and soap and morning warmth. “Are you okay?”

The question is quiet but steady. No attempt at comfort, no easy reassurance. Just concern, simple and unadorned.

“I don’t know,” Hokuto admits. “I keep thinking there must be something I could do to help. Take on more tutoring, apply for scholarships, maybe find work on weekends…”

“Or take care of everyone else before yourself,” Shintaro finishes for him, his tone gentle but sure. “Like always.”

Hokuto looks up, startled by how easily he’s seen through. “That’s not—” he starts, but the protest falters before it finds shape.

“It is, though.” Shintaro’s voice stays soft, but there’s something firm underneath it. “I’ve watched you, Hokkun. The way you make sure Jesse eats when he’s stressed about Italian Diction. How you still offer to cook even after six hours in the practice rooms. You listen to everyone, but you never talk about yourself.”

The words sink in slowly, the way warmth seeps into chilled hands. Hokuto swallows, unsure what to do with the truth once it’s been named. “Someone has to.”

“No,” Shintaro says, and there’s a flicker of quiet fierceness in his tone. “Someone doesn’t have to. You don’t have to carry everyone else’s burdens.”

For a heartbeat, neither of them moves. The air hums faintly with the scent of grilled fish, miso, and something unspoken.

“It’s just how I am,” Hokuto says finally.

“It’s how you think you have to be,” Shintaro replies. “There’s a difference.”

The certainty in his voice unsettles Hokuto more than he expects. No one has ever said it like that before—with care, but without letting him hide behind gentleness.

They stand in the soft hum of the kitchen, the air rich with the scent of miso and salt. Hokuto can feel Shintaro’s gaze on him—steady, searching—but not invasive. Just enough to make him feel seen in a way that’s almost unbearable.

“You don’t have to fix this,” Shintaro says quietly. “Your parents’ marriage, I mean. It’s not your responsibility.”

“I know that. Logically.” Hokuto’s voice is thin, brittle around the edges. “But—”

“But it feels like abandoning them if you don’t try,” Shintaro finishes for him.

Hokuto nods, the motion small, helpless. “My grandmother’s coming to help with my brother and sister. My mom will be working more hours. There has to be something I can do.”

“Maybe,” Shintaro says, his tone gentler now. “But maybe what they need isn’t you giving up more of yourself. Maybe what they need is to see you doing the thing you love.”

The idea catches him off guard. He looks up, the words settling in slowly, like something his heart understands before his mind can.

He blinks, uncertain how to respond. The thought of not sacrificing something feels foreign, almost selfish. “It still feels complicated,” he says at last.

“Everything’s complicated with you, Hokkun.” Shintaro’s lips curve into a faint smile. “Sometimes I think you prefer it that way.”

The teasing is light, but there’s warmth beneath it—an ease that pulls Hokuto a little closer to the surface. He exhales, almost a laugh. “Maybe. Simple things make me nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because they usually don’t stay simple.”

Shintaro laughs quietly, the sound low and kind. “Fair point. Though some things are worth the complication, right?”

There’s something different in his voice now, something that catches on the edge of meaning. Hokuto looks up, and for a heartbeat, their eyes meet. The morning light catches in Shintaro’s hair, in the faint curve of a smile that doesn’t quite reach self-consciousness.

But then Shintaro steps back, the moment dissolving like breath on glass. He reaches for the plates, his movements easy again, his voice lighter.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s eat.”

They settle at the small table by the window. The light has softened now, spreading across the room in quiet gold.

Hokuto takes a bite of rice; the warmth steadies him.

For a while, they don’t speak. The only sounds are the faint clink of chopsticks, the slow rhythm of two people existing side by side.

He finds himself watching Shintaro—how he hums under his breath between bites, the way sunlight draws faint copper through his hair. There’s a stillness in the moment that feels rare, unguarded.

“Thank you,” Hokuto says finally, his voice low.

“For what?”

“For listening. For not trying to fix it.”

Shintaro meets his eyes across the table, expression soft but sure. “That’s what friends do, right? They show up.”

The words settle somewhere deep, quiet and steady. Maybe that’s all he’s been trying to do all along—not fix, not prove, just show up. To be present when someone needs him there.

He looks toward the light gathering at the edge of the table and thinks, a little wistfully, that maybe that’s what he needs to learn for himself too—how to stay, even when things feel broken.

🪈

The library feels different with just the two of them. Without Juri’s light chatter softening the air, every sound carries further—the slow turning of pages, the delicate tap of Hokuto’s pen against his notebook, the muted hum of the air conditioner.

The quiet isn’t empty; it feels suspended, like breath held between them.

Taiga sits across from him at one of the wide wooden tables near the music section, half-hidden behind a fortress of photocopied articles and thick books on eighteenth-century opera.

Hokuto glances up from his notes on Gluck’s reform principles. Taiga’s brow is furrowed in concentration, his eyes fixed on a passage he seems to be silently arguing with. The small tilt of his head, the subtle rhythm of his fingers against the table’s edge—everything about him holds a kind of unintentional grace.

Even in stillness, there’s music in him.

“The cultural impact section,” Taiga says without looking up. “How much detail do you think we need on the myth itself?”

Hokuto considers, pen poised above his notes. “Probably enough to establish why Gluck chose it for his reform opera. The story’s perfect for what he was trying to do—strip away the baroque excess and focus on pure emotion.”

Taiga finally looks up, one eyebrow lifting. There’s a faint skepticism in his gaze, the kind that makes Hokuto’s pulse pick up before he can explain himself.

“Pure emotion. Is that what you call it?”

“What would you call it?”

“Manipulation.” Taiga leans back slightly, chair creaking in the quiet. “The whole story is designed to make the audience feel something specific. Orpheus loses Eurydice, descends into hell, charms everyone with his music, gets her back, and then throws it all away because he can’t follow one simple rule.”

There’s a sharpness beneath his calm tone that makes Hokuto pause, pen hovering over the page. “You think he was wrong to look back?”

“I think he was selfish.” The words land cleanly, without hesitation.

Hokuto sets the pen down, studying him. “How do you figure?”

“Think about it.” Taiga’s voice stays measured, but there’s something simmering underneath. “Eurydice has been dead, trapped in the underworld. Orpheus convinces the gods to let her return, but there’s one condition: don’t look back until they reach the surface. And what does he do? He looks back anyway, because his own doubt and need for reassurance are more important to him than her freedom.”

Hokuto finds himself leaning forward slightly, drawn by the conviction in Taiga’s tone as much as by the story itself.

“But what if it wasn’t doubt?” Hokuto asks softly. “What if it was love?”

“Love?” Taiga’s laugh is low, almost disbelieving. “If he loved her, he would have trusted the gods’ promise. He would have put her needs before his own feelings.”

“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?”

Something flickers across Taiga’s face—quick, fragile, gone before Hokuto can name it. “No,” he says after a moment. “I haven’t.”

The answer feels both true and distant, as if he’s keeping something just out of reach.

Hokuto studies him quietly, the air between them weighted with all the things Taiga doesn’t say. “I think,” he begins carefully, “that sometimes love makes us do things that look selfish from the outside, but feel necessary from the inside.”

“Necessary how?”

“What if Orpheus looked back because he needed to see her face one more time?” Hokuto says. “Not because he doubted the gods, but because he was about to lose his nerve completely. What if seeing her, even for that split second, gave him the strength to keep going?”

Taiga’s fingers, which had been tapping idly against the table, still. His gaze sharpens, unreadable. “But he didn’t keep going. She died again.”

“She died again,” Hokuto echoes softly. “But maybe in that moment, she understood why he looked back. Maybe she forgave him for being human.”

“That’s a very romantic interpretation.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Taiga’s mouth curves faintly, though it isn’t quite a smile. “Romance tends to gloss over the practical consequences of people’s choices.”

“And cynicism tends to ignore the emotional reality behind those choices,” Hokuto replies, his tone gentle but sure.

For a moment, Taiga doesn’t answer. He only looks at him—really looks—and there’s a flicker in his expression, something wary, like the conversation has wandered too close to something personal.

Hokuto feels the tension humming beneath the quiet and almost lets it fade, almost changes the subject. But something keeps him there—an instinct, or maybe just care disguised as curiosity.

“What happened to you in London?” he asks softly.

The question lands between them like a wrong note in an otherwise steady melody. Taiga’s posture changes instantly—shoulders tightening, chin lifting just slightly. “What do you mean?”

“You were studying piano there, right? But now you’re back, and no one asks you why. I’m just… curious about what changed.”

“Maybe I just discovered I wasn’t as talented as I thought.”

The answer sounds practiced—too smooth, too easy. Hokuto might have believed it if not for the way Taiga’s hand drifts, almost unconsciously, to the dog tag resting against his collarbone. His fingers find the edge of the metal, turning it back and forth like a habit he can’t quite break.

“I don’t think that’s true,” Hokuto says quietly.

Taiga’s eyes lift, sharp. “You don’t know me well enough to have an opinion about what’s true.”

The words are clean, defensive. But Hokuto doesn’t flinch. Something inside him steadies instead, an unfamiliar certainty rising through the hesitation.

“Maybe not,” he says. “But I know what talent looks like. And I know what fear looks like.”

“And you…” Hokuto pauses, searching for the right phrasing, something that won’t sound like pity. “You strike me as someone afraid of what they might be capable of, not someone who lacks ability.”

Taiga stares at him for a long time, the stillness between them growing taut. Hokuto can almost see the movement of thought behind his eyes—flickers of reaction he can’t quite name.

“That’s quite an assumption,” Taiga says at last, his tone cool but not dismissive.

“It’s an observation.”

“Based on what?”

“The way you listen to music,” Hokuto says. “The way you talk about it, even when you’re being cynical. The way your fingers move when you think no one’s watching.” He feels heat rise to his cheeks but doesn’t look away. “You’re still hearing the music, even if you’re not playing it.”

For a heartbeat, Taiga doesn’t move. Then something flickers through his expression—surprise first, then something quieter, almost like recognition.

“You’re more perceptive than I expected,” he says, and his voice has softened, just slightly.

The words send warmth spreading through Hokuto’s chest—unexpected, unguarded. Being seen by Taiga, even for a moment, feels strangely intimate.

“I pay attention,” Hokuto says simply.

“I’ve noticed.”

The words linger, quieter than the room itself. For a while neither of them speaks; the only sound is the low hum of the air conditioning and the faint rustle of a page turning somewhere behind them.

When Hokuto finally looks up, Taiga’s gaze is still on him—not guarded this time, just steady, as though he’s trying to decide whether to let something show. And maybe he does, for just an instant—a glimmer of unspoken understanding passing between them before it disappears again.

Around them, the library remains still. The smell of paper and dust and faintly polished wood presses close. Between their stacks of notes and open books, the air feels charged, fragile, like something delicate and half-formed.

Hokuto realizes, with a quiet kind of awe, that he’s in trouble. Not the loud, dramatic kind—something softer, something that slips under the ribs. He’s drawn to this brilliant, wounded boy across the table, to his sharpness and his silences, to the way even his contradictions seem to make sense.

It settles into him slowly, like light seeping through water.

He’s developing a crush.

And for the first time in a long while, he doesn’t try to talk himself out of it.

🎹

The recital hall swallows him whole. Polished wood, pressed uniforms. Everything is too clean, too measured. Perfection that smells like antiseptic.

Taiga pushes through the glass doors. The air inside feels wrong—filtered, expensive, the kind that makes his skin itch.

Professor Mori calls this rehabilitation. Community service. A chance to “reconnect with music.” Taiga calls it what it is: punishment wearing a polite face. Three missed classes turned into an afternoon pretending to care about teenagers who still think talent means anything.

Juri walks beside him. Mori’s insurance policy. Someone to make sure he doesn’t disappear halfway through. Which is not a bad idea.

“Lighten up,” Juri says, shaking his jacket straight. “It’s just a few hours. Some of these kids are actually good.”

Taiga doesn’t answer.

The lobby hums with nerves—parents whispering, students tuning in corners, the thin metallic buzz of ambition. It’s a sound he knows too well. Too close to what used to matter.

A woman in a navy blazer intercepts them, clipboard held like a shield. “Kyomoto-san? Tanaka-san? Thank you so much for volunteering your time today.”

Volunteering. Sure.

She leads them through the crowd. Posters of past winners line the walls—smiling faces mid-performance, the second before they learn what losing feels like.

Taiga keeps his gaze forward.

The waiting area sits behind thick curtains. The sound bleeds through anyway—half-muted applause, a stray note escaping from the stage. Judges cluster around tables: gray hair, soft voices, comfortable laughter. People who still believe they belong here.

He knows a few of them. They know him, too. He can feel it—their glances, careful and curious. Pity wearing professionalism. The fallen prodigy. How inspiring.

He finds a chair near the window and scrolls through his phone. It’s easier than conversation.

Juri drops a thick booklet between them. “Program’s here.”

Taiga flips it open. Pages of small biographies, ambition printed in neat serif type. Regional awards. Conservatory mentors. All the right words. Words that used to belong to him.

Then he sees it.

Yoshikawa Junko, Year 2-B. Flute. Adviser: Matsumura Hokuto.

The name stills everything. Hokuto’s name is printed, clean and ordinary. Flute instructor and second-year student at Tokyo Global Conservatory.

He shuts the program. The crack of paper sounds too loud, final.

“I need air,” he mutters, already on his feet.

Juri looks up from his own copy, eyebrows raised. “Everything okay?”

“Just—” Taiga waves the program vaguely. “Five minutes.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply. The glass doors feel too far away, but he forces his way through the noise, the faces, the soft stink of anticipation.

Outside, the air hits cold against his skin. A clean slap. Better.

The courtyard spreads out—paths too neat, trees too precise, everything curated into calm. It’s late spring, and petals are already starting to fall. Pink snow over perfect pavement.

He lights a cigarette. The rhythm steadies him: tap, flame, inhale. Smoke in, noise out. For a moment, it works.

Yoshikawa Junko. Adviser: Matsumura Hokuto.

The words loop anyway. A name in a program full of names, but his pulse won’t listen to logic.

He exhales slowly, smoke ghosting in front of him. It shouldn’t matter. One name in a program dull of them, attached to some kid being taught by Hokuto.

But it does matter. Everything tied to Hokuto still carries weight, no matter how long he pretends otherwise.

The cigarette burns low. He grinds it out under his heel, eyes on nothing.

Around him, the academy hums—parents murmuring, students pacing, a stray scale drifting from a practice room. All those little sounds of hope. Too bright. Too steady.

He reaches for his camera on reflex. He needs something to do with his hands. He adjusts the settings automatically then raises the viewfinder to his eye.

The academy grounds sharpen into perfect clarity: stone paths, blooming trees, the elegant lines of traditional architecture.

He presses the shutter.

The click cuts through the quiet.

The light changes.

Spring light floods everything—warmer, softer. The kind of light that forgives. Cherry trees blur into clouds of white and pink, branches heavy, almost sagging under it.

Taiga’s there, but older. There’s a ring on his finger. Anzu is beside him, gray at the muzzle, still moving with the same quiet dignity. The leash is slack in his hand, his rhythm unhurried.

“You sure about this?” Future-Taiga asks.

Future-Hokuto is standing outside the academy doors, messenger bag over his shoulder. The clothes are different—neat, professional, colors that don’t shout. His hair is shorter, his expression calm in that settled way Taiga’s never managed.

“More sure than I’ve been about anything in years,” Future-Hokuto says, adjusting the bag’s strap. His voice is warm, but content. “The orchestra was... it was beautiful while it lasted. But this feels right.”

“You’ll miss performing,” Future-Taiga says. His voice carries no judgment, only quiet fact.

Hokuto tilts his head, considering. “I thought I would. But teaching Junko all those years ago—watching her grow, seeing that moment when something clicks—it fed something different in me. Something I didn't know I was hungry for.”

Anzu sniffs at the petals, nose dusted pink. Future-Taiga lets her lead, his steps matched to hers. “And you get summers off.”

“And I get summers off,” Hokuto says, laughing. “More time for your exhibitions. More time for us.”

They walk without aim—Anzu in front, the two of them following her easy trail through the courtyard. Nothing urgent. Just the sound of shoes on stone, leaves brushing air.

They stop beneath a cherry tree. The air is full of drifting petals, light falling in slow motion.

Future-Hokuto sets his bag down on the bench beside them. “So,” he says, “Matsumura-sensei has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Terrible,” Future-Taiga says. “Absolutely awful. I’m embarrassed to be associated with you.”

Hokuto’s hand finds his jaw, thumb brushing along the curve of it, easy and familiar. “Liar.”

“Prove it.”

The kiss is soft, unhurried. Natural, inevitable. Slow enough to feel the space between heartbeats. A rhythm of quiet certainty, no rush to reach the end.

When they pull apart, Future-Taiga’s hand covers Future-Hokuto’s, grounding the moment.

“I love you,” Future-Hokuto says.

“I know,” Future-Taiga replies. “Lucky for you, I love you back.”

Anzu gives a short, impatient bark, leash tangled around the bench leg. They laugh again—soft, careless, completely unguarded.

The courtyard holds the sound. Sunlight, petals, warmth. All of it contained in the still air, like the world remembering how to stay gentle.

The vision fractures.

Taiga jerks back, his breath sharp. The camera’s weight drags at his hands, solid and real in a way nothing else feels. The viewfinder shows nothing but the courtyard. Present tense. No rings. No laughter. No future.

His pulse hits hard against his ribs. Third time. Third damn vision. Each one too vivid to dismiss, too impossible to trust.

Marriage. Teaching. Seven years, and apparently counting, of something that almost looks like peace. The word for it—happiness—sits foreign in his mouth, like he’s trying to pronounce someone else’s language.

Still, the warmth lingers. A ghost pressed against his jaw. The echo of Hokuto’s voice saying I love you like it’s nothing. Like it’s always been true.

Taiga’s thumb drifts to his ring finger. Empty. Only skin. The faint phantom weight of a band that hasn’t existed, might never.

Maybe it’s madness. Maybe the camera’s lying. Maybe he is. It doesn’t matter. His chest still aches like the body can’t tell the difference.

His phone vibrates. Text from Juri: Competition starting soon. Where are you?

Right. The recital. Reality calling him back with the grace of a brick.

Taiga slips the camera away, legs unsteady, the courtyard suddenly too bright. The world feels off-tempo, slightly out of tune.

🎹

The fifth contestant bows and leaves. The sound lingers—a violin that started clean, then crumbled at the end. Taiga marks his sheet without thought. Numbers in boxes. Technique, interpretation, stage presence. Empty measures pretending to mean something.

The other judges murmur, polite and practiced. Taiga tunes them out.

His mind drifts backward, uninvited. He was five years old, stage lights too bright. Mozart too big for his hands. Applause that hit like thunder. Adults leaning down with their rehearsed smiles, telling him he was exceptional, gifted, destined.

He’d believed them then. He thought praise was proof.

Now it just sounds like a lie people tell children to make themselves feel kind.

“Next up,” the coordinator says from the side of the stage, “Yoshikawa Junko, performing Clair de Lune by Claude Debussy, arranged for flute.”

Taiga’s pen stops moving. The name lands like glass breaking.

A girl steps out from the wings. Sixteen, maybe. Her uniform is pressed sharp, her hair pinned too tight. She holds the flute like it’s something sacred, as if believing hard enough can make her worth the sound she wants.

Behind her, just visible in the shadows offstage, stands Hokuto.

Even half-hidden in shadow, Taiga knows that stance. The quiet focus. The soft steadiness he never lost. Hokuto says something low, a few quiet words that loosen the girl’s shoulders. She nods, breathes, and steps into the light.

Hokuto's doing. That calm he carries, the way it spreads to the people around him like ripples in still water.

Junko positions herself center stage and raises the flute. For a heartbeat—silence. Then music, thin at first, searching for its balance.

Her Claire de Lune is not perfect. Her tone catches, her phrasing tight. But underneath, there’s something alive. Something that breathes.

Taiga leans forward before realizing he’s moved.

Emotion. Raw, unpolished, but unmistakably real.

She’s not chasing flawlessness; she’s chasing the pulse inside the notes. The tremor in her sound feels truer than any clean performance he’s ever heard. It scrapes at something he buried years ago.

Taiga knows this feeling. He remembers it from before everything cracked—before London, before the weight. Back when music still meant breath instead of burden. When beauty wasn’t something to survive.

This girl still believes. Still thinks music heals, that effort equals worth.

He almost envies her. Almost.

The development section comes, and something shifts. Her sound opens—rounder, freer, less afraid. The flaws stay, but they stop mattering. She’s found her way into the song. Or maybe the song found her.

Offstage, Hokuto listens. Stillness shaped like attention. Not judging, not correcting—just there. Present. The air around him feels gentler for it.

Taiga’s chest tightens. He can see it—the lesson behind this moment. Hokuto’s quiet voice, patient hands, that steady encouragement: Don’t think so much. Let it breathe.

The kind of teacher who builds instead of breaks. Taiga never had one of those. He learned through pressure, through the fear of not being enough. Through shame disguised as discipline.

Junko reaches the final phrase. Each note lands soft, dissolving like silver light. She holds the last one just a fraction too long, then lets it die in silence.

The applause comes, honest and warm. Relief flashes across her face—relief, pride, maybe even joy. She bows deep.

Taiga watches as she disappears into the wings. Hokuto’s waiting there. That smile—small, unguarded, the kind that brightens the air without trying.

Their eyes meet across the darkened hall.

For a moment, the world strips down to that connection. No audience, no noise, just the spark of recognition—clean and electric.

Hokuto’s smile changes. Softer. Personal. Not the smile of a teacher, but something warmer, private.

It hits Taiga like déjà vu—the same pull from the izakaya, the crosswalk, every place fate pretends to be coincidence. Like remembering a song he’s never heard.

Then someone coughs. The moment breaks.

Hokuto turns back to Junko, says something that makes her laugh—a bright, bubbling sound. He guides her offstage, toward the cluster of waiting students.

Taiga forces his eyes back to the scoresheet. Technical proficiency: 8.5. Musical interpretation: 9. Stage presence: 8. The numbers feel pointless. Too neat for what he actually felt.

Still—adequate is safer. Adequate hides what it means, why that sound cracked him open. Why Hokuto’s pride looked like grace. Why the visions won’t let go.

The next performer enters. A violinist with flawless tone and zero heartbeat. Taiga marks the sheet again, pen steady, mind elsewhere.

He tries not to think about wedding rings.

He fails.

🎹

The air tastes like dust and endings. Afternoon light catches on the academy’s marble floors, too bright, too clean.

Taiga follows Juri down the corridor past glass cases lined with trophies and frozen smiles—faces suspended mid-performance, still believing they’re special.

The results were exactly what he expected. The violinist with flawless fingers and a pulse of glass took first. Junko placed fourth. Respectable, they’d call it. Taiga would’ve marked her higher—for honesty, for not hiding behind polish.

His folded scoresheet sits heavy in his pocket. Numbers that mean nothing beside the memory of moonlight leaving her flute.

They turn a corner and almost collide with Hokuto—and Junko herself, still flushed, eyes bright with the aftertaste of performance. Relief tangled with disappointment.

“Oh,” Hokuto says, steadying himself. His gaze finds Taiga instantly. That same voltage passes through the space between them. “Kyomoto. Juri.”

Juri steps forward with his characteristic ease. “Great performance today, Junko-chan. Really impressive for someone your age.”

Junko bows politely, though Taiga can see the careful composure she's maintaining. “Thank you for your time today. I know you must be busy.”

Too careful. Taiga hears the shape of disappointment underneath. The neatness people learn to hide behind when they’re told they were almost enough. He remembers how it tastes.

“Your interpretation was beautiful,” he says before thinking. The words come softer than they should, stripped of his usual distance. “Your teacher should be proud.”

Junko blinks, startled. Her eyes flick between them—him and Hokuto. “Matsumura-sensei has been very patient with me.”

“Patient isn’t the word I’d use,” Taiga says. His gaze shifts to Hokuto, something loosening in his chest as he speaks. “You’re lucky to have someone who understands that music isn’t about perfection. It’s about truth.”

Hokuto’s expression shifts—surprise first, then warmth. Something layered underneath that, quiet but unmistakable. It hits Taiga harder than it should. His pulse stumbles, the air too thin for how ordinary the moment looks.

“Junko has a gift for finding the emotion in whatever she plays,” Hokuto says quietly. “I just try not to get in the way of that.”

The words hang there, simple on the surface, but Taiga hears the undercurrent. A teacher who doesn’t break his students to shape them. A man who knows restraint, who believes in giving space instead of commands. The opposite of what Taiga grew up with.

“That’s rare,” Taiga says, meeting Hokuto’s eyes directly. “A good teacher.”

The hallway hums with life—students passing, parents comparing scores, the echo of ambition bouncing off marble. It all moves around them, a blur of sound that makes their small circle feel carved out of time.

Juri clears his throat softly. “We should probably head out,” he says, though his tone suggests he’s reading something in the air between Taiga and Hokuto that makes him reluctant to interrupt.

Junko brightens suddenly, as if remembering something. “Matsumura-sensei, don’t forget about the lesson on Thursday. I want to work on that piece you mentioned—the Bach.”

“Of course,” Hokuto says, his attention turning back to her with that gentle focus again. “The Partita. We’ll start with the first movement and see how it feels.”

She nods, energy flickering back into her. “Thank you again for judging today. I hope to play for you again someday.”

She bows, then disappears down the hall, flute case tapping lightly against her leg. The sound fades, swallowed by the crowd.

“She’ll be something special,” Juri says, watching her vanish around the corner. “Give her a few years.”

“She already is special,” Hokuto says simply. There’s no pride in his voice, just quiet certainty. “She just needs to learn to trust herself.”

The words hit Taiga with unexpected force. Trust herself. Simple, but foreign. Something he can’t remember doing—not for years.

When did that stop? Maybe in London, sitting across from Professor Henley while the man explained, calm and clinical, why his scholarship wouldn’t be renewed. Maybe before that—those first weeks when every practice room echoed with someone better, louder, flawless.

Or maybe it started earlier. The slow erosion that comes from being praised until the praise turns into pressure. Until the sound of a wrong note feels like failure, not learning.

“Hokuto!”

The voice cuts through the noise—bright, familiar.

Taiga turns before thinking. The crowd parts just enough for him to see Jesse moving toward them, Yugo close behind. Both wear that easy warmth of people who know belonging. The kind of energy that fills a space without trying.

Behind them comes someone else—broader frame, restless movement, sunlight still clinging to his skin.

The one from Sampuku. The one who’d been standing beside Hokuto the night Taiga ran.

“There you are,” Jesse says, reaching Hokuto first. His grin is open, effortless. “We tried to find you after Junko-chan’s performance, but you disappeared into the teacher area.”

“Congratulations,” Yugo adds, his tone softer but no less genuine. “She was beautiful. Really moving.”

Hokuto’s expression softens into modest embarrassment. “She worked very hard. I’m just glad she felt comfortable enough to let the music speak.”

Taiga hangs back, suddenly aware of the space between himself and their easy camaraderie. The three of them—Jesse, Yugo, Hokuto—fit together easily, like a rhythm practiced over time.

Then there’s the fourth. The stocky one. Movement restless, eyes bright.

“That was so cool!” he bursts out, words tumbling too fast. “I mean, I don’t know much about flute, but even I could tell she was feeling it, you know? Like, really feeling it. And the way you were watching from the wings—” He stops, catching himself mid-ramble. “Sorry. I’m Shintaro. Morimoto Shintaro. Dance major, first year, and apparently I talk too much when I'm excited.”

He sticks out his hand toward Taiga—open, unguarded, no hesitation. No trace of judgment. No mention of the izakaya incident.

“Kyomoto Taiga,” Taiga says, accepting the handshake. Shintaro’s grip is firm, warm, almost too alive.

“Piano, right?” Shintaro’s eyes light up. “That’s so cool. I’ve always wanted to learn piano, but my hands are better at—” He waves vaguely, the motion somewhere between interpretive dance and flailing. “—this stuff.”

Jesse laughs, easy and fond. “Shintaro thinks everything is cool. Yesterday he spent twenty minutes explaining why the way I hold my coffee mug is ‘artistically significant.’”

“It is artistically significant,” Shintaro protests, but he's grinning. “The angle, the grip, the way you—”

“The way I what?” Jesse raises an eyebrow, challenge clear in his voice but no heat behind it.

“The way you exist in space,” Shintaro finishes seriously. “Everything you do has this... I don’t know, this rhythm to it. Like you're always mid-song.”

The observation lands harder than it should. Taiga studies Jesse, the looseness in his posture, the way his body never quite stops moving. There’s rhythm there—small, constant, unforced. Like music that doesn’t need sound.

“See?” Shintaro turns to Taiga, bright-eyed, triumphant. “Rhythm everywhere. I bet you have it too, being a pianist. Different kind, probably, but it’s there.”

Taiga doesn’t answer. He’s not sure what kind Shintaro means—the mechanical one drilled into him by metronomes, or the other kind, the pulse he lost somewhere between London and now.

Yugo clears his throat, breaking the moment. “Actually,” he says, glancing toward the lobby, “we were thinking of grabbing dinner somewhere. You should come.”

The offer sits between them, casual on the surface but heavy underneath. Real invitation, not politeness. Taiga can feel it.

He almost refuses. The excuses line up easily—schoolwork, exhaustion, distance. He’s practiced them enough times to make them sound convincing.

But then he catches Hokuto watching him. Quiet. Steady. That same look that feels like a question he can’t keep dodging. No pressure, just patience. Waiting.

“What kind of food?” Taiga asks, surprising himself.

Shintaro’s face lights up like Taiga just offered him free concert tickets. “There’s this yakiniku place nearby that Jesse’s been wanting to try. Good reviews, supposedly not too expensive.”

“Plus,” Jesse says, “I promised I'd buy dinner if Junko-chan placed top five, and she got fourth. So it’s on me.”

Taiga can already feel the refusal forming—reflex, muscle memory. You don’t have to, I’m not part of this, it’s just pity dressed as kindness.

Then Shintaro speaks again.

“Come on,” he says, tone light but anchored by something honest. “When’s the last time you celebrated something? Like, actually celebrated, not just acknowledged that something good happened and moved on?”

The question cuts straight through him. Taiga can't remember the last time he celebrated anything. Can't remember the last time something felt worth celebrating.

“I…” His gaze drifts across the group—Jesse’s open grin, Yugo’s quiet calm, Shintaro’s restless brightness.

And Hokuto, steady as ever, an anchor he didn’t ask for but keeps finding anyway.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Yeah. Dinner sounds good.”

The smile that spreads across Shintaro’s face could power the entire academy.

🎹

The yakiniku restaurant breathes heat. Smoke, spice, the metallic hiss of gas and fat. It wraps around Taiga like something alive. He follows the others through narrow aisles to a booth at the back—tight space, too close, no escape routes.

He slides in beside Hokuto without planning to. Natural movement, nothing deliberate. But the warmth beside him hits anyway, the quiet gravity of someone who radiates calm even when saying nothing.

Soap. Clean skin. Maybe cologne. Maybe just Hokuto’s version of sunlight.

Across the table, Jesse claims the seat by the window, Yugo following easily, the kind of practiced comfort that comes from years of friendship. Juri slides in last, already lost to his phone.

“We’re definitely getting the premium set,” Jesse declares, flipping through the laminated menu. “We’re celebrating properly tonight.”

Shintaro bounces slightly in his seat—too much energy, too little filter. “This is perfect! I’m starving, and after watching all those performances—god, the tension was killing me. How do you judge something like that? It’s all so subjective.”

“Experience helps,” Juri murmurs without looking up from his phone. “Pattern recognition. You start to hear the difference between technical skill and actual musicianship.”

“Still seems impossible,” Shintaro says. “Like, Junko-chan was gorgeous, but that violinist was technically flawless. How do you compare those?”

Taiga watches him talk. There’s something disarming in that openness—the way Shintaro looks at the world like it hasn’t disappointed him yet.

It should irritate him. Instead, it feels like remembering sunlight through dirty glass.

“You don’t compare them,” Hokuto says, adjusting his position. His knee brushes Taiga’s under the table—brief contact, enough to register. “You evaluate what each performer is trying to communicate and how successfully they communicate it.”

“See?” Shintaro turns toward Hokuto with obvious admiration. “That’s exactly what I mean. You have this way of making complex things sound simple.”

The comment lingers. Taiga catches the tone behind it—the softness, the too-long look. It’s familiar. Too familiar.

Oh. So that’s what this is.

Taiga recognizes the signs because he’s spent weeks trying to hide them himself. The tilt of Shintaro’s body toward Hokuto, the softening of his tone, the way his whole focus narrows when Hokuto speaks..

A crush. Pure, simple, unguarded.

Across the table, Jesse catches it too. The quick flash of amusement passed to Juri like a shared secret. Even Yugo looks like he’s pretending not to notice, jaw tight with restraint.

“Hokkun always explains things well,” Shintaro continues, unaware of his own transparency. “Remember when you helped me understand that exercise for College Writing? Made everything click.”

Hokkun. The nickname lands like a wrong note. Too intimate, too easy. Shintaro says it with familiarity he hasn’t earned, like it’s his to use.

“It wasn’t that complicated,” Hokuto replies, warmth threading through his voice. “You just needed someone to break it down differently.”

“Still,” Shintaro insists, leaning closer. The booth creaks beneath him. “You made it make sense.”

Their shoulders almost touch. The distance shrinks until it’s measurable in heartbeats.

Taiga feels something twist inside him, sharp and mean. Not anger. Possession wearing its best disguise.

It’s ridiculous. Hokuto doesn’t belong to him. Never did. Never will.

But the feeling’s there anyway, solid as bone.

Hokuto doesn’t move away. Doesn’t draw a line or shift an inch. He just sits there, calm and open, letting the attention fall where it wants.

“So,” Jesse cuts in, tone light but pointed. “What’s everyone ordering? I’m thinking we start with the wagyu and see how we feel.”

“Everything looks good,” Yugo says. His voice sounds mild, but his eyes keep darting toward Shintaro and Hokuto. “Maybe the pork belly too? And some vegetables.”

Juri finally looks up from his phone, eyes sharp with quiet amusement. “Morimoto, maybe you should sit over here so you can actually reach the grill without climbing over Hokuto every time you want to flip something.”

“I’m fine where I am,” Shintaro says quickly. Too quickly. “Besides, Hokkun doesn’t mind, do you?”

He turns toward Hokuto, face lit up, waiting for permission that shouldn’t matter. The space between them feels charged, blurred by the amber light.

“It’s fine,” Hokuto says softly. “Whatever’s comfortable.”

The words sound harmless, polite. But to Taiga they don’t feel neutral. They feel like permission.

Something tightens in his chest, quiet but sharp. He watches the small details—the edge of Shintaro’s thigh brushing the seat, Hokuto’s hand resting near his on the table, the almost-touch that keeps happening.

He tells himself it’s nothing. That he has no right to notice. No claim. Hokuto isn’t his, and he’s a fool for pretending otherwise.

Still, the image flickers up anyway—the vision, the ring, sunlight caught on metal, a voice saying I love you like breathing.

And now this: Shintaro laughing too loudly, leaning too close. Hokuto letting him.

He feels the shift, internal and undeniable. If Hokuto ends up with Shintaro, everything changes.

No platform. No mother and child. No split-second decision that ends a life.

The future he saw—their future—dissolves with brutal simplicity.

The thought lands cold and clean. Logic stripped to its bones: different love, different path.

The realization hits him like a discordant chord—sharp, sudden, impossible to ignore.

If Hokuto ends up with Shintaro, he won’t be at that train platform in fifteen years. Won’t see a mother and child fall. Won’t make the mistake of being brave.

Taiga’s hand tightens around his glass. The condensation slips under his fingers, a cold ring of sweat against his skin. The thought arranges itself with brutal precision: different love, different timeline, different ending.

If Hokuto chooses Shintaro—bright, devoted, uncomplicated—then the accident never happens.

No phone call. No hospital. No funeral.

No marriage either. No fifteen years of being together. No seven years of mornings and coffee and quiet domestic light.

But Hokuto lives.

The word sits in Taiga’s mind, solid and heavy. Alive.

He tries to feel the devastation he should. The grief for a life he hasn’t lived, for a love he’s only seen through a lens. It doesn’t come.

Instead, something else takes its place—quiet, dense, final. A weight he knows how to carry. Maybe it’s relief. Maybe it’s just surrender pretending to be noble.

“Taiga?” Jesse’s voice cuts through the noise, easy and sudden. “You good? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Fine.” The word comes too fast, automatic. His hand relaxes around the glass, forcing steadiness. “Just thinking.”

🪈

The apartment feels different at night—quieter somehow, wrapped in that faint warmth that comes after hours of light and conversation. The lamps are dimmed to a muter amber, enough to see without straining, enough to let the mind begin to slow.

Hokuto moves through the space as if not to disturb it, gathering notebooks and loose sheets scattered across the low table where they’ve been bent over work for most of the evening.

The air still holds the ghost of takeout—soy, ginger, something fried—remnants of what they’d eaten without thinking, side by side. Juri had left a while ago, his voice still echoing faintly in memory, promising his brother he’d be home before midnight. He’d gone with his bag heavy with photocopies and highlighted pages, like he was carrying their shared fatigue home with him.

Now it’s just the two of them.

Taiga sits cross-legged on the floor, back pressed to the couch, a textbook open in his lap. His hair catches the lamplight when he shifts, a restless gleam against the stillness. There’s tension in his shoulders that hasn’t softened all night—something quiet but stubborn, like a note that won’t quite resolve.

Hokuto stacks the last of their papers, slow and careful, the way he always does when he’s thinking too much. The silence between them isn’t awkward, only fragile—like a held breath, like a pause before a song’s final chord.

His phone buzzes against the table, a small vibration that feels louder than it should. He glances down

Shintaro [9:48 PM]: hokkun!! want to grab late ramen? i'm starving and jesse bailed to stay at yugo's again 😭

Shintaro [9:49 PM]: there's this place in in ameyoko that stays open until 2am. supposed to have amazing tonkotsu

The words glow bright on the screen, too alive for the quiet room. Hokuto can almost hear Shintaro’s voice in them—warm, impatient, already halfway out the door. It makes him smile, a small curve he doesn’t quite notice himself making.

He types back before he can think too much.

Hokuto [9:50 PM]: That sounds good. Let me ask if Kyomoto wants to come.

Shintaro [9:50 PM]: yes!! the more the better! i'll look up the address

Hokuto looks up from his phone, catching Taiga’s attention across the low light. “Shintaro wants to go out for ramen. You interested?”

Taiga’s fingers still against the page. The motion is small, but it feels like a door closing. He doesn’t answer right away, only stares down at the neat black print as if there might be something in it that explains everything else.

“I should probably go home,” Taiga says at last. “My dog's been alone all day.”

The words sound simple, but Hokuto can feel the careful distance tucked inside them. He recognizes that tone, the one that makes space where closeness used to be.

“Another time, then,” Hokuto says softly. He lets the words rest there, without insistence. The quiet that follows presses faintly against his ribs, disappointment settling where his breath should be.

He reaches for his phone again, ready to type a reply to Shintaro, when Taiga’s voice interrupts the stillness.

“You should go, though.” The evenness in his tone is deliberate, too smooth to be casual. “Don’t let me stop you.”

The room feels a little smaller then—warm light, quiet air, and the faintest hum of something unsaid between them.

Hokuto looks up, studying Taiga’s face. The expression he meets is composed, practiced—the kind of calm that feels more like armor than ease. Beneath it, though, there’s something softer, almost weary. Something that feels like giving up before anyone has asked him to.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “We could make it quick. Just grab something warm and—”

“I’m sure.” Taiga closes the textbook with a soft thud, a sound that lands too final in the still air. “Really. Go have fun.”

The words leave no room for argument, and Hokuto feels them settle like dust—quiet, inevitable. He types a reply to Shintaro without really thinking, his fingers moving by habit while his mind stays fixed on the boy across from him.

Hokuto [9:52 PM]: Juri went home early, and Kyomoto needs to get back to his dog. Just us?

Shintaro [9:52 PM]: perfect! meet you in 30?

Hokuto [9:53 PM]: See you there.

He sets the phone aside and gathers the rest of their notes, his motions careful but absent, as though his body continues long after his thoughts have gone still. The silence between them feels fuller now, edged with things neither of them meant to leave unsaid.

“The midterm review went well,” he says at last, because the silence needs filling. “I think we’re all in good shape for Nagata-sensei’s exam.”

“Mm.” Taiga stands, slipping his bag over his shoulder. The motion is smooth, efficient, and just a little too far away.

They walk to the entrance together, the apartment settling into the nighttime quiet behind them.

At the door, they both hesitate. The light from the hallway spills in softly, turning the space between them to gold, like time has slowed just long enough to make the moment matter.

“Thank you,” Taiga says quietly. “For the help with the studying. The notes.”

“Of course.”

“And for—” Taiga’s gaze flickers down, then back up, his voice lowering. “For being patient. I know I’m not the easiest person to work with.”

The words carry something heavier than apology—an old kind of self-doubt, the sort that lingers in the quiet parts of someone’s life. Hokuto feels it before he understands it. The instinct to reassure rises in him like breath, but he swallows it, softens it into something truer.

“You’re worth the effort.”

The line falls gently between them, almost tentative. Taiga’s expression shifts—surprise first, then something more fragile, like he wants to believe it but isn’t sure how.

“Get home safe,” Hokuto says.

“You too.” Taiga’s hand finds the door handle. “Enjoy your ramen.”

And then he’s gone, footsteps echoing down the hallway until they fade into the building’s ambient hum.

Hokuto stands in the doorway for a moment longer than necessary, watching the empty space where Taiga had been. There’s something unresolved in the air, a conversation that didn’t quite happen.

The thought settles uncomfortably in Hokuto's chest as he gathers his keys and phone, preparing to meet Shintaro. He locks the apartment behind him, but the questions follow him down the hallway, into the elevator, out into the warm night air.

🪈

The night air carries a softness that feels like the edge of summer—warm enough that their jackets hang loose, cool enough that the city still exhales. Hokuto and Shintaro walk side by side through the narrow streets that wind toward home, their steps falling into rhythm without effort.

The ramen sits heavy but comforting in Hokuto’s stomach, the kind of warmth that lingers long after the bowl is empty. It’s the quiet fullness that comes from simple food and company that doesn’t demand too much. Shintaro had filled most of dinner with stories—his classes, the choreography that refuses to click, the way other dance majors seem to learn steps in half the time.

“—and then Moriya-sensei just looks at me like I’ve personally insulted her entire lineage,” Shintaro is saying now, his hands sketching animated shapes in the air. “All because I mixed up the timing on that one sequence. It’s not like I set the studio on fire.”

Hokuto hums softly, his attention half tethered to the words. The rest drifts backward—to the apartment, to the way Taiga’s voice had gone careful, to the quiet that followed after he left. There’s a sense of something unfinished, a conversation left just short of honesty.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Shintaro observes, glancing over at him. “More than usual, I mean. Everything okay?”

“Just tired,” Hokuto answers. It’s not untrue, though fatigue isn’t quite the right word. “Long day.”

They pass under a streetlight, and for a moment Shintaro’s profile is sharp against the orange glow—the strong line of his jaw, the way his hair catches the light. There’s something open in his expression, unguarded in the way that only Shintaro manages to be.

“Actually,” Shintaro says after a moment, his tone softening, “I wanted to ask you something. About the divorce thing.”

Hokuto’s steps falter just slightly. “What about it?”

“How are you handling it? Really, I mean. Not the polite answer you give everyone else.”

The question catches him in that soft place between thought and feeling. Not because it’s unexpected, but because Shintaro is the first person who’s thought to ask twice.

“I don’t know,” Hokuto admits, his voice low, careful. “I keep calling home to check on everyone. My mom got a job at the community center—part-time, but steady. My grandmother moved in like she said she would, and she’s keeping things... stable. Yuina and Masaya seem okay, all things considered.”

“But you’re still worried.”

“I’m always worried.” The words slip out before he can temper them. “It’s just what I do.”

Shintaro nods, like he expected that answer. “Have you been taking care of yourself instead of trying to fix everything?”

“I’m trying.” Hokuto runs a hand through his hair. “It’s harder than it sounds. When something’s breaking, my first instinct is to figure out how to hold it together.”

“Even when it’s not your job to hold it together.”

“Even then.”

They walk in comfortable silence for a while, passing late-night convenience stores and the occasional drunk businessman stumbling toward the train station. The city never truly sleeps, but it slows down, settles into something quieter.

“You know what helps me?” Shintaro says after a while. “Having people around who remind me I don’t have to carry everything alone. Friends who actually give a shit about whether I’m okay.”

Something in his tone draws Hokuto’s attention—the mix of warmth and something else, quieter, like truth folded beneath the words. He glances over, catching the faint curve of Shintaro’s mouth, the light catching his eyes in a way that makes them softer than usual.

“I’m glad you have it,” Hokuto says, meaning it.

“I’m glad you have it too.” Shintaro’s voice softens. “Jesse and Yugo, they care about you. I care about you. You don’t have to be the responsible one all the time.”

The words settle between them like a weight and a comfort at once. Hokuto feels them linger somewhere deep, where things he rarely names tend to live. There’s a kindness in them that feels too large to hold.

When he looks at Shintaro again, there’s something searching in his expression—open, unguarded, and maybe a little vulnerable. Hokuto feels it before he understands it.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For checking on me. For caring. You’re... you’re like a little brother to me, Shin. I don’t know what I’d do without you and Jesse and Yugo around.”

He means it—every word. But as soon as they leave his mouth, he senses a shift.

The change is small, almost invisible, but Hokuto feels it—the faint drop in temperature between one breath and the next. Shintaro’s expression flickers, that easy brightness dimming for just a heartbeat before he finds his smile again.

“Yeah,” Shintaro says, his voice light, almost too light. “Of course. That’s what friends are for, right?”

He steps a little faster, half a pace ahead, filling the space with talk that feels safer—weekend plans, his family in Kanazawa, what time the next train leaves. His words tumble forward easily, as if momentum alone could erase what just passed between them.

Hokuto wants to say something, to address whatever just happened, but the words don’t come. Instead, he follows Shintaro’s lead, lets the conversation drift to safer territory, pretends not to notice the careful way Shintaro avoids his eyes for the rest of the walk home.

By the time they reach their building, the rhythm has returned—measured steps, quiet talk—but it feels rehearsed now, a version of ease they both know how to perform.

“Thanks for dinner,” Shintaro says as they wait for the elevator. “And for listening. I know I talk too much sometimes.”

“You don’t talk too much,” Hokuto says, and the honesty in it surprises him. “I like listening to you. You see the world differently than I do. It’s refreshing.”

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime. They step inside, and the silence folds around them—close, reflective, a space too small for the things neither of them will say.

“Hokuto,” Shintaro says quietly, just as the elevator eases to a stop at their floor.

“Yeah?”

But the doors open before the moment can breathe, and Shintaro only shakes his head. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”

They walk the length of the hallway together, the soft click of their keys the only sound. The air feels heavier here, the fluorescent lights too pale, the silence stretching thin between them.

When they reach their door, Shintaro offers a small smile—brief, practiced—and slips inside his room with a muted “goodnight” that doesn’t quite meet Hokuto’s eyes.

🪈

The practice room settles into a particular kind of hush—the kind that belongs to Friday afternoons, when most of the building has already emptied. The air feels still, almost reverent. Somewhere far down the corridor, a door closes softly, and then there’s nothing left but the faint hum of fluorescent light.

Hokuto prefers it this way. Sound behaves differently when it doesn’t have to compete—each note more deliberate, each silence more honest. He adjusts his embouchure, the silver of his flute catching the slope of afternoon light that spills through the narrow window.

He’s been rehearsing the third movement of Beethoven’s Eroica all week, though he could probably play it in his sleep by now. Still, today feels different—quieter inside, but heavier too. Like this isn’t just practice. Like it matters in a way he can’t quite name.

His phone rests face-down on the ledge of the music stand, silent for once. No calls from home, no messages blinking in the corner of his eye. 

The absence feels strange. For months, the device has been a lifeline—an open door to every small crisis that might need his attention. 

But Shintaro’s voice lingers in his mind from last night: You don’t have to carry everything alone.

He exhales, sets his lips to the flute, and begins.

The opening measures emerge easily, fingers finding their places out of habit. But somewhere in the flow of sound, memory takes over. The sterile walls of the practice room blur, and suddenly he’s back in an elementary school hallway—nine years old, surrounded by the faint smells of waxed floors and chalk dust.

Through an open door, he had heard it then: a single flute, clear and alive, playing Mozart’s Concerto in G Major. It wasn’t a recording, not something polished or distant, but a living sound—fragile, human, beautiful in its imperfection.

The player had been a high school student, her name long forgotten. Hokuto had paused outside the door, transfixed by the way the melody seemed to breathe, how it filled the empty room without asking for permission. There was loneliness in it, yes—but also something bright, like hope wrapped inside melancholy.

When she’d noticed him, she’d only smiled.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” she’d said, holding up the flute. “Want to try?”

He remembers the cool metal in his small hands, the first whisper of air that barely became sound, and her patient voice beside him—teaching him how to breathe properly, how to trust the space between notes.

She’d told him, with a small, knowing smile, that “Music isn’t about being perfect. It’s about saying something true.”

Now, eleven years later, he lets that memory guide his hands. 

The notes of Beethoven spill softly into the room, each one precise but breathing. The Eroica is technical—fast passages, intricate phrasing—but somewhere beneath all that discipline, Hokuto feels what she meant. That truth humming quietly through every imperfect sound.

Around him, the conservatory hums with ambition. Behind closed doors, students chase perfection—bowing, fingering, breathing until exhaustion turns into achievement. Their goals stretch toward competitions, auditions, names printed in programs. It’s a place built on striving.

Hokuto used to think he wanted that too. The spotlight, the recognition, the validation that comes from being singled out as exceptional. 

But somewhere along the way—maybe when he started teaching Junko, maybe when he watched Taiga struggle with performance anxiety, maybe just through the slow accumulation of quiet moments—his dreams had shifted.

He thinks of last week’s chamber rehearsal—the moment his flute wove into the strings, disappearing into harmony so seamlessly that he could barely tell where his own sound ended. Not leading, not demanding attention. Just belonging. The memory warms him still.

The music swells toward its climax, and he lets it. The rhythm presses through his chest, not with grandeur but with persistence—the kind that lives in people who keep going because they must. His tone wavers once, a breath too human to be perfect, but it stays honest.

When the final note fades, the silence that follows feels full—alive with what’s just been said.

He lowers the flute slowly, letting his breathing settle. For a moment, he just listens—to the soft hum of the air conditioner, the faint creak of the music stand, the small, steady beat of his own heart.

Then his gaze drifts toward the phone on the stand. Three messages from Jesse. Two from Yugo. One from Juri about study plans. Nothing urgent. Nothing to fix.

He exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing. Maybe this, too, is what it means not to carry everything alone.

The lingering echoes of the Eroica dissolve into the air, leaving behind a quiet satisfaction that feels rare and clean. Hokuto plays through one passage again—not because he has to, but because he wants to hear how the melody settles when he isn’t chasing precision. The flute sings the phrase cleanly, each note finding its place in the invisible orchestra that exists only in his mind.

He lowers the flute at last, holding it for a moment before setting it down with care. The silver is cool against his palms, the same way it was when he was nine—steady, grounding. 

Outside, the city leans into the evening. Tokyo’s skyline catches the last of the May sun, every window flashing briefly like a held note before dimming into gold.

He begins to pack up slowly, letting the familiar motions soothe him—disassembling each piece, wiping the delicate metal clean with the soft cloth tucked into his case. His first teacher had insisted on this ritual, saying that care and music were the same thing: both were acts of attention.

His phone buzzes again—Jesse asking about karaoke, Yugo about dinner.

Maybe later, he types. Want to take a walk first.

The conservatory hallways sound different at this hour. His footsteps echo against the tile, soft but steady, filling the space where others’ voices usually live. Most doors stand open now—practice rooms half-lit, chairs askew, stray pencils left like markers of exhaustion. From one, a violin still hums through scales, patient and persistent. 

Hokuto pauses, listening. There’s comfort in it, the steady discipline of someone else trying, too.

When he steps outside, the air greets him like a familiar song—warm, with the faint scent of new leaves. May’s light lingers just long enough to gild the edges of the campus in gold. Cherry trees that once held pink blossoms now shimmer with green. The season has turned quietly, without fanfare.

His feet move toward the courtyard almost on instinct. It’s where he comes when his thoughts feel too heavy to keep indoors. The fountain hums softly, water catching the light in small, glittering arcs. It’s a place made for exhaling.

But tonight, he isn’t alone.

Near the small shrine tucked into the far corner, a figure crouches low beside the stone path, completely absorbed in something at ground level. Even from this distance, Hokuto recognizes the dark hair, the lean silhouette, the careful way Taiga holds himself when he thinks no one's watching. A camera hangs around his neck, and he's positioned it with the focused intensity Hokuto has come to associate with his photography—as if the world beyond the viewfinder doesn't exist.

Hokuto's heart does something complicated in his chest, a flutter of recognition mixed with something warmer. Over the past weeks, he's grown accustomed to Taiga's guarded expressions, the way he deflects compliments and withdraws from casual touch. Even during their study sessions, Taiga maintains careful distance, as if afraid that letting people too close might reveal something he'd rather keep hidden.

But now, crouched in the courtyard's dappled light, Taiga's face has transformed completely.

He's smiling. Not the polite, restrained expression he wears during classes or the sardonic twist of his lips when he's deflecting attention. This is something genuine and unguarded, soft around the edges in a way that makes Hokuto's breath catch. His whole posture has relaxed, shoulders loose, head tilted at an angle that suggests pure delight.

The source of this transformation becomes clear as Hokuto moves closer: a small Yorkshire Terrier sits posed near the shrine's weathered stone base, her silky fur catching the afternoon light like spun gold. She’s tiny enough to fit in someone's hands, with bright dark eyes and perked ears that suggest endless curiosity about the world around her. Her tail wags in short, enthusiastic bursts as Taiga adjusts his camera angle, clearly accustomed to being the subject of impromptu photo sessions.

“That’s it, Anzu,” Taiga murmurs, his voice softer than Hokuto has ever heard it. “Just like that. Perfect.”

The shutter clicks several times in quick succession, but Taiga doesn't immediately pull away from the viewfinder. Instead, he lingers, staring at the camera's LCD screen with an expression Hokuto can’t quite read—intense concentration mixed with something that might be confusion or concern. The moment stretches longer than it should for simply reviewing a photograph.

Then Anzu notices Hokuto’s approach and gives a small, cheerful bark that breaks Taiga’s focus. 

He looks up from the camera, and for just an instant, Hokuto sees that unguarded smile still lingering around his eyes before Taiga’s usual mask slides back into place.

“Oh,” Taiga says, straightening from his crouch but not quite meeting Hokuto’s gaze. “I didn’t realize anyone else was here.”

"I didn't mean to interrupt," Hokuto replies quickly, not wanting to chase away whatever lightness he'd witnessed. "I was just walking through after practice."

Taiga’s hand moves unconsciously to his camera, as if shielding it from view, but Anzu has no such reservations about the newcomer. She trots over to Hokuto with the confident curiosity of a dog who assumes everyone she meets will adore her, tail wagging and nose already investigating his shoes with thorough dedication.

“This is Anzu,” Taiga says. There’s something almost protective in his voice, as if introducing something precious. “I brought her to campus so she could play outside for a while. She gets restless cooped up in the apartment all day.”

Hokuto crouches down to Anzu’s level, extending his hand for her to sniff. “Hello there, beautiful girl.”

The effect is immediate and startling. Anzu’s entire demeanor shifts from curious to completely smitten, pressing herself against Hokuto’s palm as if she’s known him her entire life. She rolls onto her back in the universal dog request for belly rubs, gazing up at him with absolute trust and adoration.

“She likes you,” Taiga observes, and there’s surprise in his voice.

Hokuto obliges with gentle scratches along Anzu's stomach, smiling at her obvious bliss. “She’s wonderful. How old is she?”

“Two. My parents gave her to me for as a graduation gift.” Taiga’s voice carries a warmth reserved specifically for the small dog currently making contented sounds under Hokuto’s attention. “She’s... good company.”

There’s something in the way he says it. As if Anzu provides something essential that human companions can’t quite match. 

Hokuto thinks of his own late-night moments of homesickness, when even Jesse and Shintaro’s cheerful presence can’t entirely fill the space where his family used to be. Sometimes comfort comes from unexpected sources.

“You’re quite the charmer, aren’t you?” Hokuto murmurs to Anzu, who has now completely surrendered to the belly rubs with the kind of shameless abandon that only small dogs can manage. Her tiny legs kick gently in the air, and she makes soft huffing sounds of pure contentment.

The camera shutter clicks behind him—once, twice, then a third time in quick succession.

Hokuto glances up to find Taiga still crouched nearby, camera raised to his eye, but not quite looking through the viewfinder anymore. Instead, he’s staring at the LCD screen with that same intense focus Hokuto had noticed earlier, as if the image contains something more complex than a simple photograph of a man playing with a dog.

“Sorry,” Taiga says, lowering the camera slightly. "I should have asked first. She just looked so happy, and you..." He trails off, studying the screen again with an expression that borders on puzzled.

“It’s fine,” Hokuto assures him, giving Anzu one final scratch before sitting back on his heels. “I don’t mind being photographed.”

But Taiga doesn’t seem to hear him. He’s completely absorbed in whatever he’s seeing on that small screen, his brow furrowed in concentration. 

The silence stretches until Hokuto begins to wonder if he should say something else, but then Taiga blinks and seems to remember where he is.

“Here,” Taiga says, holding out the camera so Hokuto can see the display. “I’ll send this to you later, if you want.”

Hokuto leans closer to look at the image, and his breath catches slightly. He’s seen plenty of photographs of himself—family snapshots, group photos with friends, the occasional candid shot Jesse takes during their dinner gatherings. 

But this is different.

In Taiga’s photograph, he's captured mid-laugh, head tilted down toward Anzu with genuine delight written across his features. The late afternoon light filters through the trees above, creating a warm glow that makes the whole scene feel dreamlike. 

But it’s more than just the technical composition—there's something in the way Taiga has framed the moment that suggests he sees beauty in ordinary interactions, in the simple joy of connection.

“It’s beautiful,” Hokuto says, and means it. “You have a good eye.”

Taiga’s cheeks flush slightly at the compliment, and he pulls the camera back toward his chest as if protecting it.

Anzu, apparently deciding that enough attention has been paid to the humans, rolls back onto her feet and immediately attaches herself to Hokuto’s leg. She presses her small body against his shin and gazes up at him with the kind of adoring expression usually reserved for people who dispense treats on a regular basis.

“Anzu,” Taiga says with mild exasperation. “Don’t be a pest.”

But there's affection in his voice, and Hokuto finds himself charmed by both the dog’s boldness and Taiga’s obvious devotion to her. “She’s not a pest,” he protests, reaching down to stroke her silky ears. “Are you, beautiful?”

Anzu responds by sitting down directly on top of his feet, clearly establishing her claim. When Hokuto tries to shift his weight, she moves with him, maintaining her position with the determination of someone who has no intention of being abandoned.

Taiga watches this display with something that might be amusement—the first genuinely relaxed expression Hokuto has seen from him outside of those unguarded moments with his camera. “She’s usually more reserved with strangers,” he observes. “I think you’ve made a conquest.”

“The feeling is mutual.” Hokuto attempts to take a step backward, but Anzu follows immediately, keeping her warm little body pressed against his legs. “Though I’m beginning to think she might not let me leave.”

“That’s her specialty,” Taiga says, and there's definite humor in his voice now. “Emotional manipulation through sheer adorableness. She’s perfected the technique.”

As if to prove his point, Anzu looks up at Hokuto with wide, pleading eyes and gives a soft whine that clearly translates to please don’t go anywhere ever.

Hokuto laughs, genuinely delighted by her shameless tactics. “How can anyone say no to that face?”

“They can’t,” Taiga replies. “Trust me, I’ve tried. She always wins.”

The admission reveals something tender about their relationship—not just owner and pet, but genuine companionship. Hokuto thinks of his own loneliness during late nights at the conservatory, how even surrounded by friends and classmates, there are moments when the silence of his apartment feels overwhelming. Having someone who’s simply happy to exist in the same space, who offers comfort without expecting anything in return, must be precious.

“Well,” Hokuto says, making no real effort to dislodge his clingy new friend, “I was planning to walk home anyway. Maybe she’d like to explore campus a bit more?”

He’s not entirely sure why he makes the suggestion. His original plan had been to head straight back to the apartment, maybe grab dinner with Jesse and Shintaro, spend the evening decompressing from the week. But there’s something about this moment that makes him reluctant to let it end.

Taiga considers the offer, glancing down at Anzu, who has now begun a thorough investigation of Hokuto’s shoelaces. “She does need more exercise,” he admits. “And she seems to have adopted you for the evening.”

“I don’t mind being adopted,” Hokuto says. “If you don’t mind the company.”

There’s a pause where Taiga seems to weigh something internal—the same hesitation Hokuto has noticed whenever anyone tries to extend their time together beyond the strictly necessary.

But then he nods, slinging his camera strap more securely across his shoulder.

“Just until she gets tired,” he says, but there’s something in his voice that suggests he’s not entirely opposed to the idea himself.

They fall into step together along the stone path that winds through campus, Anzu trotting between them with the confident air of someone leading an expedition. Her leash hangs loose in Taiga’s hand—unnecessary, since she seems perfectly content to stay within a few feet of Hokuto, occasionally darting ahead to investigate a particularly interesting scent before circling back to ensure her new favorite person hasn't disappeared.

The late afternoon light filters through the trees, casting shifting patterns across the walkway. Most students have already fled for weekend plans, leaving the campus unusually quiet except for the distant hum of Tokyo traffic and the soft click of Anzu’s nails against stone.

Hokuto finds himself stealing glances at Taiga as they walk. Without the tension he usually carries in classrooms or study sessions, Taiga moves differently—shoulders relaxed, hands loose at his sides except when he occasionally adjusts his camera strap. There’s something almost protective in the way he watches Anzu explore, as if cataloging potential dangers or simply taking pleasure in her obvious delight.

“Do you have pets?” Taiga asks suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them.

“No,” Hokuto replies. “My parents never got around to it. They always said we'd get a dog ‘next year’ or ‘when things settle down,’ but somehow the timing never worked out.”

He straightens, watching as Anzu abandons her exploration in favor of walking directly between his feet, clearly having decided that proximity is more important than efficiency.

“I used to beg for a cat when I was younger,” he continues. “I had this whole presentation prepared—pros and cons, care schedules, even researched which breeds would be best for apartment living. But there was always something else taking priority.”

There’s no bitterness in his voice, just the matter-of-fact acceptance of someone who learned early that his wants often came secondary to practical concerns. 

Taiga glances at him, something thoughtful in his expression. “Anzu was a surprise,” Taiga says, reaching down to stroke her ears as she pauses to sniff at a flowering bush. “My parents gave her to me because I think they were worried about me being alone too much.”

The admission carries weight—the suggestion that his parents had seen something in him that concerned them enough to provide constant companionship. Hokuto wonders what kind of loneliness had been visible enough to prompt such a gift.

“They chose well,” Hokuto observes, smiling as Anzu discovers a fallen leaf and immediately attempts to carry it like a trophy. “She seems to know exactly what you need.”

“She does,” Taiga agrees, and there’s warmth in his voice that Hokuto hasn’t heard when he talks about anyone else. “She’s good at... reading moods. When I’m having a difficult day, she just sits with me. Doesn’t try to fix anything, just stays close.”

They pass the practice towers, where a few dedicated students are still working despite the late hour. Faint music drifts from the soundproof windows—a violin practicing scales, someone running through piano arpeggios with mechanical precision. Anzu’s ears perk up at the sounds, but she doesn’t stray from her position between Hokuto’s feet.

“What’s it like?” Taiga asks after they’ve walked in comfortable silence for several minutes. “Having siblings?”

The question catches Hokuto slightly off guard. “Loud,” he says first, earning a small smile from Taiga. “And chaotic. Yuina and Masaya are both strong personalities, so our house was never quiet. But it’s also... anchoring, I guess. You always know someone cares about what happens to you, even when they’re driving you crazy.”

Anzu chooses that moment to wrap her leash around a bench leg, requiring both of them to coordinate her rescue. Taiga’s shoulder brushes against Hokuto’s as they work to untangle the situation, and Hokuto feels the brief warmth of the contact more acutely than he should.

“Are you close?” Taiga continues once they’ve freed Anzu, who seems completely unbothered by the minor crisis she's caused.

“Very,” Hokuto admits. “Maybe too close, sometimes. I’ve always been the one they come to when things go wrong—homework help, friend drama, problems with our parents. It became automatic after a while, putting their needs first.”

He pauses, considering how much to reveal. The habit of protecting others from his own struggles runs deep, but something about Taiga’s quiet attention makes honesty feel safer than usual.

“My parents divorced during Golden Week,” he continues, the words coming easier than expected. “It wasn’t unexpected, but Masaya took it hard. He’s only thirteen, and I think he was hoping they’d work things out. Yuina’s handling it better, but she’s also busy with university applications and her own stress.”

Taiga stops walking, turning to look at him with something that might be surprise. “I’m sorry. That must be hard.”

“It is,” Hokuto acknowledges. “But I’m trying to set better boundaries. My siblings are strong—stronger than I sometimes give them credit for. They don’t need me to fix everything for them.”

The admission feels strange in his mouth. But Shintaro’s words from the night before echo in his mind: You don’t have to carry everything alone.

Anzu has discovered a patch of grass near the campus entrance and promptly flops down for a thorough rolling session, clearly deciding that smelling like earth and flowers is preferable to maintaining her groomed appearance. Both men watch her performance with shared amusement.

“I can’t imagine what that’s like,” Taiga says quietly. “Being needed that way. Being someone people turn to.”

There’s something wistful in his voice, an edge of longing that makes Hokuto's chest tighten. He thinks of Taiga’s careful distance, the way he deflects compliments and minimizes his own struggles. Maybe being an only child meant learning to be entirely self-sufficient, never asking for help because there was no natural network of support.

“Sometimes it's overwhelming,” Hokuto admits. “Knowing that other people’s happiness depends on your decisions. But it also gives you purpose, I guess. Makes you feel useful.”

Taiga is quiet for a long moment, watching Anzu complete her grass-rolling ritual and shake herself clean. When he speaks again, his voice is softer.

“I used to think being alone was easier,” he says. “No one to disappoint, no one to let down. But Anzu taught me that isolation isn’t the same thing as safety.”

The words hang between them. Hokuto feels the urge to respond, to offer comfort or reassurance, but something in Taiga’s posture suggests that pushing too hard would cause him to retreat.

Instead, he crouches down to Anzu’s level, letting her investigate his hands with thorough dedication. “She’s a good teacher,” he says simply.

Taiga watches this interaction with that same soft expression Hokuto had noticed in the courtyard—unguarded and genuinely pleased. “She has excellent taste in people,” he observes.

The compliment, delivered so casually, makes warmth spread through Hokuto’s chest. He scratches behind Anzu's ears, earning a contented sigh that sounds almost human in its satisfaction.

“I think the feeling is mutual,” he replies, meaning more than just his affection for the small dog currently melting under his attention.

When he looks up, Taiga is watching him with an expression he can’t quite read—something complicated that might be fondness mixed with uncertainty.

Then Anzu decides she’s had enough sitting still and bounces to her feet, ready to continue their exploration. 

The spell breaks, but something has shifted—a small step toward understanding that feels more significant than it should.

🪈

They walk with an unspoken rhythm now — three shapes moving in quiet agreement. Anzu leads with the certainty of someone who has already decided where they belong, her small paws clicking softly against the stone path. Every few steps, she pauses to study a scent, then circles back as if to make sure Hokuto hasn’t disappeared.

The apartment building rises ahead — glass and concrete catching the late light, its sharp edges softened by the gold that lingers before dusk.

They should say goodbye here. Should exchange polite farewells about seeing each other in class on Monday, about thanking each other for the pleasant walk. Hokuto knows this, can feel the natural conclusion approaching like the final measures of a familiar piece.

But neither of them moves to end it.

Taiga adjusts the leash, winding the loop around his wrist with the kind of care that seems to delay an ending. “She’ll probably sleep for hours after this,” he says, glancing at the small dog who looks anything but tired.

“Probably,” Hokuto echoes, though Anzu’s bright eyes suggest otherwise.

They stand there in the building’s shadow, the silence stretching between them. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly—more like standing at the edge of something neither of them quite knows how to name.

From somewhere near the station comes laughter — Jesse’s unmistakable, bright and easy, followed by Yugo’s lower tone and what might be Shintaro’s enthusiastic storytelling. The sound draws closer, accompanied by the soft percussion of footsteps and grocery bags.

Hokuto feels the moment shifting, reality reasserting itself in the form of roommates and weekend plans and the ordinary obligations of shared living space. In a few minutes, Jesse will appear with his characteristic brightness, Shintaro will fill the air with restless energy, and whatever delicate understanding has been building between him and Taiga will dissolve into group dynamics.

The thought leaves a small ache, like watching something fragile slip through open fingers.

“Hokuto!” Jesse’s voice cuts through the evening air, closer now. “There you are! We were wondering if you’d vanished into a practice room forever.”

They round the corner in a cluster of easy movement—Jesse with his arms full of shopping bags, Yugo carrying what looks like enough groceries to feed a small army, and Shintaro bouncing alongside them with the kinetic energy of someone who's been cooped up indoors too long.

“Taiga?” Yugo’s eyebrows rise in pleasant surprise when he spots the second figure. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“He was walking Anzu on campus,” Hokuto explains, though the explanation feels inadequate for the past hour of quiet understanding. “We ended up walking back together.”

Jesse immediately zeroes in on the small dog, who has positioned herself strategically between Hokuto’s feet and appears to have no intention of moving. “Oh my god, hello princess! Long time no see!”

Anzu, recognizing a fellow enthusiast, graciously allows Jesse to approach. But she maintains her claim on Hokuto, leaning against his legs even as she accepts scratches from her new admirer.

“She’s gorgeous,” Jesse coos, completely abandoning any pretense of dignity. “Can I hold her?”

“Yeah,” Taiga answers, and there’s warmth in his voice that Hokuto has learned to associate with his pet.

Shintaro drops his own bags and immediately joins Jesse in the adoration session, both of them speaking to Anzu in the exaggerated tones reserved for babies and beloved pets. Their enthusiasm is infectious; even Yugo sets down his groceries to crouch beside them, offering gentle scratches behind Anzu’s ears.

But Anzu, while graciously accepting the group worship, keeps glancing back at Hokuto as if to ensure he’s still there. Her loyalty is unmistakable, and Hokuto finds himself oddly touched by her attachment.

“She’s completely smitten with you,” Taiga observes, following the direction of Anzu’s gaze. “I’ve never seen her take to someone so quickly.”

“Dogs have good instincts,” Yugo says with a smile. “They can tell when someone’s genuinely kind.”

The comment makes Hokuto flush slightly, though he’s not sure why.

“Speaking of kind,” Jesse says, straightening from his crouch and dusting off his hands, “Yugo bought enough food to feed half of Tokyo. We’re making hamburgers for dinner, and there’s definitely enough for one more person.”

The invitation hangs in the air. Hokuto can see the moment Taiga processes it—the brief flash of surprise, followed by the careful consideration he always seems to give social invitations, as if weighing unknown risks.

“I don’t want to impose,” Taiga says carefully. “You already have plans—”

“Plans that involve eating hamburgers and probably arguing about what to watch on Netflix,” Jesse interrupts with a grin. “Hardly exclusive. Besides, Anzu clearly isn’t ready to leave Hokuto yet.”

As if summoned by her name, Anzu chooses that moment to sit down directly on Hokuto’s feet, gazing up at him with the kind of adoring expression usually reserved for people who dispense treats on a regular basis.

“See?” Jesse gestures triumphantly. “She’s basically adopted him already. You can’t separate a dog from her chosen person. It’s cruel.”

Taiga looks down at his pet, then back at the group of expectant faces surrounding them. Hokuto can almost see him weighing the decision.

“I guess she’d be traumatized by the separation,” Taiga says finally, and there’s the faintest hint of humor in his voice.

“Absolutely devastated,” Shintaro agrees solemnly. “We can’t be responsible for that kind of emotional damage.”

“Then I guess I don’t have a choice,” Taiga replies, but the words lack any real reluctance.

Jesse whoops with delight, already moving toward the building entrance with renewed energy. “This is gonna be great! Yugo bought those good hamburger buns!”

“I bought the ones you specifically requested,” Yugo replies with fond exasperation. “After you bothered me three times in an hour to make sure I got the right brand.”

“The bothering was necessary!” Jesse calls over his shoulder as he fumbles with the building’s keypad.

Shintaro bounces alongside them, already talking about side dishes and whether they have enough condiments and how they should probably move the coffee table to make more space.

Hokuto and Taiga follow more slowly, Anzu trotting between them with obvious satisfaction at this turn of events. The small dog seems to understand that she’s successfully orchestrated a social gathering through pure force of personality.

“Thank you,” Taiga says quietly as they wait for the elevator. “For the walk. For... this.”

The words are simple, but Hokuto hears the weight beneath them. Maybe for the reminder that connection doesn’t always require surrender, that sometimes being welcomed is as simple as showing up.

“Thank you,” Hokuto replies, “for letting me spend time with both of you.”

The elevator arrives with a soft chime, and they step inside together with the others. In the enclosed space, Hokuto becomes acutely aware of Taiga beside him—the faint scent of his cologne, the way late afternoon light has caught in his dark hair, the careful way he holds himself even in moments of relaxation.

Anzu, meanwhile, has claimed the center of the elevator floor and appears to be holding court, accepting adoration from all sides with the regal bearing of someone who knows exactly how charming she is.

“I think,” Hokuto says, watching as his friends compete for the dog’s attention, “this is going to be an interesting evening.”

“Interesting is one word for it,” Taiga agrees.

The elevator climbs toward their floor, carrying them toward whatever the evening holds.

🎹

The last notes of Handel’s Suite in A Major still hang in the air when Taiga lifts his hands from the keys. Three hours. Three hours of drilling the same passages. Three hours with the same mistakes.

His wrists ache. The tendons burn deep, the kind of pain that used to mean progress. Now it just reminds him that his body’s older than it should be.

He used to play without thinking. Without feeling the grind in every joint. Now even Handel feels like a mountain to climb.

He pushes back from the bench. His shoulders are stiff. Light cuts across the floor—thin, angled, late.

Tomorrow’s the exam. The suite still sounds like fragments, not music.

The silence in the apartment hums loudly. No hum of traffic from this high up. No neighbors moving around. Just the faint tick of the wall clock. Anzu’s soft breathing from her spot on the couch.

He needs a break. Needs to step away before frustration turns everything into noise.

In the kitchen, Taiga pulls open the refrigerator door. Inside are neat rows of glass containers, his mother’s handwriting on each one.

He takes a can of cola instead. The crack of the tab slices through the quiet. From the cupboard, he retrieves one of Anzu’s treats.

“Anzu,” he calls softly. “Snack time.”

Her head lifts immediately, ears perked. She stretches and trots over with the dignified air of someone accepting their due tribute.

Taiga holds out the treat. She takes it with careful precision.

The apartment settles back into quiet as Anzu retreats to her favorite spot near the balcony door. Late afternoon light pools warm on the floor.

Taiga leans against the kitchen counter. Lets the cold soda cut through the dryness in his throat.

His gaze drifts to the table.

Photographs are scattered across it. Prints he’d made earlier this week. Most are test shots—experiments with light and shadow, attempts to understand why his camera sometimes shows him things that haven’t happened yet.

But one stands out from the rest.

Hokuto and Anzu. Late afternoon. Golden hour bleeding through the trees. Hokuto crouched low, hand gentle against her belly. That easy smile—the kind that makes him look younger, softer, like life hasn’t reached him yet. Anzu sprawled on her back, unashamed, trusting.

It’s perfect. Technically. The line from Hokuto’s face to Anzu’s grin. The balance. Warm light, no saturation. Photography experts would call it genuine emotion.

But it didn’t trigger anything.

No flicker. No double image bleeding through the frame.

Taiga frowns as he stares at the image. The first vision was through a photograph of the campus shrine—an object, a place.

Then the piano.

Then the courtyard.

But not of Anzu.

But not of Hokuto with Anzu.

He lifts the print closer. He studies the shadows, edges.

Nothing. Just a beautiful, harmless moment.

The other photos from that night tell the same story. Group shots around the dinner table—Jesse mid-gesture, loud even on print. Yugo rolling his eyes with a half-smile. Shintaro leaning into Hokuto’s space with obvious adoration. Hokuto patient and kind as always.

All of them technically sound. All of them empty of visions.

Even the random shots he’d taken afterward remained exactly what they appeared to be. No glimpses of other timelines, no windows into futures that might never exist.

He spreads them across the table like cards, searching for a pattern that won’t exist.

Objects trigger visions. People don’t.

But why?

He takes another sip of cola. The fizz bites his tongue, anchors him. The shrine. The piano. All places with weight. History. Maybe the camera doesn’t show people at all. Maybe it only shows what spaces remember.

Anzu finishes her treat and pads over to where Taiga stands. She presses against his leg, soft and insistent. He reaches down and scratches behind her ears while his mind runs through possibilities that don’t add up.

His eyes land on Hokuto’s smile. The kind that happens when no one’s watching. Open. Stupidly kind. It knocks the air out of him, even now.

The warmth in Hokuto’s eyes catches on something inside him. A quiet snare. The same look from that night in the courtyard—when Hokuto knelt without hesitation, met Anzu’s gaze like it mattered. Like being gentle was instinct, not effort.

Taiga wonders what it would feel like to be seen that way. Not studied. Not tolerated. Just… seen.

Stop.

He sets the photo down like it might bite. Steps back. Distance helps. Usually.

This is exactly what he can’t afford to feel. Why he’s been encouraging Shintaro’s obvious infatuation.

Another photo catches his eye—Shintaro leaning toward Hokuto, words spilling, grin bright. Hokuto listening, that soft look again. Could be politeness. Could be something more.

Maybe Taiga doesn’t need to interfere. Maybe it’s already happening.

The thought should comfort him.

It doesn’t.

The jealousy hits fast. Ugly. Sharp. He knows what it is—selfish, pointless—but naming it doesn’t dull it. The taste sticks anyway.

Good, he tells himself firmly. That’s good.

If Hokuto wants Shintaro, then fine. That’s safer. Cleaner. Taiga won’t have to watch his own hands tremble when Hokuto laughs, won’t have to keep pretending his chest doesn’t tighten when their eyes meet.

He can fade out. Step back. Let the scene play without him.

Anzu shifts near the balcony, lets out a quiet sound. He looks over. She’s sprawled in sunlight again, belly up, trusting the world to stay kind.

Same as in the photo. Same as under Hokuto’s hand.

He gets it. Hokuto makes people believe in safety. In softness. In something that lasts. Shintaro must feel it too—that steady gravity, that quiet promise that someone will catch you if you fall.

That’s the danger. That’s what will kill him.

This was never about what Taiga wants. It’s about keeping Hokuto alive.

And if that means watching Shintaro win, then so be it.

He’ll play the part. Smile, nod, offer advice no one asked for. Pretend it doesn’t hollow him out each time Hokuto looks at someone else like that.

He gathers the photos. Straightens the edges. Slides them into an envelope until the table is bare again.

Focus, he tells himself. Focus on what matters.

He has a midterm exam tomorrow. What matters is getting through Handel without embarrassing himself in front of Professor Mori.

What matters is the slow, grinding work of rebuilding his technique from the ground up.

Not the curve of Hokuto’s smile. Not the way his laugh sounds in the conservatory hallways. Not the impossible futures that flicker behind Taiga’s eyelids every time he lets himself imagine what could be.

Taiga moves back toward the piano. The bench creaks under the familiar weight.

The keys wait. The Handel suite sits open on the music stand.

He lifts his hands to the keys and begins again.

🎹

The bench feels smaller. Maybe it’s the years, or the way his shoulders learned to carry things they shouldn’t.

He shifts until the wood stops complaining under him. The piano smells like polish and dust and memory. Professor Mori’s chair creaks when he moves—an old rhythm Taiga could almost play along to.

“Take your time,” Professor Mori says. That soft, deliberate patience—the kind born from too many students trying too hard.

Taiga nods. His mouth tastes dry.

Three weeks ago, he’d have called this a joke. A midterm on a piece he could play before his feet reached the pedals. Handel. A child’s test. Predictable harmonies, clean symmetry. Nothing dangerous.

Which is the point.

His hands settle into position. The first chord hums, steady.

He’s nine again, knees barely clearing the bench in his father’s study, sunlight cutting across the room like a metronome.

Back then, every phrase felt like discovery. His mother used to pause mid-task just to listen. His father would nod—small, rare approval. Perfect then meant something simple.

The Allemande moves on its own now. No analysis. No invisible audience waiting to judge the weight of his phrasing. Just sound. The melody breathes, and for a moment he almost does too.

Professor Mori’s chair doesn’t creak. Probably a good sign.

The Courante starts. Taiga lets his wrists relax. Notes spill fast, bright, almost playful. There’s that one shift—minor to major, a flicker of shadow turning toward light. As a kid, he’d thought it sounded like someone stepping into the sun.

Apparently he still thinks that. The thought should embarrass him. What kind of serious musician thinks in simplistic metaphors?

But it doesn’t. Not today.

His fingers slip once. He feels it, but he doesn’t chase perfection. In London, these imperfections would’ve ruined him, would have been proof of his inadequacy.

But this isn’t London. This is Tokyo. And Taiga is just playing music that once made him happy.

The Sarabande slows the air. Space between notes thickens until it’s almost tangible. It reminds him of his grandmother’s garden—the stillness, the smell of earth after rain. She’s gone, but the rhythm feels like her hands guiding his.

The Gigue pulls him out of that calm. Quick, bright, showy. The kind of movement he used to play like his life depended on it.

Maybe it still does, in smaller ways.

When the last chord fades, silence takes shape in the room. Not heavy. Just there. Whole.

Professor Mori is smiling when Taiga finally looks up.

“Well,” the older man says, making a note on his evaluation sheet. “That was quite refreshing.”

Taiga blinks. “Refreshing?”

“Genuine,” Professor Mori clarifies, setting down his pen. “Technically, there were some rough spots. Your articulation in the Courante could be cleaner, and you rushed slightly in the final section of the Gigue. But...” He pauses, seeming to consider his words. “It felt like you were actually enjoying yourself. When was the last time that happened?”

The question lands harder than it should. Enjoying himself. As if that’s something he still knows how to do.

He tries to think of the last time he played without that tight coil in his chest, without hearing every wrong note echo like failure. Nothing comes.

“I’m giving you an A,” Professor Mori continues. “If you’d combined that emotional honesty with the technical mastery I know you're capable of, it would have been an S. But honestly?” He leans back in his chair. “I’ll take genuine feeling over perfect technique any day. You can teach someone to play the notes correctly. You can’t teach them to mean it.”

Taiga stares at the evaluation sheet. That solid A in Mori’s tidy handwriting looks foreign, like it belongs to someone else’s name. Not the S he used to demand. Not the failure he half-expected. Just … enough. More than good enough, actually.

“Thank you,” he manages, though the words feel insufficient.

"Don't thank me yet," Professor Mori says with a slight smile. “Your final exam is at the end of next month, and I’ll expect to see that technical polish along with whatever you just gave me. Think you can manage both?”

For once, the question doesn’t choke him. The thought of another performance doesn’t drag him under. Maybe it’s just the leftover warmth from the Handel. Or maybe he’s tired of pretending he’s finished.

“I can try.”

“Good enough for now,” Professor Mori replies. “That’s what trying is for.”

The door clicks behind him, clean and final. The sound stays with him longer than it should.

Taiga stands there for a second, listening to it fade. The paper in his hand feels heavier than it should—an A that means too much and not enough at the same time. Praise never lands right. Always feels like a setup for disappointment.

The hallway hums with the post-exam noise he knows too well. Shoes against tile. Breathless chatter. The air thick with nerves, perfume, and rosin. Everyone performing their own small recoveries.

“Taiga!”

He turns. Jesse rounds the corner, jacket over one shoulder, grin already half-formed. The man moves like someone who hasn’t learned caution.

“Perfect timing,” Jesse says, falling into step beside him. “Just finished my Acting for Singers midterm. Pretty sure I butchered the Puccini, but the Sondheim went okay.” He runs a hand through his hair. “You look better than I expected. How’d yours go?”

“Fine.” Taiga adjusts his bag strap. “Survived it.”

“High praise from you,” Jesse says with a laugh. “That’s practically euphoric.”

They walk toward the main corridor. The hall smells of sweat and wood polish. Groups cluster around doors, dissecting performances as if autopsies might bring them back to life. The place always feels sterile after exams—too bright, too clinical.

“You heading somewhere?” Jesse asks. “Because Yugo should be finishing his Orchestral Conducting exam about now. Figured I’d walk over and rescue him from whatever existential crisis he's having about his tempo choices.”

Taiga considers. He has nowhere particular to be. Company might be better than solitude. Marginally.

“Sure,” he says. “I’ll walk with you.”

Jesse grins, the kind of unguarded expression Taiga’s forgotten how to wear. Too open. Too easy.

They navigate the maze of corridors toward the conducting studios. The air changes as they move—practice rooms giving way to bigger spaces, the soundscape widening until footsteps echo.

“So,” Jesse says, his tone sliding toward casual. “Random question, but have you noticed anything... particular about Shintaro lately?”

Taiga’s step falters slightly. “Particular how?”

“Come on,” Jesse says, nudging his shoulder. “You’ve got eyes. The way he looks at Hokuto? The ‘Hokkun this’ and ‘Hokkun that’? He’s about as subtle as a marching band.”

The words hit where he expected them to, but still sting. He feels the impact in his jaw, tight and silent. The kind of ache that never shows.

“I noticed,” he says carefully.

Jesse’s laugh is soft, unbothered. “It’s kind of adorable, actually. Like watching a puppy fall in love with its own reflection. All that enthusiasm and zero self-awareness.”

They turn another corner. Through the glass walls, Taiga sees students hunched over music stands, gestures sharp with intensity.

“Poor kid doesn’t know what to do with himself,” Jesse continues. “Yesterday he spent fifteen minutes asking me about Hokuto’s favorite coffee shop. As if that’s somehow the key to unlocking eternal happiness.”

Taiga’s jaw tightens further. The image forms too easily—Shintaro leaning forward across the table, eyes bright, saying Hokuto’s name like it belongs to him.

Hokkun.

The word scrapes. Even in memory.

“Actually,” Jesse says, glancing sideways at Taiga with barely contained mischief, “I’ve got a running bet going on when he'll finally work up the courage to confess.”

“A bet?” The words leave his mouth flat, uninflected.

“Nothing serious,” Jesse clarifies quickly. “Just friendly speculation. Yugo thinks it’ll take until summer break. Says Shintaro’s the type to need a dramatic moment, maybe some sunset or festival setting. I’m betting sooner. Shin’s not exactly built for restraint.”

They stop outside the conducting studio. Behind the glass, Yugo stands before a small ensemble, baton carving precise arcs through the air. That same tunnel-focus he’s had since they were kids—every heartbeat synced to rhythm.

“What about you?” Jesse asks. “Any predictions?”

Taiga watches Yugo’s hands. The baton flashes. Clean. Controlled. Safe ground.

But Jesse’s question doesn’t leave. It lingers, waiting for something honest.

The truth feels like glass in his throat.

“Soon,” he says finally. “Probably sooner than you think.”

Jesse raises an eyebrow. “That confident? You see something the rest of us are missing?”

“No,” Taiga lies smoothly. “Just... he’s not exactly hiding it well. And Matsumura’s too kind to leave him hanging forever.”

The words sit bitter on his tongue. True, but edged. Hokuto’s kindness cuts both ways—steady, selfless, and dangerous in how easily it breaks him.

“You think Hokuto knows?” Jesse asks. “About Shintaro’s feelings, I mean.”

“Probably.” Taiga's throat feels dry. “Matsumura notices things. He’s good at reading people.”

“And?”

The question hangs there, heavier than it should be. Jesse means it lightly, but Taiga hears the weight underneath—the curiosity, the hope.

“And he’s too good for his own good,” Taiga says. “He’ll give it serious consideration, even if it complicates everything.”

Jesse nods slowly, understanding flickering across his features. “Yeah, that tracks. Hokuto’s the type who’d feel guilty for breaking someone’s heart, even if he never encouraged them in the first place.”

Inside the studio, the session winds down. Instruments lower, conversation flares—shadows of exhaustion and relief crossing every face. Yugo finishes last, his focus unraveling just enough for something human to show. He gathers his things with care, like precision might hold him together.

When he looks up and spots them, his expression shifts—tension giving way to that open, familiar warmth. It’s the same look Taiga remembers from when they were kids, the one that always meant you’re safe here.

The studio door exhales stale air as it opens. Yugo steps out, shoulders taut but steady, baton case loose in his grip.

Jesse closes the distance in seconds. He pulls Yugo in without ceremony, arms wrapping around him like gravity’s suggestion finally makes sense. Yugo folds into it instantly, the line of his body easing, unguarded for once.

“How’d it go?” Jesse murmurs against Yugo’s ear, loud enough for Taiga to catch the words but quiet enough to feel intimate.

“Survived,” Yugo says, voice muffled against Jesse’s shoulder. “Though I’m pretty sure I butchered the tempo changes in the Brahms. Felt like I was conducting underwater.”

“You always think that,” Jesse replies, pulling back just enough to look at Yugo’s face. “Remember last semester? You were convinced you’d destroyed the Mozart, and then Watanabe-sensei said it was the best interpretation he’d heard all year.”

Yugo laughs, the sound carrying genuine fondness. “You have an annoyingly good memory.”

“Only for things that matter.”

They stay like that a moment longer, framed in the thin light leaking through the window. The space between them feels earned. No performance, no tension, just warmth.

Taiga watches, something tight shifting beneath his ribs.  Not envy, exactly. Just the awareness of what simplicity looks like when it isn’t his.

Yugo notices him then, as if suddenly remembering they have an audience. He steps back from Jesse with the particular awkwardness of someone caught being vulnerable in public, color rising in his cheeks.

“Taiga,” he says, like he’s surprised to find him there. “I didn’t realize—how long have you been—?”

“Long enough,” Taiga says, voice even. “Congrats on surviving the Brahms.”

“Thanks.” Yugo adjusts his baton case, fidgeting with the zipper. “How did yours go? Piano midterm, right?”

“Got an A.” The words feel wrong in his mouth, like someone else is speaking them.

Jesse lets out a low whistle; Yugo’s brows rise, genuine surprise flickering through the fatigue.

“An A?” Yugo repeats. “Taiga, that’s—”

“It’s fine,” Taiga cuts him off before the praise can gather momentum. “Just played some Handel. Nothing complicated.”

But Yugo’s grin doesn’t dim. If anything, it grows—bright in that uncomplicated way Taiga never learned how to match. The same look Yugo used to give him when they were kids, after some small victory neither of them could really explain. Like pride didn’t need a reason.

“This calls for a celebration!” Jesse announces, throwing an arm around each of them with theatrical enthusiasm. “Ice cream. My treat. There’s this place in Harajuku that does these ridiculous sundaes with, like, actual flowers on top. Very aesthetic, very exactly what we need after midterm trauma.”

Taiga almost says no. The reflex is immediate. But something stops him. Maybe the leftover pulse of the music still under his skin. Maybe the warmth still caught in his chest from Professor Mori’s quiet approval. Or maybe he’s just tired of avoiding everything that doesn’t hurt.

“Sure,” he hears himself say. “But I need to stop by my apartment first. Pick up Anzu.”

The silence that follows stretches just long enough to register. Jesse and Yugo exchange a look—one of those silent conversations people think he can’t see.

“Really?” Jesse asks with barely concealed surprise. “You want to third-wheel our disgustingly cute couple routine?”

“Your disgusting routine is marginally better than sitting alone in my apartment,” Taiga replies dryly. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Jesse laughs, sharp and bright. “Deal.”

They move through the conservatory’s corridors again, quieter now. The post-exam hum fades as doors close, lights dim. Students pass in scattered clusters, all of them carrying some piece of exhaustion like it’s part of the uniform.

Outside, the air hits cooler. Tokyo hums ahead of them—neon, engines, the low rhythm of a city that doesn’t sleep, just shifts tempo.

“So,” Yugo says, falling into step beside Taiga while Jesse checks his phone. “You’ve been more… present lately.”

The observation comes quietly, without accusation or judgment. Yugo’s voice has that careful edge, like he’s trying not to spook Taiga into retreating.

“Present?” Taiga keeps his eyes fixed on the sidewalk ahead. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means.” Yugo’s voice carries fond exasperation. “Showing up to study sessions, agreeing to dinner plans, accepting invitations to third-wheel ice cream dates. A month ago, you would have disappeared the moment Jesse suggested we celebrate.”

They stop at a crosswalk. The world hums around them—cars idling, snippets of conversation, the chime of a convenience store door. The noise feels distant, like everything’s happening a beat too slow.

“I haven’t changed,” Taiga says, though he doesn’t believe it. “I’m just… less busy.”

Yugo snorts. “Right. Because your schedule was so packed with all that nothing you were doing.”

The light changes. They move with the crowd, Jesse’s voice filling the air ahead of them—something about ice cream flavors. Taiga lets the sound wash over him like background music.

“You’re being more social,” Yugo continues, voice pitched low enough that Jesse can’t hear over his own enthusiastic monologue. “Whether you want to admit it or not. And before you deflect or change the subject, it’s a good thing. I’m not criticizing. I’m just… noticing.”

Taiga’s jaw tightens. Yugo always notices too much.

And he’s right. Taiga has been showing up more. Saying yes more. Sitting through moments he used to escape. He doesn’t know when that started—or why he hasn’t stopped it.

And the answer, he suspects, has everything to do with a flute player with gentle hands and the kind of smile that makes Taiga want to believe in futures he’s not sure he deserves.

“Maybe I’m just bored,” he says finally. “Isolation gets old after a while.”

Yugo hums, unconvinced, but lets it go. He’s learned when not to push. “Well,” he says, the grin audible in his voice, “whatever the reason, I’m glad. You’re easier to be around when you’re not actively trying to disappear.”

The words sting because they’re true. For months, he’s practiced invisibility—showing up without presence, speaking without saying anything. The habit of vanishing in plain sight.

But something’s been shifting. Small, unsteady things. Laughter that doesn’t feel forced. Shared silences that don’t feel like punishment. Sitting in practice rooms with Juri and Hokuto, not because he has to, but because the air feels lighter there. Almost human.

“Don’t read too much into it,” he warns, though there’s no real bite in the words.

Yugo’s grin widens, unrepentant. “Too late. I’m already planning your social rehabilitation. Step one: ice cream. Step two: actual human conversation. Step three—”

“Don’t push it,” Taiga interrupts.

The corner of his mouth threatens something close to a smile. He lets it hover for a second before it fades.

🎹

The izakaya hums like a low-frequency note—crowded, overheated, alive in that way Tokyo gets when people pretend they’re free for a night. Smoke from the yakitori grill hangs heavy, clinging to skin and clothes. The air smells like salt, soy, and burnt edges.

Taiga’s wedged between Hokuto and Juri, knees pressed too close under a table sticky with spilled beer. Hokuto’s cologne cuts through the haze—clean, expensive, wrong for this place. Jesse’s voice carries over the noise, hands moving too wide, Yugo intercepting before something breaks.

“Alright!” Jesse announces, lifting his glass with theatrical ceremony. “To surviving a round of academic torture!”

They murmur their agreement before raising and clinking their glasses.

The beer tastes cheap. Bitter enough to remind Taiga that he’s still awake. It burns going down, scratches just enough to keep him grounded.

“So,” Jesse says, already reaching for the yakitori that’s appeared as if by magic, “damage assessment time. How badly did everyone get demolished?”

“Speak for yourself,” Juri replies, grabbing a piece of chicken from the plate. “I actually new what I was doing for once.”

“Theory?” Yugo asks.

“Got through the figured bass without wanting to throw myself out a window,” Juri confirms. “Which counts as a victory in my book.”

Shintaro grins, sauce shining on his chin. “Dance practical went great. Sensei said my improvement was ‘notable,’ which I’m pretty sure is teacher code for ‘thank god you’re finally not completely hopeless.’”

“That’s definitely what it means,” Jesse agrees. “I got the same comment on my sight-reading.”

Their voices overlap, warmth and noise filling the narrow space until it hums like feedback. Taiga lets it wash over him. He eats slowly, the way you do when you’re not really hungry but need something to do with your hands.

The stories blur together—Yugo dissecting his composition exam, Jesse dramatizing every mistake like it’s part of an act. Ordinary talk. Ordinary lives. He shouldn’t fit here, but somehow, pressed between Hokuto’s calm and Juri’s restless energy, it doesn’t feel wrong.

“What about you, Kyomo?” Juri nudges his shoulder. “Did Mori-sensei finally acknowledge your existence, or are you still persona non grata?”

Taiga takes another sip of beer, buying himself time. “A. In performance.”

The table goes quiet for a moment. He can feel the surprise before anyone says it.

“Shit, really?” Shintaro leans forward, eyes wide. “That’s amazing!”

“I knew it,” Juri says with satisfaction. “Mori-sensei’s been waiting for you to stop sabotaging yourself.”

Hokuto doesn’t speak, but Taiga feels the attention shift. When he glances over, Hokuto’s looking at him with something quiet—approval, maybe, or understanding too careful to name.

It presses against him in a way that has nothing to do with the smoke-filled air.

“Don’t get excited,” Taiga says, more defensive than he means to sound. “It was one exam. Not a personality transplant. I’m still waiting for the other exams.”

“Still counts,” Shintaro insists. “We should celebrate! Speaking of which—” He turns to Jesse with sudden enthusiasm. “Your birthday’s coming up, right? June… something?”

“Eleventh,” Jesse confirms, snatching another skewer. “But don’t get any ideas about surprise parties or anything. Yougo already has that look.”

“What look?” Yugo protests, though his face gives him away immediately.

“The ‘I’m planning something elaborate and probably embarrassing’ look,” Jesse clarifies. “I know you too well.”

“June’s a good month for birthdays,” Juri observes, leaning back with a grin. “Mine’s the fifteenth.”

“No shit?” Shintaro perks up, already invested. “That’s perfect! We could do a joint thing. And Hokkun’s the eighteenth.” He leans into Hokuto’s space with an ease that grates at Taiga’s nerves.

Hokuto shifts uncomfortably. “You don’t have to—”

“Don’t even start with that self-sacrificing bullshit,” Jesse cuts in. “Of course we’re celebrating. All three of us.”

“A week of birthdays,” Yugo muses. “We could make it a whole thing. Dinner somewhere nice, maybe karaoke after.”

“Yes!” Shintaro lights up. “We have to do karaoke!”

The noise around them builds again—laughter, clinking glasses, the low hum of strangers shouting over their own joy. The talk shifts easily, plans forming like melodies improvised mid-performance. Birthdays, venues, schedules. Too many moving parts for something that should fall apart, but somehow it doesn’t.

Jesse’s quick with logistics, Yugo already half-organizing details in his head. Juri contributes chaos. Shintaro, enthusiasm. Hokuto just smiles faintly, the kind of quiet that steadies a room without effort.

Taiga sits back, listening. He doesn’t add much, but no one seems to expect him to. It’s strange—being included by default. Strange and almost dangerous.

Part of him wants to shut it down, to remind them he doesn’t do celebrations, doesn’t belong in the easy rhythm they’ve built.

But another part—smaller, stubborn—wants to see where it goes.

Wants to know what it’s like when people plan around him instead of past him.

Wants to see Hokuto’s face in candlelight, just once, before everything shifts again.

The seventh round of drinks arrives with the kind of inevitability that comes from a group collectively deciding that tomorrow’s hangover is a problem for future selves. Taiga watches the amber liquid slosh in his glass, noting absently that his hands are still steady despite what should probably be enough alcohol to fell a horse.

Across from him, Jesse’s in his element—too flushed to hide it, but still coherent. “You know,” he says, leaning toward Yugo with that grin that always precedes trouble, “you get really touchy when you’re drunk.”

“‘M not drunk,” Yugo insists, instantly contradicting himself by pressing his face into Jesse’s neck. “Just… happy. You smell good.”

“Puppy mode,” Jesse confirms to the table at large. “This is where he starts worrying about everyone else despite being barely upright.”

Right on cue, Yugo turns, concern already in his voice. “Hokkun, you eating enough? You look pale. Paler. More pale than usual.”

Hokuto blinks, slow and soft around the edges, like the world’s stopped keeping time. The alcohol’s taken the precision out of him; his posture’s collapsed into something almost human. That quiet smile pulls at his mouth—unguarded, uncalculated—and Taiga feels something shift in his chest.

“I’m fine,” Hokuto says, though the words come out slightly slurred. “Don’t worry about me.”

“See?” Yugo says, gesturing vaguely. “Always says he’s fine. Even when drunk. Especially when drunk.”

“That’s because he was trained to say that,” Juri drawls, half-slouched against the wall, looking like a particularly disheveled cat. “All of you. Poor Hokkun can’t even get drunk without worrying about everyone else’s feelings.”

“That’s not—” Hokuto starts, then stops, blinking again. “Actually, maybe that’s a little true.”

Shintaro, who seems to have the alcohol tolerance of someone twice his size, scoots closer to Hokuto. “You don’t have to worry about anything tonight. I’ve got you.”

The tone of it makes Taiga’s jaw tighten. He hides it behind another drink, watching as Shintaro straightens Hokuto’s jacket, fingers lingering longer than necessary.

“Shin’s right,” Jesse says, though he’s too busy being climbed by an increasingly affectionate Yugo to pay full attention. “Tonight’s about celebrating. No stress allowed.”

“No stress,” Hokuto repeats dreamily, as if testing out the concept. “That sounds… nice.”

He turns then, and his gaze lands on Taiga with startling directness. The soft smile widens, becoming something that makes Taiga forget how to breathe properly.

“Kyomoto,” Hokuto says, like he’s just discovered something wonderful. “You’re here.”

“Yeah,” Taiga manages. “I’m here.”

“I like that you’re here,” Hokuto continues, his usual careful restraint completely abandoned. “I like... I like when you’re around. You make things... better somehow.”

Shintaro’s attention sharpens instantly, eyes flicking between them. But Hokuto doesn’t notice. His focus stays locked on Taiga, like he’s trying to memorize him through the haze.

“Better how?” Taiga asks despite every instinct telling him not to encourage this.

“Quieter,” Hokuto says without hesitation. “Not quiet like empty, quiet like… like when you’re listening to really good music and everything else just stops mattering. You know?”

Taiga’s throat goes tight. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do,” Hokuto says with the unshakeable confidence of the drunk. “You always know what I mean. Even when I don’t say it right.”

Juri makes a soft whistling sound. “Damn, Hokuto! Tell us how you really feel.”

“I am,” Hokuto says earnestly, still focused on Taiga. “I really like—”

The sentence breaks mid-air. His face drains of color, the fragile warmth replaced by sudden panic.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “Oh no.”

“Hokkun?” Shintaro is immediately alert, all his attention zeroing in on Hokuto’s obvious distress. “What’s wrong?”

“I think—” Hokuto starts, then clamps a hand over his mouth and bolts from the table.

The back exit isn’t far, but Hokuto moves like someone already losing the race against his stomach. Shintaro’s up before anyone else, following close behind.

“Shit,” Jesse says, half-rising. “Should we—”

“Shin’s got him,” Yugo says, though he’s sobered slightly at the commotion.

Taiga watches through the window as Shintaro hovers next to Hokuto in the narrow alley behind the restaurant, one hand rubbing gentle circles on his back while Hokuto presumably empties his stomach of seven rounds worth of cheap beer and regret.

The sight twists something sharp inside him. It should be him out there. His hand on Hokuto’s back. His voice saying it’s fine, just breathe. Instead, it’s Shintaro—young, uncomplicated, steady in a way Taiga never learned to be.

He stares down at his drink until the condensation seeps into his sleeve, until the thought stops burning and just sits there, dull and heavy.

“He’s gonna feel like death tomorrow,” Juri observes, swirling the remains of his drink. “Poor bastard.”

“Good thing it’s Saturday,” Jesse says. “No classes to skip while dying of a hangover.”

Yugo hums in agreement, still pressed against Jesse’s side like a particularly affectionate barnacle. “Should probably call it a night soon. Before I end up in the same state.”

Outside the window, Shintaro leads Hokuto back inside. Hokuto’s steadier now, though his face carries that pale, embarrassed flush Taiga recognizes too well.

He’s still beautiful like this, which feels unfair.

When they reach the table, Hokuto’s expression is carefully neutral. His hands shake as he reaches for his water.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “I think I’m done for the night.”

“No judgment,” Jesse says immediately. “We’ve all been there.”

“Speak for yourself,” Juri mutters, though there’s no real bite to it.

Shintaro hovers anxiously. “I’ll make sure you get home okay. Make sure you drink water, maybe eat something…”

“You don’t have to—” Hokuto starts, then catches himself. “Thank you.”

The pause that follows hangs heavy, fragile. It’s domestic in the worst way—too intimate for strangers, too casual for what Taiga feels clawing at his chest.

He downs the rest of his beer in one swallow, the bitterness dulling nothing. “Yeah,” he says, standing abruptly. “I should head out too.”

“Kyomoto—” Hokuto begins.

But Taiga’s already standing, already pulling out cash and setting it on the table with practiced precision. He needs to leave before it turns into something. Before anyone sees through it.

He makes it three blocks before he realizes he’s not entirely sure which direction he's walking.

🪈

The first thing Hokuto notices when consciousness creeps back in is that his mouth tastes like something crawled in there to die.

The second thing is that his head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton and then hit repeatedly with a mallet.

The third thing is that the sunlight streaming through his bedroom window is far too bright and cheerful for whatever circle of hell he’s currently inhabiting.

He sits up slowly, each movement sending fresh waves of nausea through his system. The events of last night filter back in fragments—the izakaya, the celebration, round after round of cheap beer that had seemed like such a good idea at the time.

And then…

Oh god.

The mortifying sprint to the alley behind the restaurant, Shintaro’s gentle hands on his back, the taste of humiliation mixing with everything else coming up.

But there’s something else, something that makes his chest tight with a different kind of discomfort. A memory of words spilling out of his mouth without his permission, of looking at Taiga across that cramped table and saying things he’d never meant to voice. Things about liking him around, about the way Taiga made everything feel quieter in the best possible way.

His stomach lurches, though whether from the alcohol or the embarrassment, he can’t tell.

Hokuto swings his legs over the side of the bed, testing his equilibrium. The world tilts slightly but doesn’t completely revolt, which he takes as a minor victory. He needs water. He needs food. He needs to figure out how to face anyone ever again after making such a spectacular fool of himself.

The apartment is suspiciously quiet as he pads toward the living room in yesterday's clothes, which smell like smoke and regret. But as he rounds the corner, the silence explodes into chaos.

“Chug! Chug! Chug!”

Jesse’s voice rings out with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly didn’t spend the night emptying his stomach into an alley. Hokuto finds him standing over Yugo, who’s slumped on the couch clutching what appears to be a large bottle of bright blue liquid.

“Jesse, I really don’t think—” Yugo starts.

Jesse cuts him off with aggressive encouragement. “Come on, baby! Mind over matter! Your electrolytes need you!”

Yugo gamely tilts the bottle to his lips and starts drinking, though his face immediately contorts into an expression of profound regret. The blue liquid goes down in gulping swallows, Jesse cheering him on like he’s completing some kind of athletic feat.

And then Yugo gags.

Spectacularly.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!” Jesse panics, immediately dropping his cheerleader routine as Yugo doubles over, making sounds that suggest the electrolyte drink is about to make a swift return journey. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, maybe that was too much—”

“You think?” Yugo manages, though he keeps the drink down through what appears to be sheer force of will.

It’s at this moment that Shintaro notices Hokuto’s presence. He emerges from the kitchen like some kind of hangover angel, carrying a glass of water and what Hokuto recognizes as one of those little bottles of Ukon no Chikara.

“Morning, sunshine,” Shintaro says, though there’s no teasing in his voice. “How’s the head?”

“Like I got run over by a truck,” Hokuto admits, accepting the water and the hangover drink with gratitude that borders on worship. “Twice.”

“Been there.” Shintaro settles beside him on the arm of the couch, close enough that Hokuto can feel the warmth radiating from his body. “The drink should help with the nausea, and I’m making miso soup.”

The kindness in Shintaro’s voice makes something twist uncomfortably in Hokuto's chest. “You don’t have to take care of me,” Hokuto says quietly, though he’s already opening the hangover drink. The liquid is sweet and medicinal, carrying the promise of eventual relief.

“Sure I do,” Shintaro replies simply. “That’s what friends are for.”

Shintaro disappears back into the kitchen, humming something under his breath that Hokuto almost recognizes. Across the living room, Jesse has successfully convinced Yugo to finish the electrolyte drink and is now fussing over him with the devotion of someone deeply, hopelessly in love.

Hokuto sips the drink slowly, letting the liquid soothe his raw throat. The hangover drink sits heavy in his stomach, promising immediate relief.

Still, there’s a knot of anxiety sitting beneath his ribs that has nothing to do with alcohol poisoning and everything to do with the fragments of memory floating through his consciousness.

“What exactly did I say to Kyomoto last night?” he asks, directing the question to the room in general but hoping someone will have mercy on him.

Yugo looks up from where he's slumped against Jesse’s shoulder, his own face still carrying the pale, slightly green tinge of someone wrestling with their life choices. “You said something to Taiga? I don’t remember anything after Jesse started ordering those shots.”

“Oh, you said plenty,” Jesse pipes up. The gleeful tone in his voice makes Hokuto’s stomach drop in a way that has nothing to do with his hangover. “You want the full performance or just the highlights?”

“Jesse, no,” Hokuto starts.

But it’s too late. Jesse is already pulling away from Yugo, standing up with the kind of theatrical flourish that suggests he’s been waiting for this moment.

“Picture this,” Jesse announces, gesturing dramatically. ”Our dear Hokuto, three beers deep and feeling philosophical—”

“I wasn’t that drunk,” Hokuto protests weakly.

“—leans across the table with these big, soulful eyes,” Jesse continues, completely ignoring him. He adopts what Hokuto suspects is supposed to be a dreamy expression, though it mostly makes him look like he’s having some kind of medical episode. “And he goes, ‘Kyomoto, you know what? I like that you’re here.”

Hokuto winces. That doesn’t sound so bad, actually. Maybe he can live with that.

“But wait, there’s more!” Jesse declares, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “He says, ‘You make things… better somehow. Quieter. Not quiet like empty, quiet like… like when you’re listening to really good music and everything else just stops mattering. You know?’”

The knot in Hokuto’s stomach tightens. Okay, that’s... more revealing than he's comfortable with.

“And then!” Jesse’s voice reaches a crescendo. “He looks right at him—like, right at him—and goes, ‘You always know what I mean. Even when I don’t say it right.’”

Hokuto makes a sound that might charitably be called a groan.

Yugo, despite his own obvious discomfort, is staring at him with wide eyes and what looks suspiciously like delight. “Holy shit, Hokuto,” he breathes. “You basically confessed.”

“I did not confess,” Hokuto says quickly, though the protest sounds weak even to his own ears. “That’s not—I wasn’t—”

“Oh, but you did,” Jesse grins, clearly relishing every moment of Hokuto’s mortification. “And then Taiga just... stared at you. Like you’d grown a second head or something. And about thirty seconds later after you came back from throwing up, he bolted.”

The memory hits Hokuto like a physical blow. Taiga’s uncomfortable expression. The kind of look you give someone when they’ve just crossed a line you didn’t even know existed.

“I have to fix this,” Hokuto says, already reaching for his phone. “I need to talk to him. Explain that I was drunk and—”

“And what?” Yugo asks gently. “Lie?”

Hokuto freezes, his thumb hovering over Taiga’s contact. Because that’s the problem, isn’t it? He can’t exactly tell Taiga he was drunk and didn’t mean it, because even through the haze of alcohol and embarrassment, he knows he did mean it. Every word.

He thinks about Taiga constantly. When he's practicing, when he’s walking to classes, when he’s lying in bed at night staring at the ceiling. He thinks about the way Taiga’s fingers move across piano keys with the kind of precision that speaks of years of muscle memory, even when he’s fighting his own technique. He thinks about the rare moments when Taiga’s guard drops—like the other night with Anzu, when his smile had been soft and unguarded and completely devastating.

He thinks about the way Taiga deflects compliments like they’re physical blows, and how desperately Hokuto wants to convince him that he’s worth the kindness he keeps pushing away.

“Hokuto.”

Shintaro’s voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts. He's standing in the doorway holding a bowl of miso soup. There’s something steady in his expression, something grounding that makes Hokuto’s racing heart slow slightly.

“Drink this first,” Shintaro says, settling beside him on the couch and pressing the warm bowl into Hokuto’s hands. “All of it. And then maybe wait until you’re not actively poisoned with alcohol before you make any major decisions.”

The soup is perfect—not too salty, not too light, with just enough miso to settle his stomach without overwhelming it. Hokuto realizes he’s probably more dehydrated than he thought, and the warm liquid feels like salvation.

“But what if he thinks—” Hokuto starts.

“What if he thinks you’re a human being who sometimes drinks too much and says things he’s feeling?” Shintaro interrupts. “What if he thinks you’re not perfect? Would that be the end of the world?”

Hokuto considers this, taking another careful sip of the soup. Across the room, Jesse has apparently given up his performance and is now sprawled across Yugo’s lap, both of them looking like they’re seriously reconsidering every life choice that led them to this moment.

“I wasn’t ready,” Hokuto admits quietly. “To tell him how I feel. I wanted to do it right. When I was sure, when I knew what to say.”

“And now?”

Hokuto thinks about this. About the careful distance he’s been maintaining, the way he’s been treasuring every small interaction while telling himself it doesn’t mean anything.

About how Taiga had looked last night. Like the possibility hadn’t occurred to him.

Maybe that’s not entirely bad.

“Now I guess I find out if he runs away from me permanently,” Hokuto says, setting down the empty soup bowl. “Or if he’s willing to pretend I have a brain cell left in my head.”

Shintaro grins. “That’s the spirit. But seriously. Wait until this afternoon, at least. You still look like you got hit by a train.”

Hokuto nods, leaning back against the couch cushions. The hangover is already starting to recede, replaced by a different kind of nervous energy.

By this afternoon, he’ll have to face whatever he's created. But for now, he’s grateful for the knowledge that whatever happens next, at least he’ll face it sober.

🪈

Hokuto wakes slowly, the harsh afternoon light filtering through his bedroom curtains like a gentle reprieve. His head feels clearer now—still tender around the edges, but no longer like someone’s taken a sledgehammer to his skull. The nausea has settled into something manageable, and when he sits up carefully, the room stays mercifully still.

He checks his phone: 3:47 PM. The apartment is quiet around him, just the distant hum of traffic. Hokuto’s mouth still tastes like regret and dehydration, but the shower and soup and sleep have worked their small miracles.

Now comes the hard part.

He stares at his phone for a long moment, thumb hovering over Taiga’s contact. The weight of last night sits heavy in his chest. Sober now, he can’t take it back, and he’s not sure he wants to.

But he owes Taiga an explanation. At the very least, he owes him an apology for the mess of it all.

Hey, he types, then deletes it. Too casual.

Kyomoto, I’m really sorry about last night.

Delete.

I know I was embarrassing last night and I—

Delete.

Hokuto sets the phone down for a moment, running both hands through his hair. How do you apologize for a drunken confession without lying about the confession itself? How do you explain that yes, you were drunk, but no, that doesn’t make it less true?

Finally, he settles on something simple:

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 sends it before he can second-guess himself again, then immediately regrets the wording. Explain myself properly—like he’s giving a presentation rather than trying to navigate whatever this fragile thing between them has become.

The response comes faster than he expected. Hokuto’s heart does something complicated when he sees Taiga’s name on his screen.

You don’t need to apologize. I’m busy today anyway.

Hokuto stares at the message, reading it twice, then a third time. It’s polite but distant—classic Taiga deflection.

Before he can overthink it, another message appears:

You were drunk. People say things they don’t mean when they’re drunk. Don’t worry about it.

And there it is. The escape route Taiga is offering him. As if Hokuto’s confession was just alcohol talking, something to be dismissed and forgotten by both of them.

The rational part of Hokuto’s mind recognizes the kindness in it. Taiga is giving him a way out, a chance to pretend it never happened and go back to their careful friendship. No awkwardness, no complications, no risk of rejection or ruined dynamics with their friend group.

But something in Hokuto rebels against it. Maybe it’s pride, or maybe it’s the way Taiga had looked at him last night.

He types and deletes several responses.

But I did mean it. Too direct.

That’s the thing though— Too desperate.

Can we at least talk about it? Too pushy.

Instead, he settles on: What if I told you I did mean it?

The moment he sends it, his heart starts racing again. No alcohol to blame, no excuses to hide behind.

The three dots appear and disappear several times. Hokuto watches his phone like it might explode, wondering if he’s just made everything infinitely worse. Maybe Taiga really was just being polite. Maybe the last thing he wants is to deal with Hokuto’s feelings on top of whatever else he’s struggling with.

Finally, a response:

Matsumura, don’t.

Two words, but they land like a physical blow. There’s something almost desperate in the brevity of it, like Taiga is trying to stop something before it starts. Not I don't feel the same way or I’m not interested, but don’t. Like he's trying to protect them both from something.

Hokuto stares at the message until the words blur slightly. He thinks about last night—the way Taiga had been pulling away for weeks. The way he deflects every kindness, every attempt at connection. The way he looked when Shintaro was taking care of Hokuto, like he wanted to be closer but couldn’t allow himself to be.

Maybe this isn’t about rejection. Maybe it’s about fear.

He types carefully: Okay. I won't push. But if you ever want to talk about it I’m here.

The response takes even longer this time.

I know.

Hokuto reads them several times, looking for subtext, for hidden meaning. Finding maybe the smallest suggestion that this conversation isn’t entirely unwelcome, just... complicated.

He doesn’t respond immediately. Sometimes, he’s learned, the most important things are said in the spaces between words.

Instead, he gets up and goes to make tea.

Hokuto finds Yugo sitting on the couch, nursing a cup of tea and looking like someone who’s made peace with his own mortality but isn’t entirely happy about it. The afternoon light filters through the apartment windows, softer now than the brutal assault it had been this morning. Yugo’s posture has that particular defeated quality of someone who’s survived the worst of a hangover but hasn’t quite forgiven his past self for the choices that led him here.

“Where’s everyone else?” Hokuto asks, pouring himself tea from the pot on the coffee table. The ceramic is warm against his palms.

“Jesse dragged Shintaro out to meet some friends,” Yugo says without looking up from his cup.

Hokuto settles beside him on the couch, close enough to feel the companionable warmth but not so close as to crowd. The tea is perfect—not too strong, not too weak, the kind of careful preparation that suggests Yugo’s been taking care of himself methodically since this morning.

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment, both nursing their drinks and their respective forms of self-inflicted damage. The apartment feels different without Jesse’s bright energy and Shintaro’s restless movement. Quieter, but in a way that invites conversation rather than demanding it.

“So,” Yugo says eventually, his voice carrying that particular tone of someone approaching a delicate subject. “Last night.”

Hokuto’s stomach does something complicated that has nothing to do with residual alcohol. “You heard Jesse’s dramatic reenactment.”

“I know,” Yugo agrees. “Though I suspect he may have… embellished certain details for maximum entertainment value.”

“Maybe.” Hokuto takes a careful sip of tea, letting the warmth settle in his chest. “But not the important parts.”

Yugo turns to look at him then, something thoughtful in his expression. “You have feelings for Taiga,” he says. It’s not a question.

The words hang between them. Hokuto could deflect, could minimize it into something smaller and safer. Could pretend last night was just alcohol and proximity and a temporary lapse in judgment.

Instead, he finds himself nodding.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”

He expects questions, maybe concern about the wisdom of developing feelings for someone as complicated as Taiga.

What he doesn’t expect is the small smile that spreads across Yugo’s face.

“Good,” Yugo says with a satisfaction that catches Hokuto completely off guard.

“Good?” Hokuto repeats. “That’s your response? I just admitted to having a crush on your best friend—your very complicated, very unavailable-seeming best friend—and you think that’s good?”

Yugo’s smile widens. “You’re good for him.”

The words settle into the space between them with unexpected weight. Hokuto sets down his tea cup, needing something to do with his hands that isn’t betraying how much that simple statement affects him.

“What do you mean?”

Yugo is quiet for a moment, staring into his tea like he might find answers in the pale green liquid. When he speaks again, his voice carries the weight of old worry, old frustration.

“When Taiga came back from London, he was...” Yugo pauses, searching for words. “Broken doesn’t cover it. He wasn’t just hurt or disappointed. He was hollow. Like someone had scooped out everything that made him Taiga and left behind this shell that looked like him but didn’t feel like him.”

Hokuto thinks about the Taiga he’s come to know—sharp and deflective, yes, but with moments of genuine warmth that feel like gifts when they appear. It’s hard to imagine him as the hollow person Yugo describes.

“I tried everything,” Yugo continues. “I brought him food, invited him out, showed up at his apartment with movies and board games and every ridiculous thing I could think of. Nothing worked. He’d go through the motions, be polite, but it was like trying to have a conversation with a photograph of someone.”

The pain in Yugo’s voice is real, the kind of helpless frustration that comes from watching someone you love disappear in front of you.

“For months, I was losing him,” Yugo says quietly. “To whatever was eating him from the inside. And I didn’t know how to fight something I couldn’t see or understand.”

Hokuto’s chest tightens. The thought of Taiga—vibrant, complicated, infuriating Taiga—reduced to going through the motions of existence makes something ache behind his ribs.

“But lately,” Yugo says, and his voice brightens slightly, “lately he’s been different. More present. He shows up to things instead of making excuses. He participates in conversations instead of just enduring them. Hell, he agreed to come drinking last night without looking like I was asking him to donate a kidney.”

“You think that has something to do with me?” Hokuto asks. He has seen the way Taiga’s expression sometimes softens when he thinks no one is looking, the way his guard drops just slightly when they’re working together in the library.

“I know it does,” Yugo says with certainty. “Whatever you’re doing, whatever this is between you two, it’s bringing him back. For the first time since London, I feel like I’m getting my best friend back.”

The weight of that responsibility settles on Hokuto’s shoulders. The idea that he might have some kind of healing effect on Taiga feels too large, too important. What if he messes it up? What if his feelings complicate things and drive Taiga back into that hollow shell Yugo described?

“But what if I hurt him?” Hokuto asks. “What if I push too hard and he shuts down again?”

Yugo studies him for a long moment, something knowing in his expression. “Hokuto, you’ve spent the past few weeks being exactly what he needed without even trying. You listen when he talks, you don’t push when he withdraws, and you treat his complicated moods like they’re just part of who he is instead of something that needs fixing.” He leans forward slightly, his voice growing more earnest. “You see him. Not the prodigy, not the failure, not the tragic figure—just Taiga. And I think that’s what he’s been waiting for without knowing it.”

Hokuto feels something loosen in his chest. Maybe he hasn’t been doing everything wrong. Maybe the careful attention he’s been paying, the way he’s learned to read Taiga’s moods and respond accordingly, hasn’t been as one-sided as he’d feared.

“Actually,” he says, reaching for his phone, “I texted him earlier. About last night.”

Yugo raises an eyebrow. “How’d that go?”

Hokuto unlocks his phone and finds the conversation, his stomach doing a small flip as he reads through it again. “See for yourself.”

He hands the phone to Yugo, watching his friend’s expression as he scrolls through the brief exchange. Yugo’s face shifts from neutral interest to something more concerned as he reads.

“‘Matsumura, don’t,’” he reads aloud, his voice thoughtful. He hands the phone back, leaning against the couch cushions. “That’s… not exactly a rejection.”

“Isn’t it?” Hokuto asks. “It sounds pretty clear to me.”

“No,” Yugo says slowly, shaking his head. “A rejection would be ‘I don’t feel the same way’ or ‘let’s just be friends.’ This is...” He pauses, searching for the right words. “This is someone trying to stop something before it starts. Because they’re afraid of it.”

Hokuto stares at his phone screen, reading Taiga’s response again. The brevity of it, the way it came after those disappearing dots suggesting multiple attempts at writing something else.

Maybe Yugo is right. Maybe it wasn’t dismissal but self-protection.

“You know what Taiga’s biggest fear is?” Yugo continues, his voice gentler now. “Getting close to something and then losing it. Or worse, being the one who destroys it.”

The tea has gone lukewarm in Hokuto's hands, but he barely notices. “So what am I supposed to do with that? Just... wait?”

“Maybe,” Yugo says. “Or maybe you show him that not everything good has to end badly. That some things are worth the risk.” He’s quiet for a moment, then adds, “But you can’t force it. With Taiga, it has to be his choice to step forward.”

Hokuto thinks about all the moments between them—the careful conversations in the library, the way Taiga had softened around Anzu, the brief flashes of something deeper when their guards dropped. Each one felt like a small offering, a tentative step toward something neither of them had quite named.

“I told him if he ever wanted to talk, I’d be here,” Hokuto says finally.

Yugo nods approvingly. “That’s perfect. You left the door open without cornering him.” He reaches over and gives Hokuto’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Trust me, he’ll think about it. Probably more than he wants to.”

Hokuto finishes his tea, letting Yugo’s words settle into something that feels almost like confidence. The weight on his chest hasn’t disappeared entirely, but it’s transformed into something more manageable.

For the first time since last night’s confession, hope blooms quiet and warm in his chest.

🪈

The lecture hall feels different in the morning—emptier, quieter, like it’s still deciding whether to fully wake up. Hokuto pushes through the heavy doors, the sound of his footsteps echoing faintly in the cavernous space. The overhead lights hum softly, casting everything in that particular fluorescent pallor that makes early morning classes feel like acts of endurance rather than education.

He’s carrying two cups of coffee from the convenience store near campus—one with milk and sugar for himself, one black for Taiga. It’s presumptuous, maybe, but after yesterday's texts, after that careful text that felt more like protection than rejection, he wants to offer something simple. Something that doesn’t demand acknowledgment or gratitude.

Just presence.

The tiered seating stretches before him, burgundy chairs waiting in neat crescents. He sits in their usual spot—midway up, close enough to the front to show engagement but far enough back to feel like refuge. The golden lighting strips along the walls flicker intermittently, like the building itself is still settling into consciousness.

Hokuto sets the second coffee cup on the small desk attached to the chair beside his, then pulls out his notebook and the reading assignment they’re supposed to discuss today. Week 8: Race, Ethnicity, and Colonial Legacies.

The hall door opens with a soft sigh of hydraulics. Hokuto looks up, his chest doing something complicated when he sees Taiga silhouetted in the doorway.

For a moment, Taiga hesitates—just long enough for Hokuto to worry that he might turn around and leave.

But then Taiga’s gaze finds him across the empty seats, and something passes between them. Acknowledgment. Maybe even relief.

Taiga makes his way down the steps, each footfall deliberate and quiet. When he reaches Hokuto’s row, he pauses again, eyes flicking to the coffee cup waiting on the desk.

“Morning,” Hokuto says softly, trying to keep his voice neutral despite the way his pulse has picked up.

“Morning,” Taiga replies, settling into the chair beside him. He doesn’t comment on the coffee, but his fingers curl around the cup almost immediately, like he’s grateful for the warmth.

They sit in companionable silence for a moment. The lecture hall continues its slow awakening around them—the hum of air conditioning kicking in, the distant sound of other early students in the corridors, the faint creak of their chairs as they settle.

Hokuto opens his notebook, flipping to a fresh page. “Did you get a chance to look at the reading for today?”

It’s safer ground, this casual academic small talk. Taiga seems to recognize the offer for what it is.

“Some of it,” Taiga says, taking a sip of his coffee. “The Fanon excerpt was… dense.”

“The one about cultural identity?” Hokuto asks, though he knows exactly which passage Taiga means.

“Identity as performance versus identity as inheritance,” Taiga says, his voice carrying that particular tone he gets when wrestling with complex ideas. “Whether who we are is something we choose or something that chooses us.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes Hokuto glance over. Taiga is staring down at his coffee, fingers wrapped around the cup like an anchor. The morning light filtering through the narrow windows catches the line of his profile, the slight tension in his jaw that suggests he’s thinking about more than just academic theory.

“Both, maybe,” Hokuto offers quietly. “Inheritance gives us the raw material, but performance is how we decide what to do with it.”

Taiga looks at him then, something shifting in his expression.

Before either of them can say more, the hall doors open again and Professor Moriya strides in, his arms full of papers and that particular brand of Monday morning energy that professors seem to cultivate like a defense mechanism against early class schedules.

Hokuto turns to a fresh page in his notebook, but he’s acutely aware of Taiga beside him—the quiet rhythm of his breathing, the way he holds his pen, the careful attention he pays to arranging his materials.

There’s something peaceful about it, this shared focus on ordinary things. Like they’ve found a way to exist in the same space without the complications that have been building between them.

Maybe that’s enough for now. Maybe it’s enough to sit beside each other in the morning light, listening to lectures about identity and belonging, learning that some questions don’t need immediate answers.

🎹

The van lurches on a curve, jostling Taiga’s shoulder against Juri’s. Anzu shifts on his lap, sunlight glinting off her pink collar. She doesn’t seem bothered by the motion, too busy trying to catch glimpses of the world rushing past through the window.

“Are we there yet?” Jesse calls from the front seat, his voice carrying a theatrical whine that makes Yugo snort with laughter.

“We’ve been driving for twenty minutes,” Yugo replies, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. “It’s a two-hour drive, you know that.”

“Yeah, but are we there yet?”

Shintaro leans forward from the back row, nearly pressing against Hokuto in the process. “Jesse, you just turned a year older, but you’re worse than a five-year-old.”

“At least I’m not the one who forgot to pack sunscreen,” Jesse shoots back, twisting in his seat to grin at them.

“I didn’t forget!” Shintaro protests. “I just… thought someone else would bring it.”

“I brought some,” Hokuto says quietly.

Taiga watches Shintaro’s face ignite at the offering. It’s the same look every time—gratitude edged with a desperation that feels too loud for the cramped van.

He lifts his camera. The shutter clicks, capturing Jesse mid-laugh, sunlight catching the gold of his hair. Just a moment. No ghost-futures flickering at the edges. Just Jesse, suspended in a joy that feels simple, unearned.

“Oi, paparazzi!” Juri says, nudging Taiga’s elbow. “You better not be getting my bad angles.”

“All your angles are bad,” Taiga replies, not looking away from the viewfinder. He adjusts the focus, catches Juri’s mock-offended gape.

Anzu shifts on his lap, paws pressing the glass as a truck roars past. He scratches behind her ears, and she settles with a sigh. Her weight is an anchor in the chaos of six bodies and too much noise.

It’s a strange feeling. In London, weekends were solitary affairs—practice rooms and empty dormitories, maybe a solitary walk through Hyde Park if the weather was decent. The other students were friendly enough, but there was always an undercurrent of measuring yourself against everyone else. Conversations were always about performing where, who had which professor’s attention, who might be a useful connection later.

Here, crammed between Juri’s limbs and the windows, with Anzu’s fur tickling his chin and Yugo’s playlist providing a soundtrack of J-Pop and indie rock, there’s no agenda. No one’s keeping score.

“Kyomoto,” Hokuto says, and Taiga glances back to find those dark eyes focused on him. “The mountains. We’re coming up on a good view.”

Taiga follows Hokuto’s gaze out to where the mountains of Okutama are beginning to rise in the distance. He raises his camera and captures the landscape rolling past.

“Good eye,” he murmurs, lowering the camera. He doesn’t want a trigger of visions with people around him.

Hokuto’s smile is small but genuine. “I like the way light looks different in the mountains. Cleaner, somehow.”

“More honest,” Taiga agrees.

Shintaro, apparently oblivious to the exchange, leans across Hokuto to peer at Taiga’s camera. “Let me see! Did you get any good ones of me yet?’

“Define good,” Taiga says dryly, but he scrolls back through the images anyway, careful not to stare at the images of landscapes. There’s one of Shintaro gesturing wildly while telling some story about his dance composition professor, his face animated and bright.

The shot is actually decent. It captures something essential about Shintaro, that irrepressible energy that seems to radiate from every pore.

“Ooh, I look good there!” Shintaro says, grinning. “Send that to me later?”

“If you behave for the rest of the trip.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” But Shintaro is still grinning, so he’s not actually offended.

Juri reaches over and gently scratches Anzu under the chin. “How’s our princess doing? Getting carsick?”

Anzu responds by trying to lick his fingers, tail thumping Taiga’s leg.

Taiga snaps a quick photo of the interaction. “She’s fine,” he says. “She likes car rides. Always has.”

“Since when?” Yugo calls from the front seat.

“Since I got her. My dad and I used to take her on drives around Tokyo when she was still a puppy. Figured it was better than leaving her alone at home all the time.”

It’s more than he usually shares about his personal life, but somehow it feels safe here.

Jesse has turned around completely now, kneeling on his seat to face the rest of them. “Okay, game time. Twenty questions, but only about embarrassing childhood stories. Yugo, you’re first. What’s the most ridiculous thing you believed as a kid?”

“Pass,” Yugo says immediately.

“No passing! Taiga, back me up here!”

Taiga considers this. “I used to think that if I practiced piano perfectly for a whole month, my parents would get me a baby brother.”

The van goes quiet for a beat too long. Taiga realizes he’s shared something more personal than he intended.

But then Jesse laughs, warm, not mocking. “That’s actually adorable! Obviously that didn’t work.”

“Obviously not,” Taiga says, but he’s fighting a smile. “Turns out babies are more complicated than perfect scales.”

“Your loss is our gain,” Juri says, bumping his shoulder again. “We get to keep you all to ourselves.”

The casual affection catches Taiga off guard. When did this happen? When did he become someone these people wanted to keep around?

Through the viewfinder of his camera, he captures one more shot—the inside of the van, all of them crammed together, Yugo's hands steady on the wheel, Jesse’s bright energy filling the front seat, Juri’s relaxed sprawl, Hokuto and Shintaro pressed close in the back row.

His friends. Somehow, without him noticing, these people became his friends.

The camera clicks, preserving the moment without any visions. Six people, a dog, a van. A perfect moment.

The van’s engine ticks as it cools in the camping ground parking lot, a metallic counterpoint to the distant rush of the Tama River. Taiga steps onto the gravel, the stiffness in his muscles a dull record of the two-hour drive. Anzu strains at her leash, a small engine of intent, processing the new symphony of pine, charcoal, and damp earth.

“Alright everyone, grab something!” Yugo calls, opening the back of the van to reveal their collection of bags, coolers, and camping equipment. “We’re in Cottage 6.”

Taiga shoulders his camera bag and overnight pack before clipping Anzu’s leash to her collar. She tugs toward a nearby tree, clearly fascinated by whatever small creature had recently marked its territory there.

“Come on, princess,” he murmurs, pulling the leash gently. “You can investigate later.”

Behind him, Shintaro’s voice is bright, eager. “Hokkun, let me help you with that cooler. It looks heavy.”

“I’ve got it,” Hokuto replies.

“No, really, I insist! The tent stuff is lighter.”

Taiga doesn’t need to look. He can see it—Shintaro, a planet in Hokuto’s orbit, desperate for a gravity he can’t quite achieve.

“Kyomo, you coming?” Juri calls, already loaded down with the rest of the camping equipment.

“Yeah.” Taiga adjusts his grip on his bags and follows the group toward the main office, Anzu trotting beside him.

The camping ground is busier than he’d expected. Families with young children claiming picnic tables. Groups of college students setting up elaborate tent cities. Couples spreading blankets near the river’s edge. The air smells like barbecue smoke and sunscreen, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter from nearby campsites.

Yugo handles the paperwork with an efficiency that borders on dismissive. The rest of them wait. Anzu becomes a momentary celebrity for two young girls, who coo over her with high-pitched reverence. Taiga gives a curt nod of permission.

“She’s so cute!” one of the girls squeals. “What’s her name?”

“Anzu,” Taiga says.

“Like the fruit?”

“Like the fruit.”

Their cottage is a functional box nestled in a cedar grove. Yugo unlocks the door, and they file inside, everyone immediately claiming territory.

“Okay, room assignments!” Jesse announces, dropping his bag near what appears to be the largest bedroom. “Yugo and I call dibs on this one.”

“Obviously,” Juri mutters, but he’s grinning.

Shintaro is already peering into another room with the intensity of a strategist. “Hokkun, wanna room together? This one has a nice view of the trees.”

Hokuto’s glance toward the window is brief. “Sure.”

And just like that, Taiga is left with Juri. The remaining room is small, with two narrow beds separated by a nightstand, with a window that looks out toward the river.

Not that he minds. Juri is easy company.

“Looks like you and I are bunk mates,” Juri says, tossing his bag onto the bed closer to the window. “Hope you don’t snore.”

“Hope you don’t either.” Taiga sets his camera bag carefully on the dresser, his overnight pack on the bed. He lets Anzu off her leash to explore, and she immediately begins a thorough investigation of the room’s corners, nose to the floor.

“She’s very serious about her work,” Juri observes.

“Security sweeps. She takes her responsibilities seriously.”

The main area of the cottage is open and functional—a small kitchen with basic appliances, a dining table with six chairs, and a living area with a couch that’s seen better days. Through the sliding doors, a view of the designated barbecue area.

“This is perfect,” Jesse declares, already unpacking a small mountain of food. “Yugo, where did you put the charcoal?”

“Still in the van. I’ll get in in a minute.”

Shintaro is fiddling with the air conditioning unit. “Should we turn this on? It’s getting pretty warm.”

“Leave it for now,” Hokuto suggests. “The breeze from the river is nice.”

Taiga finds himself watching them again. Jesse and Yugo coordinate unpacking with a silent, efficient language. Shintaro’s constant, orbiting presence near Hokuto, offering to help with tasks that don’t really require assistance.

“Kyomo.” Juri appears at his elbow, holding two bottles of water. “Hydrate or die, as my brother Koki always says.”

“Your brother sounds like a fitness influencer.”

“He runs a bar in Shibuya. Same energy, different application.” Juri cracks his own bottle open, takes a long drink. “So, what’s the plan? River? Hiking? Competitive napping?”

Before Taiga can answer, Yugo emerges from the kitchen with his phone in hand. “Nothing set in stone, but I figured we could do the barbecue around noon, maybe check out the river after. There’s a swimming spot downstream.”

“Swimming?” Shintaro perks up immediately. “I brought trunks.”

“Of course you did,” Jesse says. “Summer Boy came prepared.”

The nickname makes Shintaro’s grin widen. Taiga sees the way Hokuto’s expression softens at the sight. It makes Taiga’s chest tighten in a way he doesn’t want to examine too closely.

Anzu finishes her inspection and returns to his feet, looking up. Taiga reaches down to scratch behind her ears, using the motion to ground himself.

“What about you?” Juri asks. “You swim?”

“Not really. I’ll probably just take pictures.”

“Good. Someone needs to document Jesse’s inevitable sunburn.”

“I can hear you!” Jesse calls from the kitchen.

“I meant for you to hear me!”

Their banter fills the cottage, and Taiga finds himself relaxing despite his earlier reservations about the trip.

Maybe this won’t be so complicated after all.

Through the window, light fractures through cedar branches, painting shifting patterns on the ground. A good shot. Light and shadow composing themselves without his intervention.

His hand is halfway to his camera when Hokuto is beside him, following his gaze.

“The light’s beautiful here,” Hokuto says quietly.

“Yeah.” Taiga’s hand stills on his camera bag. “It is.”

The silence stretches between them. The moment feels suspended, fragile—the kind of pause that could shatter with the wrong word or gesture.

He remembers the weight of Hokuto’s confession a week ago, slurred but sincere in the izakaya’s dim booth. Words that landed like stones in still water, rippling through everything Taiga thought was stable.

And then his own response the next morning, to Hokuto’s sober, careful text.

“What if I told you I did mean it?” Hokuto had asked.

Taiga had felt something dangerous crack open his chest.

“Matsumura, don’t.”

Two words. All he could manage without falling apart, without confessing the weight of futures he knows. Without admitting that every time Hokuto looked at him like this, it felt like being offered a thing he couldn’t afford to want.

But Hokuto had backed off, as Taiga knew he would. Had returned to their usual rhythm without the awkwardness he’d expected. Study sessions. Careful conversations. Moments like this, charged but manageable.

Maybe that was the real kindness. Offering something precious, then stepping back when it was refused. No demands. No resentment. Just patience.

It makes everything worse, somehow.

“Here.” Yugo’s voice cuts through the moment, appearing beside them with two cans of soda, condensation beading on the aluminum. “Figured you could both use something cold before we start hauling equipment outside.”

Taiga accepts the can. The cool metal is a shock against his palm. The hiss of carbonation when he opens it is sharp, immediate, puncturing the charged air.

“Thanks,” Hokuto says, taking his own can.

“No problem.” Yugo leans against the windowsill, his gaze reading the silence between them. “You two look like you’re planning something profound. Or catastrophic.”

“Just admiring the view,” Taiga says. It isn’t entirely a lie. The afternoon light is beautiful, painting everything in gold and amber, a scene begging to be captured.

“Right.” Yugo takes a drink and glances toward the main room, where Jesse and Shintaro are engaged in an animated discussion about barbecue logistics. “So, game plan. Jesse wants the best riverside spot before everyone else descends, which means hauling everything down there in the next hour or so.”

“Everything?” Hokuto asks.

“Coolers, grill, chairs, the works.” Yugo grins.

Taiga sees Shintaro gesturing wildly while Jesse nods, both surrounded by a mountain of gear. The sight should feel overwhelming. All that coordination, all that forced participation.

Instead, it just feels… normal. Expected, even.

“And I’m guessing Taiga brought reinforcements, too,” Yugo nods, nodding to where Anzu has claimed a patch of sunlight near the kitchen. “Though her lifting capacity is questionable.”

“She’s supervisory staff,” Taiga replies, watching his dog’s complete, unbothered peace. “Very important role.”

Hokuto’s quiet laugh unwinds something warm in Taiga’s chest. He tries to suppress it. The sound is genuine, the kind that suggests Hokuto actually finds him amusing.

Dangerous territory. The kind that makes him want to lean in, not maintain his careful distance.

“Well,” Yugo says, “I should probably rescue Jesse before he organizes us all into matching t-shirts or something equally horrifying. You two finish your deep philosophical moment, then come move a mountain of gear.”

He disappears back into the main room, leaving them alone again. The silence that follows is different now. Less charged. More manageable. A space they can both occupy without the weight of confession.

Taiga takes another sip of his soda. The cold settles the tightness in his throat. Outside, the path to the river winds through trees, dappled in that same photograph-worthy light.

“I should help,” Hokuto says quietly, though he doesn’t immediately move. “Before Shintaro attempts to carry something twice his body weight just to prove a point.”

The name is a needle in Taiga’s chest. “Yeah,” he says anyway, finishing his soda. “Probably should.”

But neither moves. They stand in the cottage’s afternoon stillness, surrounded by the sounds of their friends building a perfect, ordinary day.

For a fractured second, Taiga lets the fantasy play out. If he could turn to Hokuto and explain his visions, about the brutal arithmetic about choosing between this and survival.

If he could say, “I saw your death. And I can’t let that happen. Even if it means watching someone fall in love with you instead.”

But that moment passes. Hokuto sets down his empty can and straightens.

Taiga follows suit.

🎹

The riverside hums. Metal stakes drive into earth. Knives scrape against cutting boards somewhere to Taiga’s left. Water laps at stones worn smooth—years of current, maybe decades.

Taiga threads bell pepper onto a skewer. The motion is automatic, but his attention drifts.

“Jesse, that’s not—no, the blue poles go with the blue connectors!” Shintaro calls out, his voice strained with effort. He’s holding up what looks like three-quarters of their tent.

“They’re all blue!” Jesse protests as he fumbles with something that looks like instructions, but he’s laughing. “How am I supposed to tell the difference between blue and… slightly different blue?”

“Color-coded camping gear,” Juri mutters beside Taiga, skewering a piece of beef with more force than necessary. “What genius came up with that?”

Taiga glances toward the water’s edge. Anzu has claimed a patch of grass there, her small form positioned to supervise while staying clear of the chaos.

“At least they’re working together,” Taiga observes. He watches as Jesse finally locates the correct pole. Shintaro guides it into place with focused determination.

“Shintaro’s doing 90% of the work,” Juri points out. He threads a mushroom between two pieces of chicken. “Jesse’s mostly providing moral support and comedy relief.”

True enough. Jesse’s enthusiasm makes up for his obvious lack of camping experience. But it’s Shintaro’s steady competence that keeps the tent from collapsing into nylon and confusion.

The dynamic should irritate him—watching Shintaro prove himself useful, watching the easy way he takes charge when needed.

Instead, it just makes him tired.

“Pass me the onions,” he says to Juri.

Juri slides the cutting board closer without looking up from his own skewer assembly line.

Behind them, Yugo and Hokuto work with quiet coordination that suggests they’ve done this before. Hokuto’s knife moves in precise, measured cuts through the zucchini and eggplant. Yugo quarters tomatoes with casual efficiency.

Their conversation is soft. Punctuated by requests for salt. Observations about the fire pit they’ll need to start soon.

Hokuto laughs at something Yugo says. The sound carries easily across the small distance.

Taiga’s hands still for a moment before he forces them back into motion.

Thread the pepper. Thread the beef. Thread the onion. Repeat. Simple tasks that don’t require him to think about the way Hokuto’s sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. Or how the afternoon light catches in his hair when he looks up from the cutting board.

“You okay?” Juri asks quietly, nudging Taiga’s elbow. “You’ve been staring at that skewer for, like, thirty seconds.”

Taiga blinks, realizing he’s been holding the same skewer without moving. “Fine.”

Juri looks at him, not buying the excuse. But he doesn’t push.

They work in companionable silence for a few minutes. Anzu trots over, drawn by the scent of raw meat. She sits primly beside Taiga’s chair, dark eyes fixed on the food with the kind of intensity that’s proven remarkably effective in the past.

“Don’t even think about it,” Taiga tells her, though his tone lacks any real authority.

She tilts her head, ears perked.

The tent finally takes shape behind them. Shintaro steps back to admire their work. Jesse does a little victory dance that would be embarrassing if it weren’t so genuinely delighted.

“Success!” Jesse announces. As if they’ve just conquered Everest rather than assembled a basic camping tent.

Shintaro claps his hands together, surveying the tent with satisfaction. “Alright, time to get the barbecue going. Who’s ready to eat?”

Everyone gravitates toward the designated cooking area. Taiga gathers the completed skewers onto a large platter.

Jesse hefts the cooler with theatrical effort. “Why did we pack so much beer? This thing weighs more than Shintaro.”

“Hey!” Shintaro protests, though he’s grinning. “I’m compact, not light!”

“There’s a difference?” Juri settles cross-legged on the grass beside Anzu. She plants herself beside him with military precision, dark eyes tracking every movement of the meat platter.

Taiga approaches the grill set up, the metal cool under his fingers as he helps Shintaro fit the grate into place. Shintaro’s hands steady as he adjusts the legs. Taiga automatically checks the stability.

The lighter fluid catches with a soft whump. The flames dance orange and blue across the charcoal.

Shintaro steps back. He wipes his hands on a towel as he watches the fire settle into a steady burn.

“Give it about ten minutes to heat up,” he says. Then he glances at Taiga. His expression shifts from casual to something more deliberate. “So. About last week.”

Taiga’s grip on the platter tightens imperceptibly. Around them, the others are busy with their own tasks—Jesse organizing drinks, Yugo and Hokuto still chopping vegetables, Juri keeping Anzu from touching the meat platter.

“What about it?” Taiga keeps his voice level.

“Hokuto’s confession.” Shintaro’s tone is matter-of-fact, but there’s something underneath it. “He was pretty drunk, but… he meant it, right?”

The charcoal pops. Small shower of sparks. They die before reaching the ground.

Taiga watches them disappear. He buys himself a few seconds to construct an answer that won’t betray anything he can’t afford to lose.

“I bet Matsumura says a lot of things when he’s drunk.”

“That’s not an answer.”

No. It isn’t.

Taiga meets Shintaro’s gaze. He finds none of the usual playful energy there. Just steady brown eyes and the kind of patience that suggests he’s prepared to wait for honesty, however long it takes.

The smart thing would be to deflect. Joke. Change the subject. Focus on the grill. Or avoid the conversation entirely.

Instead, he finds himself saying, “He meant it.”

Shintaro nods, as if this confirms something he already knew. He adjusts the grill grate and tests the heat with his palm held a few inches above the metal. “I’m gonna tell him how I feel,” he says quietly. “Not today. But soon.”

The words hit like a physical thing. This is what he wanted. This is the future that ensures Hokuto doesn’t die on a train platform fifteen years from now. Saving strangers who shouldn’t matter more than his own life.

This is the right thing.

So why does it feel like swallowing glass?

“Good,” Taiga manages. “That’s… you should do that.”

Shintaro glances at him, surprise flickering across his expression. “Really?”

“Matsumura’s a good guy. He deserves someone who…” Taiga trails off, searching for the right words. “Someone who cares about him.”

“And you don’t?”

The question is quiet. Direct. Completely unfair.

Taiga sets down the platter, his movements sharp enough that a piece of bell pepper slides off the nearest skewer and lands in the grass. Anzu immediately investigates, though Juri calls her back before she can claim her prize.

“Not like that.”

Shintaro studies him for a long moment that Taiga has the uncomfortable sense of being seen through. But then he just nods and turns his attention back to the grill.

“Okay. Good to know where you stand.”

There’s no accusation in his voice, no triumph or relief. As if Taiga’s answer was what he expected to hear.

The coals have settled into the perfect orange glow. Shintaro reaches for the platter. Taiga hands it over without meeting his eyes.

“These look great,” Shintaro says as he arranges the first batch of skewers across the grate.

“Juri did most of the work.” The words come out rougher than intended. Taiga clears his throat. “I just… helped.”

“Right.” Shintaro turns one of the skewers. “Well, thanks for helping. And for… you know. Being honest.”

Honest. Taiga wants to laugh at the bitter irony of it. Being honest would be selfish.

Instead, he says nothing, watching the first skewers cook while the others gradually migrate toward them.

Jesse appears at his elbow with a beer. “Smells amazing. How much longer?”

“Few more minutes,” Shintaro replies. His voice is back to normal—cheerful, easy, giving nothing away about their conversation.

Taiga accepts the beer gratefully.

Around them, his friends settle into the familiar rhythm of shared meals and casual conversation. He lets himself sink into it for a moment. This is good. This is what matters—the present, not the futures he’s glimpsed through his camera.

Even if it’s built on lies he tells himself are kindness.

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across their makeshift dining area. Everyone converges around the folding table. Juri and Hokuto arrive with the last of the grilled meat. The skewers are arranged on platters that steam in the cooling air. The scent of charred vegetables and perfectly cooked beef mingles with the lingering smoke from the fire pit.

“Perfect timing!” Jesse announces. He sets down the final round of drinks.

Taiga retrieves Anzu’s travel bowl from his bag. He fills it with her usual dog food and places it at a safe distance from the human food.

She trots over immediately, tail wagging enthusiastically.

“Wait, wait!” Yugo calls out just as people begin reaching for the food. “We’re not done yet!”

He and Shintaro emerge from behind the tent. Shintaro is carrying a small, store-bought cake that sits on a paper plate with three candles already inserted and ready to light.

“Surprise!” Shintaro says, grinning as he sets the cake down in the center of the table.

“You guys didn’t have to—” Jesse starts, but a pleased flush is spreading across his face.

“Of course we did,” Yugo says, fishing a lighter from his pocket. “What’s a birthday celebration without cake?”

Juri shakes his head, but he’s smiling too. “This is ridiculously sentimental.”

“Shut up and accept the birthday wishes,” Shintaro tells him. He positions himself for optimal cake-viewing. “Hokkun, you too. No protests about not deserving it or whatever.”

Hokuto’s laugh carries across the table. “I wasn’t going to protest.”

“Good, because it would’ve been pointless anyway.”

Yugo lights the candles one by one, the small flames flickering in the gentle breeze coming off the river. In the growing dusk, they cast dancing shadows across everyone’s faces, turning the impromptu celebration into something that feels more intimate than Taiga expected.

“Someone should document this!” Jesse says, looking directly at Taiga.

Taiga’s fingers find his camera strap automatically. “Got it,” he says. He lifts the camera and adjusts the settings for the lower light.

The LCD screen flickers to life. Frames the scene in a precise rectangle.

Through the viewfinder, he watches Yugo position himself behind Jesse, Juri, and Hokuto. Shintaro bounces slightly on his feet. The three birthday celebrants look embarrassed but pleased.

“Ready?” Yugo asks. Without waiting for an answer, he begins the familiar melody. “Happy birthday to you…”

Taiga’s finger finds the shutter button as the others join in. The camera captures the warm glow of candles, Jesse’s delighted grin, Juri’s fond exasperation, and—

Hokuto.

The lens seems to find him automatically. In the soft light, Hokuto's expression is gentle, almost wistful as he listens to his friends sing for him. There's something in his face that speaks of gratitude tinged with sadness.

Click.

The camera captures it before he consciously decides to take the shot.

He adjusts his position, ostensibly to get a better angle on the group, but he really needs a shot of that expression. The way Hokuto’s hair falls across his forehead. The soft curve of his mouth. The candlelight reflecting in his eyes,

Click.

This time, a shot of Hokuto glancing toward the camera. Toward Taiga. Their eyes meet across the space of the viewfinder.

“... happy birthday to you!”

The song ends with Jesse blowing out all three candles in one enthusiastic breath. Juri protests with mock indignation while Hokuto just shakes his head, fond and unsurprised.

“That’s not how it works,” Juri says. “You can’t blow out other people’s birthday cakes.”

“Too late.” Jesse grins. “Relight them if you want individual wishes.”

“The wishes are probably contaminated now anyway.” Shintaro points out. “Jesse’s birthday energy is all over them.”

Taiga lowers the camera, checking the shots on the LCD screen. He got several good group photos.

But it’s the individual shots of Hokuto that draw his attention. He can see too much emotion in his own composition choices.

The way he framed Hokuto's face against the darkening sky. The focus that makes everything else blur into irrelevance while keeping every detail of Hokuto’s expression sharp and clear. The unconscious artistry that reveals exactly where his attention—and his heart—actually lies.

He deletes those shots quickly.

“Cheers!” Yugo calls out. He raises his beer can and waits for the others to follow suit.

They all drink. Anzu, having finished their dinner, trots back over to investigate whether any human food might mysteriously fall within her reach. The conversation fragments into smaller groups as they claim seats and begin loading their plates with food.

Taiga finds himself between Juri and Yugo. The food is excellent, the beer is cold, and the company is warm.

It should be perfect. It almost is perfect.

Except for the way Shintaro keeps glancing at Hokuto with poorly concealed adoration. Except for the encouraging smile Taiga forces himself to offer whenever their eyes meet. Except for the careful distance he maintains from Hokuto, even when every instinct tells him to move closer.

Except for the knowledge that this moment represents something he’s choosing to walk away from before it can fully begin.

🎹

The empty beer cans catch the last rays of sunlight as Yugo rises from his chair. The cake has been reduced to crumbs and a few lingering smears of frosting on paper plates. The conversation has settled into the comfortable lull that signals the end of a good meal.

“Alright, everyone,” Yugo announces. “Time to start packing up if we want to get back to the cottage before it’s completely dark.”

Jesse groans dramatically but begins gathering empty bottles. “I swear camping involves more logistics than actual camping.”

“That’s because you don’t do any of the planning,” Juri points out, already folding the chairs.

“I provide muscle and moral support!”

Taiga pushes back from the table, automatically scanning the area for Anzu. She was here just a moment ago.

But the patch of grass where she’d been stationed is empty now. A quick sweep of the immediate area reveals no small Yorkshire Terrier anywhere in sight.

“Anzu?” he calls.

No response except for the gentle sound of water moving over stones and the distant rustling of wind through trees.

His chest tightens. She’s never been the type to wander far. But camping is different. New smells, new sounds, new everything that might have triggered her curiosity enough to override her usual caution.

“Anzu!” he calls again, louder this time. He moves toward the tree line where she might have gone to investigate something interesting.

Yugo looks up from the cooler he’s reorganizing. “Anzu’s not here?”

“No.” The words come out tighter than Taiga intended. “She was right here, and now she’s just… gone.”

“Hey, she’s probably just exploring,” Shintaro offers, abandoning his task of dismantling the tent. “Dogs do that, right? Especially somewhere new?”

But Taiga barely hears him. His mind is already racing through worst-care scenarios—Anzu falling into the river, encountering a larger animal that sees a two-year-old Yorkie as prey. She’s so small, and the area around the campsite is so vast, and what if she’s hurt somewhere and can’t bark for help?

“Taiga.” Yugo’s voice cuts through the spiral before it can fully take hold. “Take Hokuto and Shin with you to look for her. The rest of us will finish packing here. She couldn’t have gone far.”

Hokuto is already moving toward them. He looks calm but alert. “Which direction should we start?”

“I don’t know.” Taiga’s hands clench into fists at his sides. “She could be anywhere. There are so many places she could—”

“Hey.” Hokuto’s voice is gentle but firm enough to cut through the beginnings of panic. “Tell me about Anzu-chan. What does she usually do when she’s somewhere new?”

The question forces Taiga to stop and think instead of spiral. “She… she likes to explore, but not too far. And she’s drawn to water, but she won’t go in it. She’s too smart for that.”

“Okay, so probably not in the river, but maybe near it.” Hokuto nods. “What about sounds? Does she come when you call her?”

“Always. Unless she’s scared or stuck somewhere.” The admission makes Taiga’s stomach clench tighter.

“Does she bark when she’s in trouble?”

“Not usually. She gets quiet when she’s scared.”

“Right.” Hokuto glances around, taking in the terrain. “Kyomoto, take the area near the river. Your voice is what she’ll respond to best. Shin, check behind the cottage and around the car. I’ll take the tree line.”

The organization helps. Having specific areas to search, specific tasks to focus on, gives Taiga something to do besides imagine all the ways a small dog can disappear in the wilderness.

He heads toward the river, calling Anzu’s name at regular intervals as he moves along the bank. The water runs shallow here, clear enough to see the bottom. He finds himself checking every shadow and depression for a small furry body that isn’t there.

“Anzu! Come here, girl!”

His voice echoes off the water and comes back empty.

Behind him, he can hear Shintaro calling her name from the direction of the cottage. Hokuto’s voice carries from somewhere deeper in the trees. The coordinated search should be reassuring, but Taiga’s anxiety continues to build with each unanswered call.

She’s been gone too long. A quick exploration would have brought her back by now, especially with multiple people calling her name. Which means she’s either found something incredibly interesting or she’s in trouble.

Neither possibility offers much comfort.

He’s nearly given up on the riverside search when he hears it—a faint whimper coming from somewhere below his current position. Following the sound, he discovers a section where the bank slopes more steeply, creating a small ravine that’s hidden from view unless you’re standing directly above it.

“Anzu?”

Another whimper.

Definitely from down there.

“Found her!” he calls out, loud enough for the others to hear. He carefully makes his way to the edge of the slope. It’s not dangerously steep, but it’s awkward. Too steep to walk down easily, but not steep enough to justify sliding.

He peers over the edge and spots her about fifteen feet down. She’s sitting perfectly still beside a fallen log.

She looks up at him when he calls her name. Her tail wags tentatively, but she doesn’t move from her position.

“What’s wrong, girl? Are you stuck?”

Footsteps behind him announce the arrival of the others.

“Is she okay?” Hokuto asks, moving to the edge to assess the situation.

“I think so, but she won’t come up. Maybe she’s afraid of the slope.”

Shintaro peers down at the small dog. “It’s not that steep. Can’t she just walk up?”

“She’s probably scared,” Hokuto says. He’s already testing the stability of the slope with one foot. “I can get her.”

“You don’t have to—” Taiga starts.

Hokuto is already beginning the descent, moving carefully but confidently down the incline.

Taiga watches, his earlier panic about Anzu now replaced by a different kind of anxiety as Hokuto navigates the uneven ground. The slop looks stable enough, but there’s always the possibility of loose earth or hidden obstacles.

Hokuto reaches the bottom without incident. He kneels beside Anzu and running gentle hands over her small body. “She seems fine!” he calls up. “Just scared, like you thought.”

“Can you carry her up?”

“No problem.”

Hokuto scoops Anzu into his arms and begins the more challenging ascent. The additional weight and the need to maintain balance while protecting the dog makes the climb significantly more difficult, but he moves steadily upward, testing each step before committing his full weight.

He’s nearly at the top when it happens.

The section of the ground beneath Hokuto’s left foot gives way. He stumbles, instinctively twisting to protect Anzu from the fall, and slides several feet back down the slope before managing to stop himself against the same fallen log where they’d found her.

“Hokuto!” The name tears itself from Taiga’s throat as he watches Hokuto curl around Anzu.

“I’m okay!” Hokuto calls back immediately, though his voice is tight. “Anzu-chan’s fine too.”

But when he tries to stand, Taiga can see the way he favors his left leg.

“Shit,” Shintaro mutters beside him. “That looked painful.”

Taiga is already moving, testing the slope himself as he begins the descent toward them.

“Don’t come down here,” Hokuto says, settling Anzu more securely in his arms. “The ground’s not stable.”

“You’re hurt.”

“It’s just my ankle. I can make up if I go slowly.”

But Taiga is already halfway down, moving with less caution than he should because the sight of Hokuto injured and trying to downplay it triggers something protective and irrational in his chest.

“Taiga, seriously, don’t—”

“You sprained your ankle rescuing my dog,” Taiga says. He reached them and immediately moving to take Anzu from Hokuto’s arms. “I’m not leaving you to climb up here alone.”

For a moment, they’re close enough that Taiga can see the pain Hokuto is trying to hide. Anzu transfers easily between them, seemingly unbothered by her adventure now that she’s surrounded by familiar people.

“Can you put weight on it?” Taiga asks.

“It’s not broken.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Hokuto tests the ankle gingerly, wincing at the movement. “It hurts.”

“I’ll go get the camping ground staff!” Shintaro calls down from above, his voice already moving away from the edge/

His footsteps fade quickly, leaving Taiga and Hokuto alone at the bottom of the slope with only Anzu as witness to whatever happens next.

“Let me look at it,” Taiga says. He sets Anzu gently on the ground where she can stay close but out of the way.

She immediately positions herself against Hokuto’s uninjured side.

“It’s really not that bad.” But Hokuto doesn’t protest when Taiga kneels beside him. “I’ve had worse. I used to—”

“Shut up and let me see.” The words come out sharper than Taiga intended. Hokuto got hurt because of him, because of Anzu, because Taiga couldn’t keep better track of his own dog.

The ankle is already beginning to swell, visible even through Hokuto’s sock. Taiga reaches toward it, then stops. He’s not a medic. He doesn’t know the first thing about proper first aid or what might make an injury worse.

“I should wait for the staff,” he says, pulling his hands back. “I don’t want to hurt you more.”

“You won’t.” Hokuto’s voice is patient. “Do you have something we can use for compression? A handkerchief or—”

Taiga is already reaching into his pocket, producing the plain cotton handkerchief his mother insisted he carry despite his protests that no one uses those any more. It’s clean.

“Here, but I don’t know how—”

“It’s okay.” Hokuto takes the handkerchief, unfolding it. “Can you help me get my shoe off first? Gently.”

The process is awkward. Taiga has to support Hokuto’s leg while he works the shoe free without jostling the injured joint.

He tries not to think about how intimate this feels.

“Now the compression,” Hokuto says. He demonstrates how to wrap the handkerchief around his ankle. “Not too loose or it won’t help, but not so tight that it cuts off circulation.”

Taiga follows the instructions, hyper-aware of every point where his fingers brush against Hokuto’s skin. The handkerchief is too small to provide proper coverage, but it’s better than nothing.

“There,” Hokuto says when Taiga finishes the wrapping. “That should help with the swelling.”

Anzu chooses that moment to shift her attention from Hokuto to Taiga, pressing her small body against his leg with the kind of determined affection that suggests she knows he’s upset. Her dark eyes look up at him with what might be apology or might just be her natural expression of innocent concern.

The combination of her warm weight against his leg and the memory of those few terrifying minutes when he thought she was gone hits him all at once. His hands shake slightly as he reaches down to gather her into his arms, burying his face in her soft fur.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he whispers into her neck. “You scared me. Do you understand? You can’t just disappear like that.”

She doesn’t struggle against his tight hold even though it’s probably uncomfortable. Her small body is solid and real in his arms, proof that she’s safe despite her adventure.

“And you,” Taiga says, lifting his head to look at Hokuto, his voice rough. “What were you thinking? You could have been seriously hurt. It’s a dog, Hokuto. She’s important to me, but she’s not worth you breaking your neck over.”

Hokuto is quiet for a moment, studying Taiga’s face with an expression that’s unreadable in the fading light. When he speaks, his voice is soft, almost wondering.

“You called me Hokuto.”

The observation sends heat rushing up Taiga’s neck and into his face. “I—” He starts to deflect, but the words tangle in his throat.

“You’ve been calling me Matsumura this whole time,” Hokuto continues, that same wondering tone. “Even when we’re alone. Even when everyone else uses my first name.”

Taiga’s grip on Anzu tightens involuntarily, making her shift with a small sound of protest. The heat in his face feels like it might actually be visible in the dim light.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” he manages finally, the lie obvious even to himself.

“Doesn’t it?”

The question is gentle. Hokuto’s eyes are steady on his face, patient in the way that makes Taiga feel like he’s being seen too clearly.

“They should be here soon,” Taiga says instead of answering, looking away toward the top of the slope where Shintaro disappeared. “They’ll have proper equipment.”

“Taiga.”

His first name spoken quietly makes him look back despite his better judgment.

“Thank you,” Hokuto says. “For coming down here. You didn’t have to, but you did.”

The simple gratitude is somehow worse than being pressed about the name issue. It makes it hard to breathe properly. Because Hokuto shouldn’t be thanking him. Not when this whole situation exists because Taiga couldn’t keep track of his own dog, not when Hokuto is hurt because he was helping with a problem that wasn’t his to solve.

“I should’ve been watching her better,” Taiga says, settling Anzu more comfortably in his lap. “If I had been paying attention—”

Anzu shifts in his arms, turning to face Hokuto with her tail wagging slowly. She stretches toward him, clearly wanting to provide comfort.

“It’s okay, girl,” Hokuto says, extending one hand for her to sniff. “I’m fine.”

She sniffs delicately at his fingers, then settles back against Taiga with a small satisfied sound.

Voices drift down from above—Yugo mixed with what sounds like official camping ground staff. The rescue is coming, which means this strange pocket of isolation will end soon. They’ll be hauled back up to ground level, Hokuto will get proper medical attention, and the evening will return to normal.

Except nothing feels normal anymore. The careful distance Taiga has been maintaining feels shattered by his own panic, by the unconscious use of Hokuto’s first name, by the way concern for someone else’s welfare overrode every rational thought in his head.

“They’re coming,” he says unnecessarily, as the voices grow closer.

“Yeah.” Hokuto adjusts his position slightly, testing the makeshift bandage. “Good timing too. This is starting to throb.”

The sound of equipment clanking against metal announces the arrival of proper rescue gear before Taiga can see the people carrying it. Voices drift down from above—professional, calm, discussing angles and weight distribution with practiced efficiency.

“Hello down there!” a cheerful voice calls from the edge of the slope. “We’re going to lower a basket. Don’t try to help. Just stay clear and let us do the work.”

Taiga shifts Anzu in his arms, moving them both away from Hokuto to give the rescue team room to operate. The small dog seems fascinated by the sudden increase in activity, her head tilted as she watches the bright orange rescue basket begin its descent on a series of ropes and pulleys.

“This is probably overkill,” Hokuto murmurs, eyeing the elaborate setup with what might be embarrassment.

“Standard procedure!” one of the staff members calls down, having heard him. “Better safe than sorry.”

The basket reaches the bottom of the slope. Suddenly there are hands and voices everywhere as the rescue team works with practiced coordination. They transfer Hokuto into the basket, securing him with straps and padding that make the whole operation look more serious than a simple ankle injury probably warrants.

“Comfortable?” the lead rescuer asks, double-checking the restraints.

“Fine,” Hokuto says. His voice carries the careful neutrality of someone trying not to seem like a bother. His eyes find Taiga’s across the small space. “Make sure Anzu-chan gets up safely.”

The ascent begins slowly, the basket rising with mechanical precision while Taiga watches from below. Hokuto disappears over the edge of the slope, leaving Taiga alone with the remaining staff member and the strange hollow feeling that comes from having someone important removed from immediate reach.

“Your turn,” the rescuer says, setting up a simpler harness system for Taiga and Anzu. “Dog’s gonna need to be secured in this carrier.”

Taiga settles Anzu into the small pet carrier they]ve provided, ignoring her confused whimper as the door latches shut. The harness feels awkward around his chest and legs, but the staff member checks it twice before giving the signal to begin pulling.

The trip up feels both longer and shorter than it should. Longer because he has time to think about Hokuto being loaded into what's probably an ambulance by now, about the careful way he’d said Taiga's name like it meant something. Shorter because suddenly he’s at the top, being helped out of the harness while someone else retrieves Anzu from her temporary prison.

The campsite has been transformed in his absence. Their casual dinner setup has been completely packed away. Only the ambulance parked near the cottage entrance indicates that anything unusual happened at all.

“How is he?” Taiga asks immediately, finding Yugo near the van.

“Conscious and complaining about the fuss,” Yugo says with obvious relief. “They think it’s just a sprain, but they want to get it X-rayed to be sure. I’m gonna follow them to the hospital.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No, you won’t.” Yugo’s voice is gentle but firm. “Take Anzu-chan back to the cottage. She’s had enough excitement. Hokuto’s gonna be fine. I’ll text you updates.”

Taiga wants to argue. He should be the one sitting in a waiting room while doctors examine an injury that’s his fault.

But Anzu chooses that moment to press against his leg, and he realizes Yugo is right. She’s been through enough tonight without adding a stressful hospital visit on top of everything else.

Jesse appears beside him. “I’ll walk you back. Yugo can handle hospital duty.”

The ambulance doors close with a solid thunk that seems louder than it should in the evening quiet. Through the small window, Taiga can just make out Hokuto's profile, still and patient on the stretcher. The image burns itself into his memory—another photograph he'll never take but will never forget.

The ambulance pulls away. Taiga watches until the red taillights disappear around the bend in the road, leaving only the ordinary darkness of a camping ground settling into evening quiet.

“He’s gonna be fine,” Jesse says, following his gaze. “Hokuto’s tougher than he looks.”

Taiga nods, not trusting his voice to remain steady.

The thing is, he knows Hokuto is tough. He’s seen it in the way Hokuto handles pressure, the way he takes care of everyone else without complaint, the way he smiled even with an injured ankle throbbing against makeshift bandages.

But what unsettles him is the memory of hearing his own name spoken with such gentle certainty.

Taiga.

Not Kyomoto, not the careful distance he's been maintaining, but his name said like Hokuto has been thinking it all along and was just waiting for the right moment to use it aloud.

Anzu whines softly, bringing him back to the present moment.

But the sound of his name lingers in his memory like a melody he can’t quite shake, promising complications he’s not sure he’s ready to face.

🪈

The kitchen feels too quiet without the usual chaos of his roommates. Hokuto shifts his weight in the chair, wincing slightly as his ankle protests the movement. The laptop screen still glows where he’d closed the video call with his mother moments ago—her worried face lingering in his memory alongside her careful questions about whether he’s eating enough, resting properly, taking his medication.

He’d lied about most of it.

The truth is messier: that Jesse force-feeds him elaborate meals while hovering like an anxious golden retriever, that Shintaro reorganizes their entire living space to eliminate any potential hazards for someone with a sprained ankle, that Yugo texts him medical reminders every two hours like clockwork. That being taken care of makes him feel more helpless than the injury itself.

His phone buzzes against the table. Another text from Shintaro, probably checking if he needs anything before his first year wellness seminar.

Hokuto doesn’t look at it.

Instead, he stares at the small pile of birthday cards scattered across the kitchen table. One from Yuina and Masaya—a photograph of the three of them from last summer, their faces bright with laughter he can barely remember feeling. Another from his parents, formal and expensive, arriving exactly on time as if scheduled by his father’s assistant. A third from Jesse, handmade and ridiculous, featuring a poorly drawn flute with googly eyes and the words “GET WELL SOON, BIRTHDAY BOY” in glittery letters.

The apartment feels different without his usual rhythm of movement. For five days, he’s been trapped in this chair or on the couch or in his room, watching his friends rearrange their lives around his limitations. Jesse ordering Hokuto’s favorite food for takeout. Shintaro skipping social plans to sit with him during lonely afternoons. Yugo bringing back detailed medical updates that Hokuto doesn’t actually need.

It’s suffocating in a way that has nothing to do with the ankle and everything to do with the careful way everyone treats him now. Like he might break if they’re not constantly vigilant.

His fingers find his phone despite his earlier reluctance. Three unread messages from Shintaro, increasingly concerned about whether Hokuto has taken his afternoon medication. One from Juri with a photo of some elaborate dessert he’s apparently bringing for tonight’s birthday dinner.

Nothing from Taiga.

Not that he expected anything. Taiga had been careful to maintain distance even before the camping trip, and the incident with his ankle seems to have given him the perfect excuse to retreat entirely. No texts asking about his recovery. No offers to bring notes from classes they share. Just silence that feels deliberate and pointed.

Hokuto tells himself it doesn’t matter. That he understands why someone like Taiga wouldn’t know how to navigate something as simple as concern for a friend’s injury.

But the silence still stings.

He shifts again, attempting to find a position that doesn’t make his ankle throb with each heartbeat. The doctor’s instructions echo in his memory: rest, elevation, anti-inflammatories, no weight-bearing activities for at least a week. Simple enough in theory.

In practice, it means watching his carefully constructed independence crumble while his friends scramble to fill the gaps.

His phone buzzes again. It’s Juri again, offering to send him notes for tomorrow’s Music History. Hokuto types back a polite decline, then immediately feels guilty about it. Everyone is trying to help, and his impulse is to push them away before they realize how much he actually needs the support they’re offering.

The kitchen window frames a view of the campus courtyard, where students move with the easy confidence of people whose bodies cooperate with their intentions. Hokuto watches a group of dancers practice sequences on the grass, their movements fluid and unencumbered. One of them might be from Shintaro’s program—the same program Shintaro is probably struggling through right now while worrying about whether Hokuto is following medical instructions.

He’s twenty years old today. The number feels arbitrary, divorced from any sense of accomplishment or progress. Instead, he’s marking another year while immobilized in his own kitchen, dependent on friends who insist on treating him like he's fragile.

His mother’s voice echoes from their earlier conversation: “Are you taking care of yourself? You sound tired. Is someone helping you?”

The questions he couldn’t answer honestly. Because yes, people are helping—too much, in ways that make him feel guilty for resenting their kindness. And no, he’s not really taking care of himself, because taking care of himself has always meant taking care of everyone else first.

The sound of a key turning in the lock sends panic shooting through Hokuto’s chest. His mind races through the possibilities—no one is going to be back in at least late afternoon. The rational part of his brain knows their building has decent security, but the injured part of him feels suddenly vulnerable, trapped in this chair with his ankle elevated and nowhere to run.

The door opens with its familiar creak.

Hokuto holds his breath, listening to footsteps that sound too deliberate to be an intruder but too quiet to be Jesse or Shintaro’s usual boisterous entrance. His heart hammers against his ribs as he strains to hear movement in the entryway.

“Hokuto?”

The voice is unexpected, careful, and hesitant in a way that makes something tight in his chest loosen immediately. Relief floods through him, followed quickly by confusion.

“Taiga?”

Footsteps approach the kitchen, and then Taiga appears in the doorway. He looks unusually uncertain, holding a small canvas tote bag in one hand. Behind him trots Anzu, her leash trailing as she immediately makes a beeline for Hokuto’s chair, tail wagging with obvious delight.

“Sorry,” Taiga says, not quite meeting Hokuto's eyes. “I got the key from Jesse. You shouldn’t have to get up to answer the door.”

Hokuto blinks, still processing Taiga’s unexpected presence. In five days of careful recovery, surrounded by friends who hover and worry, Taiga has been notably absent. Not that Hokuto expected him to join the parade of concerned visitors—Taiga doesn’t do that kind of obvious care. But seeing him here now, standing awkwardly in the kitchen doorway like he’s not sure he belongs, makes Hokuto realize how much he’d missed him.

“You didn’t have to—” Hokuto starts.

“I brought notes from Monday’s Liberal Arts,” Taiga interrupts, lifting the bag slightly. “Moriya covered identity performance theory. Figured you might want them.”

Hokuto recognizes it for what it is—Taiga’s way of showing concern without having to name it directly. It’s so characteristically indirect that Hokuto finds himself almost smiling despite his surprise.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

Anzu, meanwhile, has abandoned all pretense of being well-behaved. She stands on her hind legs against Hokuto’s chair, pawing at his arm with desperate enthusiasm. Her tail whips back and forth so violently that her whole body wiggles with the motion.

“Down, Anzu,” Taiga says without much conviction.

Hokuto reaches down to scratch behind her ears, and she immediately begins the peculiar whining sound she makes when she's overwhelmed with affection. She seems determined to climb into his lap despite being barely tall enough to reach his knees properly.

“She wanted to apologize,” Taiga says, and there’s something softer in his voice now, less guarded. “For getting you hurt.”

Hokuto glances at Anzu, who is currently attempting to lick his hand while simultaneously trying to burrow under his palm for maximum attention. “She doesn’t look particularly sorry.”

“She’s not,” Taiga admits. “But I thought she should at least pretend.”

It’s such a ridiculous explanation that Hokuto actually laughs. The sound surprises him. He hasn’t felt much like laughing since the camping trip. But there’s something about Taiga standing in his kitchen, offering practical notes and absurd dog apologies, that makes the apartment feel less suffocating.

Taiga shifts his weight, still not quite settling into the space. “How’s the ankle?”

“Fine,” Hokuto says automatically, then catches himself. “Sore. The doctor says another week before I can walk normally.”

Taiga nods, his gaze flicking briefly to the medical equipment scattered around Hokuto’s chair—the ice pack, the compression wrap, the bottle of anti-inflammatories. He doesn’t comment on any of it, but Hokuto catches something that might be concern in his expression.

“Jesse’s been...” Hokuto starts, then pauses, not sure how to explain the elaborate care system his roommates have constructed around him.

“Hovering,” Taiga finishes. “Yugo mentioned.”

The confirmation that they’ve talked about him makes Hokuto's stomach twist in an uncomfortable way. He wonders what else Taiga knows about his recovery, what details his friends have shared. Whether they’ve mentioned how restless he’s been, how poorly he’s handling the forced stillness.

Anzu finally succeeds in climbing partially into his lap, her front paws resting on his thighs while she attempts to reach his face with her tongue. Hokuto supports her weight carefully, mindful of his ankle’s position.

“She missed you,” Taiga says quietly.

Hokuto looks up to find Taiga watching him with that careful attention he sometimes directs at subjects through his camera. “I missed her too,” Hokuto says, which is true but not complete. He missed both of them, though he’s not sure he can say that without making things awkward.

Taiga reaches into his bag and pulls out a neatly organized folder. “The notes,” he explains, setting it on the table within Hokuto’s reach.

“Thank you,” he says again, and means it more than the first time.

Anzu settles more comfortably in Hokuto's lap, her breathing evening out as she finally stops trying to lick every available inch of his skin. The quiet stretches between them. Taiga lingers by the table, his fingers fidgeting with the strap of his bag.

“Actually,” Taiga says, and his voice carries that particular hesitation that means he's about to do something that makes him uncomfortable. “There’s something else.”

He reaches into the bag again, this time pulling out a smaller package wrapped in simple brown paper. The wrapping is neat but clearly done by hand, the edges folded with careful precision rather than machine-made perfection.

Hokuto blinks. “Taiga, you didn’t—”

“It’s your birthday,” Taiga interrupts, extending the package toward him. “Just… take it.”

The words are blunt in the way Taiga’s words usually are, but there’s something underneath them that makes Hokuto’s chest feel suddenly tight. He accepts the package carefully, mindful of Anzu’s position in his lap. The weight of it is modest but solid, and it crinkles slightly under his fingers.

“You didn’t really need to—” Hokuto starts again.

“Open it,” Taiga says. Now there’s a flush creeping up his neck that he’s clearly trying to ignore.

Hokuto unwraps the paper slowly, partly because his position makes it awkward and partly because he wants to stretch out whatever this moment is. Inside, he finds two items nestled together: a small cloth bag tied with string, and a white box with elegant calligraphy printed on the side.

The tea comes out first—loose leaf green tea in a traditional pouch that smells like home the moment he opens it. Not just any green tea, but the specific blend from Ninomaru that his grandmother used to serve when he was little, the one his mother still orders for special occasions. The scent hits him with unexpected force, carrying memories of quiet afternoons in his childhood home, of steam rising from delicate cups while rain drummed against tatami floors.

“Shizuoka tea,” he says quietly, recognizing it immediately.

“The specific blend,” Taiga confirms, and his blush deepens. “From Ninomaru. I… I had to ask my mom to have it shipped.”

Hokuto looks up sharply. “Your mother?”

Taiga’s gaze darts away. “She has a friend who lives near the shop. I called her yesterday and asked if she could overnight it.” His words come faster now, like he’s trying to get through an explanation he finds embarrassing. “I mentioned it was for a friend’s birthday, and she said she’d handle it. The package arrived this morning.”

The casual mention of involving his mother in obtaining a birthday gift for someone Taiga has never properly introduced makes Hokuto’s heart do something complicated in his chest. He can’t imagine Taiga making that kind of phone call easily.

He sets the tea aside carefully and opens the white box. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, are half a dozen perfect abekawa mochi—the sweet rice cakes dusted with kinako and sugar that he remembers from childhood festivals in Shizuoka. They’re from Sekibeya, the shop his family used to visit every New Year when he was small.

“How did you—” Hokuto’s voice catches slightly.

“You mentioned them once,” Taiga says, still not quite meeting his eyes. “When we were studying. You said your grandmother used to make them, but the ones from Sekibeya’s were better.”

Hokuto stares at him. “I said that?”

“A few weeks ago. During one of our library sessions.” Taiga’s fingers fumble at the edge of his bag. “You were tired, and Juri was complaining about his strawberry obsession. You mentioned missing proper abekawa mochi.”

The fact that Taiga not only remembered such an offhand comment but cared enough to act on it makes something warm and overwhelming bloom in Hokuto’s chest. These aren’t random gifts picked up from a convenience store. They're specific, personal, chosen because Taiga listened when Hokuto spoke about home, about childhood, about the small things that bring comfort.

“Taiga,” he says softly.

“It’s not a big deal,” Taiga says quickly, his blush now spreading to his ears. “I just thought... you’ve been stuck here for days. And birthdays are supposed to be less terrible than regular days, so...”

He trails off, looking more uncomfortable by the second.

Anzu chooses that moment to shift in Hokuto’s lap, stretching one paw toward the box of mochi with obvious interest.

“No,” Hokuto tells her gently, moving the box out of reach. “These aren’t for dogs.”

Anzu gives him a look of profound betrayal, but settles back down.

“This is…” Hokuto looks down at the tea and mochi, then back up at Taiga. “This is incredibly thoughtful.”

Taiga’s shoulder lifts in a half-shrug. “I know you’ve been homesick.”

“Have I?”

“You get this look sometimes. When Jesse’s being particularly loud, or when Shintaro’s talking about Kanazawa.” Taiga’s voice is quiet now, careful. “Like you’re somewhere else. Somewhere quieter.”

He hadn’t realized his homesickness was visible, but leave it to Taiga to notice something so subtle. It makes him wonder what else Taiga sees when he looks at him, what other small truths he’s filed away.

“Thank you,” Hokuto says. The words feel inadequate for the warmth spreading through his chest. “Really. This is... perfect.”

Taiga starts to fold the empty wrapping paper. Hokuto recognizes the gesture for what it is—preparation to leave, the careful way Taiga always creates distance when moments become too heavy with unspoken things.

“Wait,” Hokuto says before he can think better of it.

Taiga’s hands still on the paper. “What?”

“Would you...” Hokuto hesitates, suddenly aware of how the request might sound. “Would you like to stay? We could have tea. The mochi.”

Taiga’s eyes flick to the gifts, then back to Hokuto’s face. Something shifts in his expression—surprise, maybe, or uncertainty. He’s quiet for so long that Hokuto starts to regret asking.

“You don’t have to,” Hokuto adds quickly. “I just thought—”

“No one should have to spend their birthday alone,” Taiga mutters, so quietly that Hokuto almost misses it. His fingers fumble at the edge of the wrapping paper. “I can brew the tea.”

The offer catches Hokuto off guard. In five days of careful recovery, surrounded by friends who anticipate his every need, no one has asked him to direct their help. They’ve brought him meals he didn’t request, organized his medication according to schedules he didn’t create, rearranged his living space without consulting him. All of it done with love, but none of it giving him agency in his own care.

“The kettle’s in the cabinet next to the stove,” Hokuto says, warmth blooming in his chest at Taiga’s unexpected consideration. “Cups are in the upper cabinet to the right.”

Taiga nods and moves with quiet efficiency, locating the items without needing further direction. Hokuto watches him work—the careful way he measures water, the gentle handling of the delicate cups that Jesse bought last spring. There’s something meditative about Taiga’s movements, none of the anxious hovering that has defined Hokuto’s interactions with his roommates.

Anzu shifts in his lap, her breathing deep and even. She’s fallen into that peculiar dog state of being simultaneously alert and completely relaxed, ready to spring into action if anything interesting happens but content to serve as a warm weight against Hokuto’s legs.

The kettle begins its quiet whistle, and Taiga adjusts the heat with practiced ease. Hokuto finds himself studying Taiga’s profile as he works, the careful concentration that transforms his usually guarded features into something softer, more accessible.

“What else do you need?” Taiga asks without turning around, his attention still focused on the steeping tea.

The question stops Hokuto short. Not what can I do for you, or let me know if you need anything—the careful phrases his friends have been using all week. Just a simple, direct question that assumes he knows his own needs and trusts him to articulate them.

It shouldn’t feel revolutionary, but it does.

“I’d like to sit on the couch,” Hokuto admits. “If you could help me move.”

Taiga turns then, studying Hokuto’s position in the kitchen chair. “The couch would be more comfortable?”

“Much.”

Taiga nods, understanding immediately in a way that makes Hokuto’s chest tighten with something that might be gratitude or might be something more complicated. He approaches Hokuto’s chair with the same careful efficiency he’d brought to tea preparation.

“How do we do this without making your ankle worse?”

The question demonstrates the kind of practical consideration that has been missing from everyone else’s help. Jesse tends to panic about potential injury. Shintaro hovers anxiously without knowing how to assist. Yugo creates elaborate systems but doesn’t ask what Hokuto actually prefers.

Taiga simply asks how to help effectively.

“If you could support my left side,” Hokuto explains, shifting Anzu carefully to his right arm. “I can use my right foot to bear weight, but I need stability.”

Taiga positions himself without hesitation, offering his shoulder for Hokuto to lean against. The contact is warm and steady, and Hokuto catches the faint scent of Taiga’s shampoo—something clean and understated that suits him perfectly.

The transfer to the couch takes longer than it would with two functioning ankles, but Taiga doesn’t rush him or offer unnecessary commentary about being careful. He simply provides steady support while Hokuto navigates the short distance, then helps him settle among the throw pillows Jesse had arranged with characteristic thoughtfulness.

Anzu immediately claims her new position across Hokuto’s lap, turning in two complete circles before collapsing with dramatic satisfaction.

“Better?” Taiga asks.

“Much better.” Hokuto flexes his ankle experimentally, grateful for the couch’s superior cushioning. “Thank you.”

Taiga returns to the kitchen to finish preparing the tea, and Hokuto watches him through the open doorway. There’s something about Taiga’s presence that feels different from his roommates’ care. Less performance, maybe. Less need to demonstrate concern through elaborate gestures.

Just quiet competence and the assumption that Hokuto remains a person capable of making decisions about his own comfort.

When Taiga returns with the tea service arranged on a small tray, Hokuto realizes he’s been holding his breath without realizing it. The careful way Taiga sets everything within reach, the practiced grace with which he pours the tea, the fact that he doesn’t comment on Hokuto’s obvious relief at being out of the kitchen chair. All of it speaks to a kind of attention that feels both intimate and undemanding.

“The tea smells perfect,” Hokuto says, accepting the cup with genuine appreciation.

Taiga settles into the nearby chair, his own cup cradled between his palms. “Happy birthday, Hokuto.”

The use of his given name sends warmth shooting through Hokuto’s chest, just like it had during the camping trip. “Thank you,” Hokuto says quietly. “For all of this.”

Taiga’s cheeks color slightly, but he doesn’t look away this time. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.” Hokuto takes a sip of the tea, letting the familiar flavors ground him. “It’s exactly what I needed.”

Silence settles between them. Hokuto watches Taiga over the rim of his teacup, noting how the other man’s shoulders have finally dropped their usual defensive tension. His fingers curve around the ceramic with careful attention.

Anzu shifts against Hokuto’s legs, her breathing deep and even. One ear twitches occasionally, as if she’s monitoring their conversation even in sleep. Her warmth is a steady comfort, grounding him in the present instead of letting his mind spiral toward the careful choreography of recovery his roommates have constructed around him.

Taiga reaches for another piece of mochi, his movements unhurried. When he bites into it, a small sound of genuine appreciation escapes him. The kinako powder dusts his lips slightly, and he brushes it away with the back of his hand.

“Is it right?” Hokuto asks quietly.

Taiga nods, swallowing. “Yeah. Though I haven’t had proper abekawa mochi in years.”

“When did you last have it?”

“Childhood, probably. My parents weren’t really interested in traditional sweets.” Taiga’s voice carries that familiar note of distance he uses when mentioning his family. “They preferred European pastries. More sophisticated, apparently.”

Hokuto catches the subtle criticism in his tone. It’s the same careful dismissal Taiga uses when talking about his conservatory training in London—edged with something that might be disappointment.

“Traditional doesn’t mean lesser,” Hokuto says.

Taiga glances at him, something shifting in his expression. “No. It doesn’t.”

They return to their tea in comfortable quiet. Hokuto finds himself cataloging details: the way Taiga’s fingers relax completely around his cup, the small crease that appears between his eyebrows when he’s thinking, the fact that he seems content to simply exist in this moment without need for conversation or entertainment.

It’s remarkable, actually. In five days of recovery, Hokuto has been surrounded by people who feel compelled to fill every silence with concern or distraction. Jesse chattering about his friends’ antics to keep Hokuto engaged. Shintaro showing him memes. Yugo providing detailed updates about school.

All of it well-intentioned, but exhausting in ways he hasn’t been able to articulate.

Taiga simply sits with him, requires nothing, offers presence without performance.

When they finish the last of the mochi, Hokuto realizes he feels more restored than he has since the camping trip. Not physically—his ankle still throbs with each heartbeat—but something deeper. As if he’s been holding his breath for days and can finally exhale.

Taiga sets his empty cup on the table and looks toward the kitchen. “I should clean these.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Taiga says, already gathering the cups and plates. “Rest.”

The command is gentle but firm, and Hokuto finds himself obeying without argument. Anzu stretches and hops down from his lap, apparently deciding that following Taiga is more interesting than serving as a lap blanket.

Hokuto adjusts his position among the pillows, grateful for the couch’s superior support, and watches Taiga move through his kitchen. Something is mesmerizing about the careful efficiency of his movements—the way he rinses each cup thoroughly before washing it, the methodical way he dries and returns everything to its proper place.

Anzu stations herself beside the sink, looking up at Taiga with devoted attention. When he moves to put away the tea tin, she follows. It’s like watching an elaborate dance between species, each anticipating the other’s next step.

Taiga notices her shadowing and crouches down to her level. He says something too quiet for Hokuto to hear, but Anzu’s tail begins its enthusiastic whipping motion.

Then she does something Hokuto has never seen before. She rises on her hind legs and spins in a tight circle, her front paws paddling the air.

Taiga’s laughter cuts through the kitchen’s quiet, bright and unguarded in a way that makes Hokuto’s breath catch. It’s not the careful chuckle Taiga occasionally offers in group settings, but something completely uninhibited. Real joy, uncomplicated by his usual layers of defense.

The sound hits Hokuto like a physical force. He’s seen flashes of softness from Taiga before—quiet moments when his guard drops slightly—but this is different. This is Taiga as he might be if he weren’t constantly protecting himself from perceived judgment or disappointment.

This is who Taiga could become if someone convinced him he was worth loving without conditions.

Hokuto wants to be that someone. Not in some abstract future sense, but now. Today. Starting with whatever this moment might become if he’s brave enough to name it.

Anzu performs her spinning dance again, clearly delighted by Taiga’s response. Taiga reaches out to scratch behind her ears, his smile lingering even as his laughter fades.

When he straightens and catches Hokuto watching, he doesn’t look away or retreat into his usual distance.

“She’s ridiculous,” Taiga says, but his tone is full of affection.

“She likes making you happy.”

Something flickers across Taiga's expression. “She’s good at it.”

He returns to the living room, settling back into his chair with an ease that suggests he’s forgotten to feel uncomfortable. Anzu follows and reclaims her position on Hokuto’s lap, though she keeps one eye on Taiga as if hoping for another performance opportunity.

“We could look over those notes,” Taiga suggests.

It's a perfectly reasonable suggestion. Hokuto has missed a week of classes, and staying current with coursework is important. Reviewing the notes together would be a productive use of their time.

Instead, Hokuto hears himself saying, “Would you like to go on a date with me?”

The words escape before he can consider them. Taiga’s eyes widen slightly, and for a moment, his careful composure slips completely.

“A date,” Taiga repeats.

Hokuto feels heat climbing his neck, but doesn’t take it back. “Yes.”

“Hokuto—”

“I know you heard what I said at the izakaya,” Hokuto continues, his heart hammering against his ribs. “And I know you think it was just alcohol talking. But it wasn’t.”

Taiga’s hands still from fidgeting. “I know,” he says quietly.

“You know?”

“That you meant it.” Taiga’s voice is careful, controlled. “But that doesn’t make it a good idea.”

“Why not?”

Taiga looks away then, his gaze fixing on something past Hokuto’s shoulder. “Because I’m not good at this kind of thing.”

“What kind of thing?”

“Caring about people. Not hurting them.” His fingers resume their nervous movement. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

Hokuto studies Taiga’s profile, recognizing the careful distance creeping back into his posture. This is how Taiga protects himself—by insisting he's dangerous, unworthy, destined to cause harm. It’s the same reflexive retreat he uses when anyone gets too close.

“I’m asking to take you out,” Hokuto says simply. “Somewhere nice. Just us.”

The offer seems to catch Taiga off guard. He’s quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing patterns against his jeans.

When he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.

“You really want that? With me?”

The question carries so much doubt that Hokuto’s chest aches. “More than I’ve wanted anything in a long time.”

Taiga’s breath catches slightly. He looks down at Anzu, who has fallen asleep again, oblivious to the tension building between them. When he looks back up, his eyes are bright with something that might be hope or might be fear.

“One date,” he says finally.

“One date,” Hokuto confirms, warmth blooming in his chest despite his racing heart.

“Somewhere nice.”

“The nicest.”

Taiga’s mouth quirks in what might be the beginning of a smile. “This is probably a mistake.”

“Probably,” Hokuto agrees. “But I’d like to make it anyway.”

The sound of the apartment door opening breaks through their quiet moment. Hokuto hears the familiar shuffle of multiple people trying to navigate the entryway while carrying too many things, followed by Jesse’s distinctive laugh and Yugo’s patient voice reminding someone to close the door properly.

Anzu’s head snaps up from Hokuto's lap, her ears pricked forward with sudden alertness. She leaps down and trots toward the entryway, tail already wagging with anticipation of new arrivals to charm.

“We’re back!” Jesse calls out, his voice carrying the bright energy that means he’s either had too much coffee or is particularly pleased about something. “I found those mushrooms Yugo wanted, and Juri bought enough dessert to feed half the conservatory.”

“Because it’s a birthday,” comes Juri’s voice, slightly muffled by what sounds like grocery bags. “You can’t have a proper birthday dinner without excessive dessert options.”

Hokuto catches Taiga’s expression shift, the careful openness from their conversation retreating behind his usual guarded mask. It’s subtle but unmistakable—the way his shoulders straighten, the slight distance that creeps into his posture.

The three of them appear in the living room doorway, arms full of shopping bags and what appears to be enough food for twice their number. Jesse immediately zeroes in on Hokuto with the laser focus of someone who’s been worrying for days.

“How are you feeling? Did you take your afternoon medication? You look like you might be in pain.” Jesse’s words tumble over each other as he sets down his bags and approaches the couch. “Are you comfortable there? I can get more pillows. Or ice. Do you need ice?”

“Jesse,” Hokuto starts, but his roommate is already reaching for the throw pillows, apparently determined to rearrange Hokuto’s entire position.

“Let me just—”

“Hey.” Taiga’s voice cuts through Jesse's anxious reorganizing with quiet authority. “He said he’s comfortable.”

Jesse pauses, pillow in hand, looking between Taiga and Hokuto with obvious confusion. “But he might need—”

“If he needs something, he’ll ask,” Taiga says, his tone firm but not unkind. “You don’t have to anticipate every possible discomfort.”

Hokuto feels something warm bloom in his chest. For five days, he’s been struggling to find a way to communicate exactly this—that the constant hovering, however well-intentioned, makes him feel helpless rather than cared for. But every time he’s tried to explain it, his friends' hurt expressions have stopped him from pushing further.

Taiga, apparently, has no such reservations about establishing boundaries.

Jesse blinks, the pillow still clutched in his hands. “I just wanna make sure he’s okay.”

“He’s okay,” Taiga says simply. “Trust him to know what he needs.”

Yugo, who’s been observing this exchange while organizing grocery bags, catches Hokuto’s eye with a small smile. “Taiga’s right,” he says gently. “We might be... overthinking the care situation.”

“I like taking care of people,” Jesse protests, but there’s less conviction in his voice now.

“Taking care of people is good,” Taiga agrees. “Smothering them isn’t.”

The bluntness of it makes Jesse wince slightly, but Hokuto sees understanding dawn in his expression. Jesse sets the pillow back down and steps away from the couch, his hands falling to his sides.

“Right,” Jesse says after a moment. “Sorry, Hokuto. I didn’t realize I was being...”

“Hovering,” Juri supplies helpfully from where he’s unpacking what appears to be an entire bakery’s worth of desserts. “The word you’re looking for is hovering.”

“I wasn’t hovering,” Jesse says automatically, then pauses. “Was I hovering?”

“You were hovering,” Yugo confirms with gentle amusement. His expression shifts to sheepish. “All three of us were.”

Hokuto watches Jesse process this revelation. “I appreciate you wanting to help,” he says carefully. “All of you. But Taiga’s right. I can ask for what I need.”

Jesse nods, some of his usual brightness returning. “Got it. New plan: less hovering, more trusting Hokuto to be an adult.”

Anzu, who has been making the rounds of ankle-level greetings, finally settles by Juri’s feet. He reaches down to scratch behind her ears, and she immediately flops onto her back for belly rubs.

“She’s shameless,” Taiga observes, but his tone is fond.

“Smart,” Juri corrects. “She knows who’s most likely to give her treats.”

“Speaking of which,” Yugo says, hefting one of the grocery bags, “we should start on dinner. Hokuto, are you comfortable staying there while we cook?”

The question is perfect. Hokuto nods. “I’m good here.”

Taiga stands from his chair, automatically reaching for one of the grocery bags. “What can I do?”

Hokuto watches Taiga integrate seamlessly into their dinner preparation routine, noting how naturally he falls into the kitchen’s rhythm. Yugo assigns tasks with efficient calm while Jesse provides running commentary on his ingredient choices. Juri arranges his dessert offerings with meticulous attention.

And Taiga moves through it all with quiet competence, trying to chop vegetables and stirring sauces without need for excessive instruction or praise. He fits into their dynamic in a way that feels effortless, as if he’s always been part of their evening rituals.

The apartment fills with the warm sounds of dinner preparation—running water, the sizzle of cooking, overlapping conversation punctuated by laughter. From his position on the couch, Hokuto can see into the kitchen where his friends work together with practiced ease.

Taiga catches his eye through the doorway and offers a small smile—something genuine and unguarded. The promise of their date hangs in the air between them.

For the first time in days, Hokuto feels like he’s exactly where he belongs.

🪈

The coffee table bears witness to their finished feast—empty plates scattered with remnants of Yugo’s carefully prepared yakitori, sticky spots where Jesse knocked over his beer while gesticulating too enthusiastically, and the elegant birthday cake Juri brought sitting with one more slice, waiting for Shintaro’s return.

Hokuto shifts slightly on the couch, his ankle propped on a cushion that Taiga had wordlessly adjusted earlier without making a production of it. The difference between Taiga’s quiet competence and his roommates’ anxious hovering still strikes him as remarkable. Where Jesse would have fretted about the angle and asked seventeen questions about his comfort level, Taiga had simply noticed and fixed it.

Beside him in the separate chairs, Taiga flips through one of Juri’s music theory notebooks while Juri sprawls across the other chair, picking at the last of the edamame. They’re debating something about Schumann’s harmonic progressions, their voices low enough not to interrupt the scene playing out by the coffee table.

Yugo and Jesse have claimed the floor space, Jesse’s head pillowed on Yugo’s lap while Yugo absently runs his fingers through Jesse’s blonde hair. They’re sharing a beer—or rather, Jesse is drinking while Yugo holds the bottle, occasionally taking small sips when Jesse tilts it toward his mouth without breaking the rhythm of whatever story he’s telling about his voice coach's latest dramatic critique.

“—and then she said, ‘Lewis, your vibrato sounds like a dying seagull,’ which I think is actually an improvement from last week when she compared it to construction equipment—”

Yugo’s quiet laughter interrupts the story. “Maybe she’s building up to more flattering animal comparisons.”

“What comes after seagulls?” Jesse asks, shifting to look up at Yugo with exaggerated hope. “Please tell me it's something majestic. A swan, maybe? Or at least a less obnoxious bird?”

“Peacocks are pretty obnoxious,” Juri comments without looking up from his notebook.

Jesse gasps dramatically. “Juri! You’re supposed to be supportive of my vocal development!”

“I am being supportive. Peacocks have very distinctive voices. It would be memorable.”

Hokuto finds himself smiling despite his exhaustion. This is what he missed during his forced convalescence. The way Jesse’s boundless energy balances Yugo’s steadiness, how Juri’s dry humor cuts through any potential sentimentality, the quiet way Taiga observes it all while participating just enough to avoid seeming withdrawn.

Taiga glances up from the notebook and catches Hokuto watching before he rejoins the conversation. “Your voice professor sounds intense,” he says to Jesse.

“Terrifying,” Jesse corrects cheerfully. “But in a productive way. She makes me want to prove her wrong, which apparently is excellent motivation for improvement.”

“Fear-based pedagogy,” Juri muses. “Classic conservatory approach.”

Yugo’s fingers pause in Jesse’s hair. “Is that what your piano teachers were like?”

“Worse,” Juri and Taiga say simultaneously, then look at each other with startled recognition.

“One of my professors in London used to time our mistakes,” Taiga adds quietly. “He had this little stopwatch, and he’d click it every time we played something incorrectly. At the end of the lesson, he’d announce how many seconds we’d wasted on imperfection.”

The casual cruelty of it makes Hokuto wince. “That’s horrible.”

Taiga shrugs. “It’s London. They believe suffering builds character.”

“Did it work?” Jesse asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.

“Depends on your definition of work,” Taiga says. His fingers toy with the edge of Juri’s notebook. “I stopped making obvious mistakes. I also stopped enjoying music.”

Yugo’s expression grows troubled.

Hokuto wants to say something comforting, but he’s learning that Taiga responds better to acknowledgment than reassurance. “That must have been devastating.”

“It was educational,” Taiga corrects, but there's no real conviction behind the words.

Jesse, bless him, seems to sense the need for lighter territory. “Well, my voice coach might compare me to construction equipment, but at least she doesn’t time my failures. Though she did make me hold a note for so long once that I nearly passed out.”

“How long?” Yugo asks with the patient indulgence of someone who’s heard this story before but doesn’t mind hearing it again.

“Forty-three seconds. Which doesn’t sound like much until you’re actually doing it and your lungs start staging a revolt.”

“Show-off,” Juri says mildly.

Jesse grins. “I could demonstrate, but Hokuto’s recovering, and I don’t want to damage his delicate constitution with my impressive lung capacity.”

“My constitution isn’t delicate,” Hokuto protests.

“Says the man currently elevated on cushions because he injured himself rescuing a dog,” Taiga points out.

“I injured myself climbing out of a ravine. The dog was just the catalyst.”

Anzu, hearing herself referenced, lifts her head from where she’s been dozing beside Juri’s chair. Her tail gives a lazy wag of acknowledgment before she settles back down, apparently satisfied that the conversation doesn’t require her active participation.

“She’s not even sorry,” Yugo observes fondly.

“Why should she be sorry?” Jesse asks. “She got rescued and is now receiving gourmet birthday dinner leftovers. From her perspective, this worked out perfectly.”

Anzu stands and stretches with exaggerated drama before padding over to investigate the coffee table situation. She approaches Jesse first, employing her most pathetic starving-dog expression.

Jesse immediately reaches for a piece of leftover yakitori.

“Don’t,” Yugo says automatically. “She just ate.”

“But look at her face!”

“She’s manipulating you.”

“Successfully,” Jesse admits, but he puts the food back down.

Anzu, undeterred by this setback, moves on to her next target. She plants herself in front of Hokuto and employs an even more dramatic version of the starving-dog look, complete with delicate head tilts and soft whimpering.

“She’s relentless,” Hokuto says, but he's already weakening.

“She’s strategic,” Taiga corrects. “She knows injured people are soft targets.”

“Are you calling me soft?”

Taiga’s mouth quirks slightly. “I’m calling you kind. Which, in Anzu’s experience, means easy to manipulate.”

The observation shouldn’t feel as intimate as it does, but something about the way Taiga says it makes warmth spread through Hokuto’s chest.

Before he can respond, the sound of a key in the lock announces Shintaro’s arrival. Anzu immediately abandons her food campaign and trots toward the entryway, tail wagging with fresh enthusiasm.

Soon, Shintaro appears in the doorway with his hair disheveled and his usual energy notably dimmed. He pauses, taking in the domestic scene. His gaze lingers on Taiga for a moment, something complex flickering across his expression before settling into a tired but genuine smile.

“Did you save me any food, or do I have to forage for myself like some kind of wilderness survivor?”

“There’s plenty,” Jesse says, already moving to extract himself from Yugo with obvious reluctance. “And Juri brought enough cake to feed a small army, so you’re not gonna starve.”

“What kind of cake?” Shintaro’s exhaustion lifts slightly.

“Chocolate ganache with strawberry,” Juri says with obvious pride.

“I love you,” Shintaro announces solemnly. “Platonically and with deep appreciation for your excellent taste in dessert.”

“Platonically noted and appreciated,” Juri replies with a grin.

Hokuto watches the familiar rhythm of their group dynamic shift to accommodate Shintaro’s return. Jesse bounces to his feet to start warming leftovers while Yugo organizes space on the coffee table. Juri produces plates and utensils with the efficiency of someone who’s appointed himself the group's unofficial coordinator.

And Taiga simply observes, contributing when asked but not forcing himself into the center of activity. It’s such a characteristically Taiga approach—present but undemanding, helpful without needing recognition.

Taiga stands without ceremony as Shintaro approaches, gesturing toward the chair he’d been occupying. “Take it. You look dead.”

“I feel dead,” Shintaro confirms, collapsing into the vacated seat with theatrical relief. His dance bag hits the floor with a soft thud, and he immediately slumps forward, elbows on his knees. “Remind me why I thought contemporary dance would be easier than classical ballet?”

“Because you were delusional?” Juri suggests helpfully while cutting the cake.

“Thanks for the support.” Shintaro shoots him a weak glare. “But seriously, they’re making all the first-years learn basic ballet positions before we can move on to anything interesting. I spent an hour and a half today working on port de bras with a bunch of kids who’ve been doing this since they were five.”

“Port de bras?” Jesse asks, pausing in his reheating efforts.

“Arm movements,” Hokuto explains. “It’s foundational work. Even if your specialty is contemporary or street dance, classical technique gives you the control and precision to execute more complex choreography later.”

Shintaro’s expression shifts from frustrated to genuinely interested. “Really?”

“Music and dance aren’t that different structurally. Both require understanding of rhythm, phrasing, and how to move through space with intention.” Hokuto adjusts his position slightly, mindful of his ankle. “The ballet training isn’t about turning you into a classical dancer. It’s about giving you the technical vocabulary to express whatever style speaks to you.”

“Like scales for pianists,” Yugo adds from his position on the floor.

“Exactly.” Hokuto feels the familiar satisfaction of explaining something he understands. “You wouldn’t skip learning scales because you want to play jazz, would you?”

“Actually...” Taiga begins, then catches himself and shakes his head with a slight smile.

“What?” Jesse demands. “You can’t start a sentence like that and not finish it.”

“Nothing. Just remembering a particular argument I had with a professor about exactly that topic.”

“Please tell me you defended the importance of scales,” Juri says with mock solemnity.

“I defended the importance of understanding why rules exist before you break them,” Taiga replies. “Which is not quite the same thing.”

Shintaro absorbs this exchange with obvious thoughtfulness. “So ballet is like... musical grammar?”

“More like learning proper posture before you can really run,” Hokuto suggests. “Once you have the foundation, you can move however you want, but you’ll be stronger and more controlled doing it.”

“That actually makes sense.” Shintaro’s exhaustion seems to lift a bit. “Our instructor kept saying we needed ‘precision,’ but I thought she just wanted to torture us.”

“She probably did want to torture you a little,” Jesse says cheerfully, returning with a plate of reheated yakitori. “Conservatory instructors are sadists by nature. It’s in the job description.”

“Says the man whose voice coach compares him to construction equipment,” Juri points out.

“Construction equipment requires precision too,” Jesse retorts.

Shintaro accepts the plate gratefully, then reaches into his dance bag with sudden energy. “Oh! Before I forget—” He pulls out a small envelope and extends it toward Hokuto. “Happy birthday, Hokkun.”

Hokuto takes the envelope, noting the careful way Shintaro’s name is written across the front in Shintaro’s messy handwriting. Inside are two tickets, pristine and official-looking.

The Magic Flute — Suntory Hall. On July 26.

Hokuto stares at the tickets, surprise rendering him temporarily speechless. The production is with the Tokyo Symphony—serious, professional-level opera that he’d mentioned wanting to see but never imagined actually attending.

“Shintaro...” he begins.

“You said once that The Magic Flute was your favorite,” Shintaro explains quickly, color rising in his cheeks. “And I know tickets are expensive, but I had a lot left from my parents’ allowance, and I thought...” He trails off, suddenly uncertain. “Do you like it? I mean, if you already have plans or—”

“I love it.” Hokuto means it completely. The thoughtfulness of the gift touches him deeply. “This is incredibly generous.”

“I got two tickets,” Shintaro continues, his words coming faster now. “I mean, I figured you might want company, and I've never actually been to a real opera before, so if you wanna go together...”

The hopefulness in Shintaro’s voice is unmistakable, and Hokuto feels the familiar tug of affection for his earnest roommate. “Of course,” he says warmly. “I’d like that.”

Shintaro’s face lights up with such obvious pleasure that Hokuto has to resist the impulse to ruffle his hair like he might with Masaya.

Around them, the conversation continues—Jesse asking about the production details, Yugo commenting on Suntory Hall’s acoustics—but Hokuto finds his attention drifting to Taiga.

Taiga has moved to lean against the doorway leading to the kitchen, Anzu at his feet. His expression is carefully neutral, but something about his posture seems tense. Closed off in a way that hadn’t been there moments before.

“We should probably head out,” Taiga says into a brief lull in the conversation. “It’s getting late, and I don’t want to overstay.”

“You’re not overstaying,” Jesse protests immediately. “Stay longer! We haven’t even finished Hokuto’s cake.”

“Another time.” Taiga's tone is polite but final. He bends to clip Anzu’s leash to her collar with precise, efficient movements. “Thanks for dinner. And for letting us crash your celebration.”

Hokuto feels a sharp pang of disappointment that surprises him with its intensity. The evening had been good—better than good. Seeing Taiga retreat back into polite distance feels like watching something precious slip away.

“Taiga,” he calls out, struggling slightly to shift forward on the couch.

Taiga pauses at the doorway, looking back. Something flickers across his expression—too quick for Hokuto to interpret—before settling into the careful neutrality he wears like armor.

“Thank you,” Hokuto says, gesturing to the tea tin sitting on the side table. “For the birthday gifts. And for bringing the notes.”

“Of course.” Taiga’s voice is softer now, though still guarded. “Rest your ankle. Don’t let them mother you too much.”

It should be a casual comment, but the way he says it feels almost intimate. Like an inside joke between them.

“I’ll try,” Hokuto promises.

Taiga nods once, then seems to hesitate. “Goodnight, Hokuto.”

His first name on Taiga’s lips sends warmth spreading through Hokuto’s chest. It feels significant in a way he can’t quite articulate.

“Goodnight.”

Then Taiga is gone, Anzu trotting beside him, leaving only the faint sound of the elevator and the lingering sense that something important has shifted just beyond Hokuto’s understanding.

🎹

The black t-shirt looks exactly like the other three he’s already tossed across the bed—same cut, same brand, the same quiet admission that he hasn’t changed at all since high school. Like muscle memory dressed him instead of intent.

He lifts it anyway. Holds it up to the light as if staring long enough might force it into being something else. Something with a pulse. It just hangs there, limp, accusing.

Anzu sits in his desk chair, her head tilted with too much precision to be accidental. Even a dog can judge him, apparently.

“Don’t give me that look,” he mutters, letting the shirt drop onto the pile of identical failures. “This is your fault anyway.”

Anzu’s tail thumps against the leather seat once.

“If you hadn’t wandered off and fallen into that ravine, Hokuto wouldn’t have sprained his ankle trying to rescue you.”

He digs into the closet again, fingers brushing fabric that all feels the same—black, black, more black. He drags out another shirt with a small white graphic that already annoys him.

“And if he hadn’t sprained his ankle, I wouldn’t have felt guilty enough to agree to this... whatever this is.”

The word forms in his head like a wrong note struck too hard.

Date. The word sticks in his throat even when he’s just thinking it.

He has a date with Hokuto tomorrow. An actual, official date.

Taiga lowers himself onto the edge of the bed, pushing at the mess of shirts with his knee. The fabric shifts with a dry hiss, like it’s irritated with him too.

Anzu hops down from the chair and trots over, paws landing on his knee, tail wagging like she’s thrilled about something she doesn’t understand.

“We’re not celebrating this,” he tells her, but his hand already moves, scratching behind her ears on instinct. “This is a terrible idea. Possibly the worst I’ve ever had.”

Which, considering his catalog of mistakes, is impressive.

He looks toward the closet again. Still nothing. Nothing that signals he’s capable of effort or intention or… wanting. Nothing that says he cares, even though he does, and that truth feels dangerous.

Terrifying, even.

The memory hits without warning—two weeks ago, Hokuto on his couch, ankle wrapped, posture careful. That quiet voice asking if Taiga would go on a date with him. One date. Just to see.

And Taiga had said yes.

Despite knowing better. Despite the flash of recognition he felt watching Hokuto’s face light up—the same quiet joy he’d seen in a vision of a much older Hokuto proposing with unwavering certainty.

The same future that ends with a phone call about a train accident.

His phone sits on the nightstand, screen dark, still managing to glare at him. He should call Yugo. Yugo always knows what to do—about clothes, about pretending to be functional, about all the things Taiga keeps failing at. Especially the human ones.

Anzu whines softly and he lifts her onto his lap. She circles like she’s trying to find the least chaotic spot before settling against him, warm pressure grounding him in a way he hates needing.

“I should sabotage it,” he says to her, fingers moving under her chin. “Wear something hideous. Say all the wrong things. Make him realize this is a mistake.”

Anzu just looks up at him, dark eyes steady, like she sees through every excuse.

“It would be kinder in the long run. If I push him away now, maybe he’ll end up with Shintaro instead. Maybe he’ll have a completely different future—one that doesn’t involve dying to save strangers on a train platform.”

But even as the words leave him, he knows he’s lying. His chest tightens with the truth he refuses to touch. He can’t sabotage this. Not after seeing Hokuto’s face when he said yes. Not after seeing that quiet, blooming joy—so close to the future proposal he’s already witnessed that it felt like time folding in on itself.

For a moment back in that apartment, staring at Hokuto’s careful smile, Taiga had let himself imagine the impossible. A future where the vision is wrong. Where they find each other not because fate demands it, but because they choose to. No tragedy attached. No countdown running under his skin.

Where they simply… manage to make it work.

He exhales sharply. “Idiot.”

Anzu tilts her head.

“Not you. Me.” He moves her gently off his lap, feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. He stands, looking at the warzone he’s made out of cotton and bad decisions. “This is pathetic. I’m calling for backup.”

His phone is already in his hand before the thought finishes. Muscle memory betrays him. Yugo answers on the third ring, voice carrying the faint rhythm of someone stirring a pan.

“Taiga? Everything okay?”

“No.” Taiga drifts toward the window, the city outside smeared with night and neon. “I need help.”

“What kind of help?” Yugo’s tone sharpens—dangerously close to concern. “Are you hurt? Is Anzu—”

“No,” Taiga cuts in. He rubs at the bridge of his nose, pressure blooming behind his eyes. “I have… I have a wardrobe situation.”

A beat of silence. In Taiga’s ear, it stretches long, judgmental.

“A wardrobe situation.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re calling me at 9 PM about clothes.”

Taiga pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look, I have a... thing tomorrow. I need to look less like I raided a funeral home’s lost and found.”

He can practically hear Yugo’s eyebrows lifting.

“What kind of thing?” Yugo’s curiosity edges back in, cautious. “Is this for a class presentation, or—”

“A date.” The word still feels foreign, like he’s borrowing someone else’s mouth. “With Hokuto.”

The silence that drops next is thick. Heavy enough that Taiga pulls the phone away from his ear to check the call hasn’t died.

“Yugo?”

“I’m processing,” Yugo says finally. “You have a date. With Hokuto. Tomorrow.”

“That’s what I just said.” His voice sounds too tight, even to himself.

“And this is the first time I’m hearing about it because…?”

Taiga lets his forehead rest against the cool windowpane. The glass hums faintly under his skin, steady in a way he isn’t. “Because I’ve been trying to pretend it isn’t happening.”

“Right.” Yugo’s voice has that careful neutrality he uses when he’s trying not to spook Taiga with excessive emotion. “And how’s that working out for you?”

“Poorly, obviously, or I wouldn’t be calling you about clothes.” Taiga turns back toward the bed. Every black item he owns is scattered across it, the whole thing looking like some monochrome weather event tore through his room. “I have nothing to wear.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I have nothing that doesn’t make me look like I’m auditioning for a visual kei band from 2005.”

Yugo’s laugh crackles through the speaker, warm and too familiar. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Yugo.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll help.” There’s movement on the other end, the muted clatter of a kitchen being abandoned. “I can be over in twenty minutes. But I’m gonna need more details about this date if I’m going to style you properly.”

Relief hits first. Then dread follows. Because Yugo in his apartment means Yugo seeing all of this. The mess. The panic. Him.

“Just... bring whatever you think might work,” he says. “And maybe don’t mention this to Jesse yet.”

“Taiga,” Yugo says, voice suddenly anchored, serious. “Are you sure about this?”

The question digs into places Taiga doesn’t want examined. Is he sure? Of course not. He’s walking blindly into a future that’s already shown him a tragic ending.

But suddenly he remembers Hokuto’s smile two weeks ago. Hokuto’s smile years into the future.

“I’m not sure about anything,” he admits. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

Yugo’s quiet for a moment. “Okay,” he says finally. “I’ll be there soon. Try not to set fire to your entire wardrobe before I arrive.”

The call ends. Taiga stares at the phone, then at Anzu—now planted dead center on the bed, right on top of the black henley he’d been contemplating.

“He’s gonna ask questions I can’t answer,” Taiga tells her.

Anzu blinks up at him, slow and utterly unbothered, like she’s never once been burdened by existential dread.

“And he’s gonna be suspicious when I don’t tell him about the visions.”

She stretches out, claiming even more territory on the shirt.

“And he’s definitely gonna think I’ve lost my mind.”

Anzu yawns, revealing tiny teeth and a pink tongue before settling her head on her paws, clearly finished with this conversation.

Taiga sighs and sits beside her, fingers drifting over the heap of discarded clothes like he’s trying to tame noise into order. “You’re right,” he says. "I probably have lost my mind.”

The doorbell cuts through the apartment with a harsh electronic buzz that makes him flinch. Too loud. Too sharp. Exactly on time—of course. Yugo’s punctuality always borders on smug.

Anzu springs from the bed, barking excitedly.

Taiga pushes himself up and steps over the fabric minefield he created, shoulders tight. “That was fast,” he says as he opens the door.

Yugo stands there looking infuriatingly prepared, like he’s arriving for a weekend trip rather than a rescue mission. A sleek carry-on at his side, a takeout bag in one hand, and a drink carrier in the other. Overkill, as usual.

“I was motivated.” Yugo brushes past him into the apartment, suitcase wheels clicking against the floor in neat rhythm. “And I brought provisions because I figured you probably haven’t eaten.”

Anzu swirls around Yugo’s ankles, nose working overtime at the smell of food.

Yugo sets everything on the counter before immediately kneeling to greet her, pulling out a bag of dog treats like he’s been rehearsing this. “Hello, beautiful. I didn’t forget you.” He scratches her behind the ears as she leans into him. “Unlike your human, I actually plan ahead.”

Taiga rolls his eyes. “You’ve been here thirty seconds and you’re already taking her side.”

“She’s more reasonable than you are.” Yugo stands, sweeping a look toward the bedroom where the black-on-black disaster is plainly visible. “Wow. You weren’t kidding about the wardrobe situation.”

“I told you.”

“It looks like a black hole exploded in there.” Yugo unzips the suitcase and flips it open, revealing clothes in colors Taiga hasn’t willingly worn in years. “Fortunately, I came prepared.”

Taiga approaches like the suitcase might bite. All that color looks loud. Aggressive. Hopeful. None of which fit him. “Why do you have a suitcase of clothes ready to go?”

“Because I’ve been on a shitton of dates with Jesse over the past two years, and I’ve accumulated options.” Yugo lifts a light blue button-up—crisp, bright, annoyingly optimistic. “Most of these should fit you. You’re only a little slimmer than me. And I’m sure Hokuto hasn’t seen any of them.”

Something in Taiga’s chest tightens the way it does when a piece of music goes off-tempo. Hokuto’s name hits too directly, too cleanly. His fingers find the dog tag resting against his sternum,.

“So,” Yugo continues, handing Taiga a bubble tea, “where is he taking you? That determines the outfit.”

The sweetness hits Taiga’s tongue before he can brace for it. He swallows, eyes sliding toward the floor. “We’re meeting at a café in Ebisu. Then we’re going to some picnic cinema thing at Ebisu Garden Place.”

“Outdoor movie in Ebisu?” Yugo’s eyebrows rise. “That’s actually pretty romantic.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

Automatic. Too quick. His pulse betrays him anyway, kicking up at the word romantic like someone hit a pedal too hard. It’s just a movie. Just a city night. Just Hokuto, choosing something thoughtful without trying to impress him.

“Right.” Yugo’s tone makes it clear he isn’t buying Taiga’s nonchalance. “And that’s why your bed looks like a black clothing graveyard.”

He moves past Taiga into the bedroom, stepping carefully over the discarded shirts like he’s navigating debris after a storm. Anzu follows, treat clenched delicately between her teeth, tail wagging as she hops back onto the desk chair.

“Your wardrobe is worse than I expected,” Yugo mutters, lifting a black shirt between two fingers as though it might contaminate him. “Do you own anything that isn’t funeral-appropriate?”

“I have a gray hoodie somewhere.”

“Revolutionary.” Yugo drops the shirt back onto the pile and returns to his suitcase, all efficiency and quiet judgment. “Okay, summer evening picnic cinema means we need something comfortable but nice. Not too casual, not too formal.”

He pulls out more pieces—navy cardigan, tan chinos, a white textured T-shirt, dark blue jeans that look foreign to Taiga’s eyes.

“First, let’s pick a base,” Yugo says, laying the clothes on the only clear space left on the bed. “This white shirt could work as a neutral that still looks intentional. Or this light blue button-up if you want to look like you actually made an effort.”

“I don’t wanna look like I’m trying too hard,” Taiga mutters, but his gaze sticks on the blue shirt. The color hits him like a memory of perfect lighting—clear sky, soft shadows, the kind of day everything looks honest.

Yugo catches the look and smirks. “You look great in blue. Just saying.”

“Fine.” Taiga takes the shirt, ignoring the way Yugo’s expression shifts into that unbearable I told you so softness. “But I’m not wearing those preppy chinos.”

“The jeans, then.” Yugo hands them over. “They’re a good cut for you. And take the cardigan too. It might get breezy at night, even in summer.”

Taiga accepts the clothes wordlessly, feeling like a child being dressed by his mother. The irritation prickles beneath his skin, but underneath it—buried deep—sits a flicker of relief he refuses to acknowledge.

“You know,” Yugo says, voice softening in that careful way he has, “you don’t have to overthink this. It’s just a date.”

Just a date.

Like anything in Taiga’s life has ever been just anything. As if he hasn’t already seen the ending. As if Hokuto isn’t already a ghost in one version of the future.

“I know that,” Taiga says, sharper than he means to.

“Do you?” Yugo asks, already tidying the piles of rejected shirts as if restoring order might restore Taiga too. “Because you look like you’re planning a military operation instead of a night out with someone who clearly likes you.”

Taiga sits on the bed, the unfamiliar clothes heavy in his hands. “I’m just not good at this.”

“At dating?”

“At... any of it.” Taiga gestures vaguely, a half-formed sweep that tries to encompass the room, the clothes, his entire life. “I don’t know how to do the normal things people do.”

Yugo pauses, studying him with that too-perceptive stillness that always makes Taiga want to look away. “This isn’t about clothes, is it?”

Taiga looks down at the blue shirt in his hands, rubbing the fabric slowly between his fingers. The softness surprises him. It feels comfortable. Real. Like something he could wear without feeling like an impostor.

“The fried rice is getting cold,” he finally says. “Let’s eat first. Then I’ll try these on.”

A clean deflection—too clean. Even he hears it.

But Yugo lets it slide, for now. “Sure. Food first. But this conversation isn’t over.”

Taiga stands and heads toward the kitchen, Anzu padding behind him. The takeout containers clutter the small table—fried rice, gyoza, the bubble teas sweating slightly against the wood. He drops into his seat, trying to convince his shoulders to unclench.

Anzu curls under the table near his feet, waiting for gravity or guilt to send something edible her way.

Yugo talks while they eat—something about Jesse’s latest vocal performance, the warm rise and fall of someone passionate about someone else. Taiga hears it the way he hears distant traffic: present but unfocused, a hum behind the louder thing in his head.

Tomorrow.

Outdoor movies.

Hokuto.

“You’re not listening to a word I’m saying,” Yugo says, putting down his chopsticks.

“I was,” Taiga lies, poking a piece of gyoza.

“Then what was the last thing I said?”

“Something about Jesse. And singing.”

Yugo sighs. “Specific.”

Taiga puts his chopsticks down too. The food sits heavy in his stomach, or maybe that’s just everything he keeps shoving into the dark corners of himself. The visions. The death. Futures that cling to him every time he lifts a camera.

“I need to tell you something,” he says, the words slipping out before he can throttle them. “And it’s gonna sound insane.”

Yugo’s expression shifts. “Okay.”

“I don’t wanna go on this date with Hokuto.”

“That’s not insane,” Yugo says carefully. “If you’re not interested—”

“No, that’s not it.” Taiga runs a hand through his hair, frustrated at his inability to articulate this properly. “I am interested. That’s the problem.”

Yugo leans back, settling into that patient stillness he uses when he knows Taiga is about to unravel. He doesn’t prod. He just waits.

“Remember when I came back from London?” Taiga asks.

“Kinda hard to forget.”

“Right.” Taiga fidgets with his dog tag. “Well, I was skipping class and I was at the campus shrine. I took a photo of the shrine and when I checked the camera display, I saw... something.”

“Something?”

Taiga exhales sharply. It feels like forcing air past a fist lodged in his throat. “The future,” he says finally. “I saw myself, fifteen years from now.”

Yugo doesn’t react the way most people would. No disbelief, no laugh. Just a small nod, like he’s flipping to a blank page. “Go on.”

The lack of judgment loosens something tight in Taiga’s chest, almost painfully. “I was in an apartment I didn’t recognize. Older. I had a wedding ring.” Saying it aloud makes his tongue feel too big, heavy. “And I got a call. From the police.”

The kitchen suddenly feels too small. The ceiling too low. Air too thin. Anzu senses it first, pressing her warm weight against his ankle like an anchor.

“They told me my husband had died in a train accident. Saving people.” Taiga forces himself to meet Yugo’s eyes, though every instinct screams to look away. “My husband, Matsumura Hokuto.”

Silence drops between them. Somewhere down the hall, a door shuts, muffled and distant, but Taiga barely registers it.

“There have been other visions since then,” he continues, because once he starts, stopping feels impossible. “Always through the camera. Always showing me pieces of a future with him. In one, he proposed to me. In another, I was seeing him off to his new job.”

“And you believe these are real?” Yugo asks, his voice neutral. “Not just dreams or—”

“Probably. The first one happened before I ever met him. Before I knew who ‘Matsumura Hokuto’ was. Then when I saw him at the izakaya that night, I recognized him instantly.”

Yugo nods slowly. “That’s why you ran out.”

“Yeah.”

Yugo picks up his bubble tea, takes a long sip. “Look, I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but have you considered that this might be... you know, psychological?”

“What do you mean?”

“I took this psychology elective last semester. We covered this phenomenon called ‘precognitive dreaming.’” Yugo leans forward, elbows on the table. “It’s when stress or major life changes trigger the brain to create vivid scenarios that feel predictive.”

“You think my brain is making this up?” Taiga’s voice edges toward defensive.

“I think you went through something traumatic in London,” Yugo says carefully. “And maybe your mind is processing that through these visions. The fear of failure, of not being special anymore—maybe it's manifesting as these intense future scenarios where you find connection but then lose it tragically.”

Taiga drags that theory across his mind, letting its shape scrape against the parts of him he won’t name. It fits too well. Or maybe he just wants it to. It makes more sense than a cursed camera and a doomed timeline.

“But how would I have known about Hokuto before meeting him?” he asks.

“You might have seen him around campus without consciously registering it. Or heard his name mentioned in passing.”

Taiga shakes his head. “There’s more. The visions only happen when I photograph objects and places, not people. I’ve taken dozens of photos of people—strangers, classmates, you, Jesse. Nothing happens. But at the shrine, at the piano—those triggered visions.”

Yugo considers this, fingers drumming lightly on the table. “That’s... specific.”

“I know how it sounds.”

“Actually,” Yugo says, “if you’re making up rules and patterns, that almost makes me more inclined to believe it’s psychological. Our brains love to create systems and logic.”

Taiga reaches for his phone. “There’s something else. After the first vision, I searched online to see if anyone had experienced anything similar.” He pulls up the browser, navigates to the old forum post. “I only found this.”

He slides the phone across the table. Yugo reads the post from savras2028, his expression shifting from curiosity to surprise.

“Savras,” he says, looking up. “That’s from Dungeons and Dragons.”

“What?”

“Savras is a deity of divination and fortune-telling in D&D. The god of seers and those who can perceive the future.” Yugo taps the username. “This person specifically chose a name connected to future-sight.”

Taiga stares at him. “How do you even know that?”

A slight flush creeps up Yugo’s neck. “I, uh, had a D&D phase last year. One of Jesse’s friends got me into it.”

“You played Dungeons and Dragons.” Taiga can’t quite keep the disbelief from his voice. “You, Kochi Yugo, conservatory composer and responsible adult.”

“It’s a creative outlet,” Yugo says defensively. “The worldbuilding is actually quite sophisticated, and the character development—”

“I don’t need the sales pitch.” Taiga cuts him off, but without malice. In fact, a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Just... surprising.”

“Anyway,” Yugo says, returning to the phone, “the point is, this username is deliberately referencing divination. They might have chosen it because they experienced something similar to what you’re describing.”

Hope flickers in Taiga’s chest. “I messaged them, but they never responded.”

“When was this posted?” Yugo scrolls up. “Over two years ago. The account might be abandoned.”

“So it’s a dead end.”

“Not necessarily.” Yugo hands the phone back. “I still have contacts in some of the D&D forums. I can poke around, see if anyone recognizes the username from other platforms. People often use the same handle across multiple sites.”

Taiga looks at him, really looks at him, for the first time all evening. Yugo sits there offering to help without judgment, without demanding proof or questioning Taiga’s sanity. Just accepting and problem-solving, as he’s always done.

“Thank you,” Taiga says quietly. The words feel rusty, underused. “I haven’t... appreciated you enough. Since London.”

Yugo freezes, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. His surprise is evident, but he recovers quickly, resuming his movement as if Taiga hasn’t just broken character. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not.” Taiga fiddles with his dog tag. “You stuck around even when I was being a complete asshole.”

“That’s what friends do.” Yugo shrugs, but Taiga doesn’t miss the pleased undertone in his voice.

“Yeah, well. Not all friends would.”

A weighted silence settles between them. Taiga isn’t used to expressing gratitude. Yugo isn’t used to receiving it from him.

“So,” Yugo says finally, gathering empty containers, “about the date outfit we were discussing before this detour into the metaphysical...”

Taiga recognizes the shift, the deliberate move away from making his thanks into a bigger moment than he can handle. He’s grateful for that too.

“Right,” he says, standing to help clear the table. “The blue shirt.”

“With the dark jeans,” Yugo adds. “You’ll need shoes, too. Not those beat-up Converse you’ve had since high school.”

“They’re comfortable.”

“They’re held together with willpower and delusion. Honestly, you’re a Kyomoto, but you don’t dress like one.” Yugo moves toward the bedroom. “Let me see what footwear disasters you have lurking in your closet.”

Taiga follows, Anzu trotting at his heels. The weight on his chest has lightened somewhat. Yugo might not fully believe his visions are real, but he believes that Taiga believes.

And right now, that’s enough.

🎹

The train pulls into Ebisu Station with a mechanical sigh. Taiga steps onto the platform at precisely 3:00 PM, checking his watch against the station clock.

Perfect timing. If only everything else in his life could synchronize so effortlessly.

He tugs at the sleeve of his cardigan—navy blue over the lighter blue button-up that Yugo insisted on. The dark jeans feel stiff, barely broken in, unlike his usual worn pairs. The new sneakers pinch slightly at the heels. Everything about this outfit feels like a costume, like he’s playing the role of someone who gives a damn.

His phone vibrates in his pocket. A text from Hokuto.

Just arrived at Binya. Take your time. No rush.

No rush. As if Taiga’s heart isn't already hammering against his ribs like a poorly executed staccato.

People stream past him, the rhythm of their footfalls creating an irregular tempo against the platform. Taiga moves against the current, camera bag knocking against his hip. He shouldn’t have brought it. The weight of it pulls asymmetrically at his shoulder, throws off his balance.

But leaving it behind felt impossible.

What would Yugo say? Probably something obnoxiously optimistic about the power of choice, about futures unwritten. As if tragedy can be sidestepped through sheer force of will.

The camera wasn’t part of the careful outfit planning. But Taiga took it anyway, tucking it into his bag before leaving the apartment while Anzu watched with her head tilted in that way that somehow conveyed judgment.

Outside the station, afternoon light cuts between buildings, harsh and unfiltered. Taiga squints against it, wishing for clouds, for diffused light, for anything less exposing. He orients himself toward Binya Coffee—four minutes away according to his phone.

Four minutes to collect himself. To remember why he’s doing this at all.

Because of a sprained ankle? Because of guilt? Because a part of him—a part he refuses to examine too closely—wants to see if there’s something to these visions beyond tragedy?

He adjusts the strap of his camera bag as he navigates the sidewalk. The route to Binya takes him down a side street where the city seems to exhale, the frenetic energy of the main thoroughfare fading to something quieter. It’s almost like a diminuendo in physical form—the bustle transitioning to calm in measured steps.

Binya Coffee appears around the corner, its white stone exterior catching the afternoon sun. The clay-tiled awning casts a warm shadow over the entrance. Two older women exit through the glass doors, releasing the scent of coffee into the air.

Through the frosted glass panes, he catches glimpses of the interior—dark wood, warm lighting, the gentle clink of porcelain.

And Hokuto.

He stops cold.

Hokuto sits at a corner table, his profile illuminated by the soft amber lighting. He’s wearing a cream linen button-up, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, collarbones visible against the open collar. His hair falls just so across his forehead, longer than Taiga remembers it from the last time they studied together. A thin silver chain glints around his neck—something Taiga’s never seen him wear before.

The effect is devastating.

Taiga’s breath catches. He's seen Hokuto in practice rooms, in lecture halls. But here, framed by the warm glow of vintage lamps, surrounded by dark wood and porcelain—Hokuto looks like he belongs in a different world entirely. A world of careful composition and deliberate beauty.

Isn’t that exactly what he is, though? Perfect composure hiding the haunting melodies beneath.

Taiga lingers outside, fingertips pressed against the cool glass of the door. It would be so easy to walk away. To text some excuse. To avoid this entire mess of feelings and visions and futures that end in empty apartments and phone calls about train accidents.

Hokuto turns his head. Their eyes meet through the glass.

Something flickers across Hokuto’s face. His eyes widen slightly, lips parting in what might be surprise. He looks...fascinated. As though Taiga himself is something worth looking at. Worth seeing.

Ridiculous. Hokuto's just being polite. That’s his default setting, isn't it?

But then Hokuto smiles. He lifts his hand in a shy wave, fingers curling slightly as if he’s unsure of the gesture.

Taiga’s chest tightens. No turning back now.

He pushes the door open.

The café envelops him in warmth, the scent of coffee rich and complex. The wooden floorboards creak softly beneath his feet as he crosses toward Hokuto’s table. Each step feels like he’s walking through water.

Hokuto stands as Taiga approaches. His ankle shows no sign of the injury from the camping trip. The medical tape is gone. One less thing for Taiga to feel guilty about, at least.

“You came,” Hokuto says, voice quiet in the hushed atmosphere of the café.

Taiga stops at the table. “I said I would.”

They stand facing each other, separated by the small wooden table with its polished surface and carefully arranged cups. Silence stretches between them, not entirely uncomfortable but charged with something neither speaks aloud.

The moment extends, beats collecting into measures.

“You look...” Hokuto starts, then falters. His eyes travel from Taiga’s face to the blue shirt, the careful layering that Yugo insisted on. “Different. Good different.”

Taiga feels heat creep up his neck. “Yugo helped,” he admits, the words coming out more clipped than he intended. “You too. Different, I mean.” He gestures vaguely at Hokuto’s outfit. “It suits you.”

“Thanks.” Hokuto touches the collar of his shirt, a small self-conscious gesture that Taiga can't help cataloging.

A date. This is actually happening.

Taiga slides into the chair across from Hokuto, setting his camera bag carefully beside him. The chair is sturdy but comfortable, the wood smooth from countless others who’ve sat here before him.

“Your ankle’s better,” he says, gesturing toward Hokuto’s leg. Not the most romantic observation, but small talk has never been his strong suit.

Hokuto nods, settling back into his own chair. “The doctor said it was just a mild sprain. Two weeks of rest was enough.” He pauses, then adds, “Thank you for the tea and the mochi, by the way. And for coming to check on me. It meant a lot.”

There it is again—that earnest gratitude that makes Taiga want to squirm. As if bringing tea and mochi was some grand gesture instead of the bare minimum.

“It was nothing,” he says, eyes fixed on the grain of the wooden table. “Yugo would have killed me if I’d let you suffer after Anzu got you into that mess.”

“Still.” Hokuto leans forward slightly. “You didn’t have to—”

“Have you ordered?” Taiga cuts him off, reaching for the menu card propped between them. He can’t handle Hokuto's gratitude. Not when every kindness feels weighted by what he knows—or thinks he knows—about their future.

Hokuto accepts the change of subject gracefully. “Not yet.”

Taiga glances around the café, taking in the gallery of porcelain cups lining the walls, the soft clink of spoons against saucers. The place has a timeless quality, existing outside the rush of Tokyo. Hokuto fits here perfectly, his quiet elegance harmonizing with the surroundings.

“Their coffee is good,” Hokuto offers. “And they dessert sets that—” He stops, looking almost shy. “Sorry. I’ve been here a few times before.”

“With who?” The question escapes before Taiga can stop it, sharp-edged with something that might be jealousy.

Hokuto blinks, surprised. “Alone. It’s a good place to think.”

Of course. Hokuto wouldn’t bring just anyone here. This place clearly means something to him. The fact that he’s sharing it with Taiga now feels significant, though Taiga isn’t sure why.

Taiga studies the menu, the neat typography and minimalist design somehow fitting with the café’s quiet aesthetic. A server approaches—young woman, maybe college age, with a pressed apron and careful movements.

“I’ll have the pudding and the special blend,” he says, not looking up from the menu.

“Hot chocolate and tokoroten for me, please,” Hokuto adds, his voice smooth and measured. Always so polite.

The server nods and retreats, leaving them in another pocket of silence.

The absence of conversation settles between them like dust. Taiga resists the urge to fidget with his napkin, to tap rhythms against the table’s edge, to do anything that might betray his discomfort.

What now? This is why he hates first dates—the awkward pauses, the careful dance of conversation, the constant awareness of being observed and judged.

He glances up from the table to find Hokuto studying the wall of porcelain cups, fingers absently tracing the edge of his water glass. There’s a slight tension around his eyes, a barely perceptible tightness in his shoulders.

Hokuto’s nervous too.

Despite his composed exterior, Hokuto feels the same uncomfortable pressure, the same uncertainty. It shouldn’t be a revelation—Hokuto is human, after all—but somehow, it shifts the air between them. Makes it easier to breathe.

“So,” Taiga starts, the word hanging in the air for a moment before he continues. “The movie tonight. At Ebisu Garden. What’s it called again?”

Hokuto looks grateful for the lifeline. “Boyhood,” he says, his posture relaxing slightly. “It premiered at the Berlin International Film Festival last year.”

“Berlin?” Taiga raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize you followed film festivals.”

“I don’t, really.” Hokuto’s smile is self-deprecating. “But this one caught my attention. The director filmed it over twelve years with the same actors. A boy from six to eighteen. It’s... ambitious.”

“Twelve years for one film?” Taiga can’t hide his surprise. “Sounds like a logistical nightmare.”

“That’s what makes it interesting, though. Instead of hiring different actors or using makeup to age them, we get to see them grow up for real. Time captured authentically.” Hokuto’s eyes brighten as he speaks, his hands making small, subtle gestures. “There’s something honest about that approach.”

Taiga nods, caught off guard by Hokuto’s enthusiasm. “Committing to something for twelve years takes serious persistence.” He thinks of his own piano career, of London, of how quickly he surrendered when things got difficult. “Or stubbornness.”

“Both, maybe.” Hokuto’s gaze is too perceptive, as if he can follow the path of Taiga’s thoughts. “But I think there’s beauty in that kind of devotion too. Seeing something through, even when it's hard.”

The server returns with their drinks—the special blend for Taiga in a deep blue cup with gold accents, Hokuto’s hot chocolate in a simpler white porcelain. The interruption gives Taiga a moment to collect himself, to pull back from the edge of a conversation that feels suddenly too personal.

“Is it any good?” he asks, redirecting to safer territory as he stirs his coffee. “The film, I mean.”

“I haven’t seen it yet,” Hokuto admits. “But the reviews are incredible. It’s supposed to be this... ordinary story, but told in an extraordinary way.” He wraps his hands around his mug, the steam rising between them. “That’s what intrigued me. Finding something meaningful in everyday moments.”

Of course that would appeal to Hokuto. He’s the type to find beauty in mundane things, to appreciate what most people overlook. The opposite of Taiga, who’s never been satisfied with “ordinary” anything.

The pudding and tokoroten arrive. Taiga’s pudding gleams rich and golden, while Hokuto’s tokoroten sits translucent and delicate in its dish.

Taiga takes a bite, the sweetness washing over his tongue. It’s good—simple but well-executed, like a clean musical phrase without unnecessary embellishment.

“Random question, but how did you and Yugo become friends?” Hokuto asks, breaking the silence. “He talks about you like you’ve known each other forever.”

Taiga sets down his spoon, considering the question. His fingers tap once, twice against the wooden table. He hasn’t thought about the beginning of their friendship in years.

“We were eight,” he says finally. “My parents enrolled me in this ridiculously expensive youth orchestra program. Mostly kids from wealthy families trying to prove their offspring were exceptional.” He clicks his tongue softly. “Yugo was there for piano then.”

Hokuto listens, his focus unwavering. It’s slightly unnerving—the way he gives his full attention, as if Taiga’s childhood memories are somehow worthy of such concentration.

“The first day, everyone was whispering about me. ‘That’s the Kyomoto kid,’ ‘Did you hear him play Chopin?’ The usual prodigy bullshit.” Taiga swirls his coffee, watching the ripples form perfect concentric circles. “They either wanted to befriend me for status or they resented me for the attention.”

“And Yugo was different?” Hokuto prompts softly.

“He sat next to me at lunch and asked if I liked baseball.” Taiga can’t help the slight quirk of his lips at the memory. “Not a single question about piano or competitions or my parents. Just... baseball. When I said I’d never played, he looked horrified. Like I’d admitted to some personal tragedy.”

The pudding sits half-eaten on his plate. Taiga pushes it slightly to the side.

“By the weekend, he was dragging me to the park to teach me how to throw. Said it was ‘criminal’ that my parents only let me practice piano.” Taiga shakes his head. “He’s the only one who saw me as just... a kid. Not some musical investment.”

“That sounds like Yugo,” Hokuto says, smiling into his hot chocolate. “He has a way of cutting through pretense.”

“He does,” Taiga agrees, surprised at how easily the words come. “He’s stuck around even when I’ve been at my worst. After London, when I quit piano, he never once tried to force me back to it. Just waited. Brought me food. Talked about stupid things.” He stops, realizing he’s said more than he intended. “Anyway, he’s irritatingly loyal.”

Hokuto sets his cup down carefully. “He mentioned once that you were part of why he chose composition as his major here.”

“What?” Taiga’s brows draw together. “That’s ridiculous.”

“He said watching you play as a kid made him want to write music that would challenge someone as talented as you,” Hokuto continues. “That you pushed him to be better without even trying.”

Heat crawls up Taiga’s neck. The statement feels like too much. “Well, he wasted his inspiration, then. I’m not a prodigy anymore.”

“I don’t think that’s how inspiration works,” Hokuto says gently. “It doesn’t expire just because circumstances change.”

Taiga shifts in his seat, uncertain how to respond. “What about you?” he asks, desperate to redirect the conversation. “You talk about your siblings, but I don’t know anything about your friends outside the conservatory.”

“I’m closer to my siblings than anyone,” Hokuto admits, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. “Yuina and Masaya rely on me, especially now with my parents’ divorce. But...” He hesitates. “I do have a best friend back in Shizuoka. Tera. We’ve known each other since elementary school.”

“Tera,” Taiga repeats, filing the name away. A hollow feeling forms in his chest at the thought of someone who’s known Hokuto for years. Who shared his childhood. “What’s he like?”

“Impulsive. The opposite of me,” Hokuto says, a fondness in his tone that makes the hollow in Taiga’s chest expand. “He’s studying engineering in Shizuoka now, but we still talk almost every week.”

Taiga nods, trying to picture this unknown figure in Hokuto’s life. Someone who knows all his habits, his childhood embarrassments, his secrets. Someone Taiga has never even heard mentioned until now.

“Anyone else?” The question comes out sharper than intended. “Other... close friends? People you’ve dated?”

Hokuto’s eyes widen slightly, then drop to his tokoroten, which he hasn’t touched. “I’ve never actually dated anyone before.”

Taiga stares, processing. “Never? Not even in high school?”

Hokuto shakes his head, a faint flush coloring his cheekbones. “I was focused on taking care of my siblings, on music, on getting into TGC. And...” He pauses, seeming to choose his words carefully. “I didn’t really understand my own feelings until I was seventeen.”

“Your feelings?”

“That I liked boys,” Hokuto clarifies, meeting Taiga’s gaze with a quiet steadiness that belies the personal nature of his admission. “I think I always knew, but I didn’t have the words for it until I saw a senior in the music club playing Bach’s Chaconne. Something about the way he handled the violin, the intensity of his focus...” He trails off. “It was the first time I couldn’t pretend my interest was just admiration.”

Taiga absorbs this—Hokuto at seventeen, watching a violinist, having his own private revelation. It’s oddly intimate knowledge, this glimpse into the moment Hokuto recognized something essential about himself.

“So I’m your first date,” Taiga states, the realization landing with unexpected weight. “Ever.”

Hokuto nods, his expression caught between vulnerability and determination. “Is that a problem?”

Yes, Taiga wants to say. It’s a huge problem. Hokuto should be dating someone who isn’t broken. Someone who doesn’t see visions of his death. Someone who could love him without the constant shadow of doom hanging over everything.

But the words that come out are: “No. It’s not a problem.”

Hokuto’s shoulders relax marginally, that reserved smile returning. “Good.”

Taiga looks down at his coffee, now cooling in its porcelain cup. The rich brown has faded to something murkier, less vibrant. Like his resolve to keep Hokuto at a distance.

One date. That’s all he promised. One evening where he lets himself imagine a future without tragedy. Where he pretends not to know what’s coming.

His fingers find his camera bag beside the chair, the familiar weight of it like an anchor. Inside is the tool that showed him those visions—the call about Hokuto saving strangers, Hokuto dying, Hokuto lost to him forever.

But also Hokuto proposing, Hokuto giving up his career at the orchestra for him, Hokuto loving him.

“What about you?” Hokuto asks, pulling Taiga back to the present. “Have you...dated much?”

Taiga meets his eyes across the table. In this light, Hokuto’s irises look almost amber, warm and clear and painfully earnest.

“No one that mattered,” he answers honestly.

No one that made him feel like this—terrified and hopeful in equal measure, as if standing on the precipice of something vast.

“No one like you.”

🪈

The afternoon light filters through the glass canopy of Ebisu Garden Place, casting geometric shadows across the plaza’s polished stone. Hokuto walks beside Taiga, still processing the words that hang between them.

No one like you.

He steals a glance at Taiga, who carries his camera bag with careful attention. The bag never seems to leave his side, Hokuto has noticed. It’s become part of Taiga’s silhouette, as essential as his perpetually serious expression or the way his fingers tap silent rhythms against his thigh when he’s thinking.

“We have a few hours before the screening,” Hokuto says, his voice softer than usual. The confession at Binya still echoes in his chest, and he’s afraid of saying something that might shatter whatever fragile thing exists between them now.

Taiga nods, checking his phone. “4:30. The film doesn’t start until seven.”

They walk in comfortable silence past the fountain, where children chase bubbles blown by a street performer. The sound of their laughter mingles with the distant hum of traffic from the main street. Hokuto finds himself watching Taiga’s profile, the way late afternoon light catches the sharp line of his jaw, softening the edges that usually seem so carefully guarded.

“There,” Taiga says suddenly, pointing ahead. “The Tokyo Metropolitan Museum of Photography. It’s open until nine.”

Hokuto follows his gaze to the sleek building with its clean lines and understated elegance. A small sign announces the current exhibition.

Something flickers across Taiga’s face.

“You want to go in?” Hokuto asks.

Taiga hesitates, his hand instinctively adjusting the strap of his camera bag. “Only if you’re interested.”

“I’d like to see what you see,” Hokuto says, the words coming out more earnest than intended. “Through your eyes, I mean. What draws you to it.”

The flush that spreads across Taiga’s cheeks is so faint Hokuto almost misses it. Almost.

“Okay,” Taiga says. “Let’s go.”

The museum lobby is hushed and spacious, all white walls and polished floors that reflect the soft lighting. Hokuto pays their admission while Taiga studies a wall map of the current exhibitions. The woman at the desk smiles and hands them small printed guides, her voice barely above a whisper as she explains the gallery layout.

“The main exhibition is on the second floor,” she says. “Contemporary work from emerging artists. There’s also a smaller collection on the third floor featuring established photographers.”

They take the elevator up. Hokuto watches the numbers climb—one, two—and wonders if this is what Taiga feels like before performing. This mixture of excitement and vulnerability, the knowledge that something meaningful is about to be shared.

The second floor opens into a series of connected rooms, each wall lined with carefully curated photographs. The lighting is precise, each image illuminated to reveal its full depth and detail. Taiga moves immediately toward the first display, and Hokuto follows, noting how his posture changes—more focused, more alive.

The first series shows Tokyo at dawn, captured from various rooftops and bridges. Empty streets stretch between towering buildings, the city caught in that liminal moment between night and day. Hokuto studies one image—a narrow alleyway where morning light cuts through shadows, transforming mundane concrete into something almost ethereal.

“Look at the composition,” Taiga says softly, stepping closer to the photograph. “See how the photographer used the building’s edge to frame the light? It creates depth, draws your eye from the foreground shadow into the brightness beyond.”

Hokuto nods, trying to see what Taiga sees. The technical aspects are foreign to him, but he recognizes the emotion in the image—that quiet beauty found in overlooked moments.

“It’s like finding melody in silence,” Hokuto offers, surprising himself with the comparison.

Taiga turns to look at him, something shifting in his expression. “Yeah. Exactly like that.”

They move through the exhibition slowly, Taiga occasionally pointing out elements that catch his attention—the way shadow and light create texture, how a photographer's choice of angle can completely transform a subject’s meaning. Hokuto finds himself less interested in the technical details than in watching Taiga’s face as he explains them. The careful walls he usually maintains seem to thin here, replaced by genuine enthusiasm.

“This one,” Taiga stops before a black-and-white portrait of an elderly man sitting alone in a subway car. The composition is simple, but something in the man's expression—a mixture of weariness and quiet dignity—makes Hokuto pause. “The photographer waited for the right moment. Not just the lighting or the angle, but the emotion. You can see the man’s entire story in his eyes.”

Hokuto studies the image more carefully. The man’s hands rest on a worn briefcase, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the camera’s reach. There’s something timeless about the moment, as if it could have been captured yesterday or decades ago.

“How do you know when you’ve found the right moment?” Hokuto asks.

Taiga is quiet for a long moment, his fingers absently adjusting his camera bag’s strap. “Sometimes you don’t know until later. You think you’re photographing one thing, but when you develop the image, you discover you’ve captured something else entirely. Something you didn’t expect.”

The weight in his voice suggests he’s speaking from experience. Hokuto wonders what unexpected things Taiga has discovered in his own photographs, what moments have revealed more than he bargained for.

They continue through the exhibition, past images of urban landscapes and intimate portraits, scenes of daily life elevated into art through careful observation and timing. Hokuto notices how Taiga seems to breathe differently here, his usual tension replaced by something that looks almost like peace.

“Thank you,” Hokuto says as they approach the final wall of the exhibition. “For sharing this with me.”

Taiga glances at him, then back at the photographs. “It’s just pictures.”

“No,” Hokuto says gently. “It’s not.”

The sun hangs low over Ebisu Garden Place when they step out of the museum, casting everything in warm amber light. The earlier geometric shadows have softened into long, gentle stretches across the plaza, and the air carries that particular golden quality that only exists in the hour before sunset.

Hokuto feels lighter somehow, as if something has shifted during their time inside. Watching Taiga move through the exhibition had been like listening to him speak a language Hokuto was only beginning to understand. The way Taiga’s voice had changed when explaining composition and timing, how his shoulders had relaxed as he pointed out details in the photographs.

For the first time since meeting him, Taiga had seemed truly at ease.

“The light’s perfect right now,” Taiga murmurs, pulling his camera from the bag with practiced efficiency. He raises it to his eye, scanning the plaza through the viewfinder. “Golden hour. Photographers call it that because everything looks like it’s been dipped in honey.”

Hokuto watches as Taiga adjusts his position slightly, angling toward where the fountain catches the dying sunlight. The water arcs up in crystalline streams, each droplet suspended momentarily in the amber glow before falling back into the basin. Children still play nearby, their laughter mixing with the gentle splash of water and the distant hum of evening traffic beginning to build.

The camera clicks once, sharp and decisive in the gentle evening air.

Then Taiga goes very still.

He doesn’t lower the camera immediately. Usually Taiga’s shots are quick, instinctive. But now he remains frozen, the camera pressed to his eye, his breathing shallow and controlled.

Hokuto counts the seconds. Five. Ten. Fifteen. Taiga’s knuckles have gone white where he grips the camera body.

“Everything okay?” Hokuto asks softly, not wanting to startle him.

Taiga doesn’t respond immediately. His mouth has gone tight, and there’s something in his posture—a tension that Hokuto recognizes but can’t quite place. It reminds him of the way Taiga looked that night at the izakaya when he fled. Like he’s seeing something that troubles him deeply.

Finally, slowly, Taiga lowers the camera. His face is carefully blank, but Hokuto catches the way his hands shake slightly as he checks the image on the LCD screen. The light from the small display illuminates his features, casting sharp shadows under his eyes.

“It’s fine,” Taiga says, but his voice carries a strange quality—distant, almost hollow. “The exposure’s perfect. Sometimes you get lucky with the timing.”

He stares at the camera’s screen for another long moment, longer than necessary to check technical settings. Hokuto finds himself studying Taiga’s expression, trying to read the subtle shifts in his features. There’s something guarded there now, the easy openness from the museum already beginning to close off.

“The light really is extraordinary,” Hokuto ventures, following Taiga’s gaze toward the fountain. The golden hour is beginning its slow fade toward dusk, the honey-colored warmth gradually deepening toward orange. “If only the light could stay.”

Taiga’s head turns toward him sharply, as if the words have struck something unexpected. For a moment, his carefully maintained composure slips, and Hokuto catches a glimpse of something raw underneath—longing, maybe, or a grief so deep it takes his breath away.

“If only,” Taiga repeats quietly, his voice barely audible over the fountain’s splash.

🪈

The outdoor cinema area spreads before them like a theater under the stars. String lights drape between tall poles, casting warm pools of light across the grass where couples and families settle onto provided mats. The summer evening air carries the scent of food stalls and distant traffic, but here in this cordoned space, Tokyo feels softened around the edges.

Hokuto approaches the registration desk with their confirmation number. The staff member hands them a rolled picnic mat and two wicker baskets that smell faintly of bamboo and carefully packed food.

“Your bento boxes are inside, along with drinks,” she explains, pointing toward the designated seating area. “The screening begins at seven, but feel free to enjoy dinner beforehand. The best spots fill up quickly.”

Hokuto thanks her politely before turning back to Taiga, who hovers nearby with his camera bag slung across his shoulder. The blue of his shirt catches the early evening light, making his skin look less pale than usual. He seems uncomfortable.

“Where do you want to sit?” Hokuto asks, gesturing toward the scattered groups already claiming spaces on the lawn.

Taiga scans the area with focused attention. His eyes settle on a spot near the edge of the seating area, close enough to see the screen clearly but far enough from other couples to maintain some privacy.

“There,” he says, nodding toward the location.

They make their way across the grass, Hokuto carrying both baskets while Taiga handles the mat. The evening light casts long shadows between the trees that border the space, and Hokuto finds himself hyperaware of every detail—the way Taiga adjusts his camera bag to avoid bumping into other picnickers, the precise manner in which he unfurls the mat, ensuring it lies perfectly flat.

“Is this okay?” Hokuto asks, setting the baskets down on one corner of the mat.

Taiga nods, settling cross-legged on the soft fabric. “It’s perfect.”

Hokuto lowers himself onto the mat, leaving careful space between them—close enough to share the baskets, distant enough that Taiga won’t feel crowded.

The first basket reveals beautifully arranged bento boxes—grilled salmon, pickled vegetables, seasoned rice formed into neat compartments. The second contains bottles of beer nestled in ice, condensation already forming on the glass.

“They really thought of everything,” Taiga murmurs, examining the contents. He pulls out one of the beer bottles, the label printed with the cinema event’s logo. “Even branded drinks.”

Hokuto opens his own bottle, the soft hiss of carbonation mixing with the ambient sounds of other picnickers settling in around them. “I wasn’t sure what you’d prefer to eat,” he admits. “The salmon seemed safe.”

“It’s good,” Taiga says after taking a bite. He’s removed his navy cardigan, the lighter blue of his shirt making him look younger somehow. Less guarded. “Thank you for... organizing all this.”

They eat in companionable silence for a while, the sky gradually deepening from amber to dusky blue above them. Other couples murmur quietly on their own mats, creating a gentle backdrop of conversation and laughter. Children chase each other between the seated groups, their voices bright and carefree.

The opening credits of Boyhood flicker across the large outdoor screen, and the ambient chatter of the crowd gradually settles into expectant quiet. The film begins with young Mason lying in grass, staring up at clouds, and Hokuto feels himself drawn immediately into the unhurried pace of the storytelling.

He’s always appreciated films that take their time, that trust the audience to find meaning in ordinary moments. There’s something about the way the camera lingers on the boy’s face that reminds him of his own childhood observations—the way light moved across his bedroom ceiling in Shizuoka, or how rain sounded different against various surfaces.

Beside him, Taiga sits with perfect posture, his attention completely absorbed by the screen. The flickering light from the projection plays across his profile, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the way his dark hair falls slightly into his eyes.

Hokuto finds himself stealing glances, studying the way Taiga’s expression shifts subtly with each scene.

When Mason’s parents argue in the background while the children watch from another room, Taiga’s mouth tightens almost imperceptibly. Hokuto recognizes the tension there. Something that resonates.

The film moves forward through Mason’s elementary years, showing the quiet accumulation of experiences that shape a life. Hokuto thinks of his own siblings, of Yuina and Masaya watching him navigate their parents’ emotional distance. The weight of being the responsible one, the one who holds things together when adults can’t quite manage it themselves.

On screen, Mason’s mother struggles with her own identity while trying to provide stability for her children. The scene shifts to a classroom where young Mason daydreams while a teacher discusses the fundamentals of reading comprehension.

“He looks bored,” Taiga murmurs quietly, so only Hokuto can hear.

“Or maybe he’s thinking about something else entirely,” Hokuto whispers back. “Sometimes what looks like inattention is actually deep attention to something the adults can’t see.”

Taiga glances at him briefly, something flickering in his expression before he turns back to the screen. “You think?”

“I know,” Hokuto says softly. “I was that kid.”

They settle back into silence as the film progresses through Mason’s middle school years. The boy begins to show interest in photography, carrying a camera everywhere, documenting the world around him with the particular intensity of adolescence.

Hokuto feels Taiga shift beside him, leaning forward slightly as if the scenes have captured his attention in a new way.

The camera work becomes part of the story itself—not just showing Mason’s life, but showing how Mason sees his life. Through car windows, in bathroom mirrors, reflected in puddles and storefront glass. The ordinary world transformed by a young artist’s perspective.

Hokuto’s hand rests on the mat between them, fingers relaxed against the soft fabric. He’s aware of Taiga's presence in his peripheral vision, the careful space they’ve maintained throughout dinner now feeling both comfortable and charged with possibility. The evening air has cooled enough that he can feel the warmth radiating from Taiga’s body despite the distance.

On screen, teenage Mason navigates his first serious relationship, the awkward tenderness of young love portrayed with honesty. The conversations between Mason and his girlfriend feel genuine in their uncertainty, their mixture of philosophical exploration and teenage bravado.

Hokuto finds his attention drifting between the film and his awareness of Taiga beside him. The way Taiga’s breathing has deepened as he becomes more absorbed in the story. The way his left hand now rests closer to Hokuto’s on the mat, close enough that Hokuto can see the elegant length of his fingers, the careful way he keeps his nails trimmed short.

Almost without conscious thought, Hokuto shifts his hand slightly closer. Not enough to invade Taiga’s space, but enough to close some of the careful distance they’ve maintained. He keeps his eyes on the screen, not wanting to make Taiga self-conscious, but he’s hyperaware of the small movement.

To his surprise and quiet delight, he feels Taiga’s hand move in response. Not away, but closer. Their fingertips almost touch now, separated by barely an inch of mat and evening air.

On screen, Mason’s mother breaks down as she prepares to send him off to college, overwhelmed by how quickly the years have passed. The scene is quietly devastating in its recognition of time’s relentless forward motion, the way pivotal moments often feel both monumental and surprisingly ordinary.

Hokuto feels his heart rate increase as Taiga’s pinky finger brushes against his own. The touch is so light it might be accidental, but then Taiga’s hand shifts again, more deliberately, until their fingers are properly aligned.

Hokuto moves his hand that final small distance, and suddenly they’re holding hands on the mat between them. Taiga’s palm is warm and slightly rough, and his grip is firm but not demanding.

Neither of them looks away from the screen, but Hokuto feels the significance of the moment settle between them like a gentle weight.

The film continues its unhurried progression toward Mason’s departure for college, but Hokuto finds his attention split between the film’s careful storytelling and the quiet marvel of Taiga’s hand in his own.

🪈

The credits begin to roll as the last strains of Boyhood’s score fade into the evening air. Around them, couples and families start to stir, gathering their belongings with the subdued movements of people emerging from a shared dream.

Hokuto feels Taiga’s hand slip away from his as applause ripples across the outdoor cinema, but the warmth lingers on his palm like a promise.

“That was...” Taiga begins, then stops, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic uncertainty.

“Yeah,” Hokuto agrees, though he’s not sure either of them knows how to finish the sentence. The film has left him feeling raw in a way he wasn’t expecting—all those ordinary moments accumulating into something profound, the way twelve years of filming compressed into two hours can make you acutely aware of time's passage.

They pack up in comfortable silence, folding the picnic mat and returning the empty baskets to the registration desk. The young woman who checked them in earlier smiles and thanks them, her voice bright against the quieter conversations of other departing moviegoers. The string lights overhead cast warm pools of illumination as they walk back toward the main plaza, but the magic of the outdoor cinema is already beginning to fade into memory.

“We should probably head back,” Taiga says as they reach the fountain, checking his phone. “It’s almost 9:30, and we have that 7 am class tomorrow.”

There’s a careful distance in his tone that wasn't there during the film. As if holding hands under the stars was something that belonged only to that specific moment, not to be acknowledged or extended beyond the credits rolling.

Hokuto nods, though disappointment settles in his chest. “Of course. Early morning.”

They start walking toward the station, but Hokuto finds himself slowing his pace, unwilling to let the evening end just yet. The night air has cooled to something perfect, gentle and breathable. The plaza stretches around them, bathed in amber light from the surrounding buildings, and most of the families with young children have already departed, leaving the space feeling more intimate.

“Actually,” Hokuto says, stopping near a bench that overlooks a small garden area, “would you mind walking around for a few minutes? The park’s really beautiful at night, and I don’t get to come here often.”

It’s partially true. He doesn’t visit Ebisu Garden Place regularly. But mostly he’s not ready to return to the cramped apartment with Jesse and Shintaro’s boundless energy. Not ready to lose this quiet space that exists between just him and Taiga.

Taiga hesitates, glancing at his phone again. “We really shouldn’t be late tomorrow. Moriya-sensei notices when people arrive after him.”

“Just a few minutes,” Hokuto presses gently. “We’re not catching the last train. There’s still plenty of time to get some rest.”

Something shifts in Taiga’s expression—a softening around his eyes that suggests he’s equally reluctant to break whatever spell the evening has cast. “Okay,” he says finally. “A short walk.”

They veer away from the direct path to the station, following a curved walkway that winds through a section of the garden Hokuto hadn’t noticed earlier. Carefully maintained shrubs line the path, their leaves rustling softly in the light breeze, and small spotlights hidden among the plantings create dramatic shadows that transform the familiar daytime landscape into something more mysterious.

“It’s quieter than I expected,” Taiga observes, adjusting his camera bag strap. He seems more relaxed now that they’ve agreed on this detour, though Hokuto notices he still keeps his phone visible in his hand, as if anchoring himself to the practical concerns of tomorrow’s schedule.

“Probably because most of the events are winding down,” Hokuto replies. In the distance, they can hear the faint sounds of staff cleaning up from various outdoor activities, but the immediate area around them feels almost private. “I think there were food stalls earlier, but they must have closed.”

They pass a small reflecting pool where underwater lights create rippling patterns on the surface. Taiga pauses to study the effect, and Hokuto finds himself wondering if he’s seeing it through a photographer’s eye—cataloging the interplay of light and water, the way the reflection fractures and reforms with each gentle wave.

“Do you ever wish you could capture moments like this?” Hokuto asks, gesturing toward the pool. “I mean, you could photograph it, obviously, but I meant... capture the feeling of it. The way the light moves, how quiet it is.”

Taiga considers this seriously, which Hokuto appreciates about him—the way he doesn’t dismiss questions that might sound philosophical or overly sentimental. “Sometimes,” he admits. “But I think that’s why I prefer candid shots to landscapes. People contain more complexity. Their emotions change the entire composition, even when they’re not trying to perform.”

“Like the elderly man in the subway car,” Hokuto says, remembering the photograph from the museum that had held Taiga’s attention.

“Exactly.” Taiga’s voice carries that same engaged quality it had in the museum. “You can’t fake that kind of authenticity. Either it’s there in the moment, or it isn’t.”

They continue walking, the path curving gently through different sections of the garden. Hokuto finds himself hyperaware of the space between them—close enough that their shoulders occasionally brush when they navigate around benches or decorative planters, but maintaining that careful distance that seems to be Taiga’s default setting. It’s like a musical phrase that could resolve in multiple directions.

“Can I ask you something?” Hokuto says, then continues without waiting for permission. “Earlier, when you took that photograph by the fountain. You seemed... I don’t know. Like something surprised you.”

Taiga’s steps falter almost imperceptibly. “It was just the light,” he says, but his tone has that guarded quality again. “Sometimes you don’t realize how perfect the exposure is until you check the image.”

It’s clearly not the whole truth, but Hokuto doesn’t push. He’s learning to read Taiga’s boundaries, to recognize when questions venture too close to whatever careful walls he maintains around certain subjects. Instead, he lets the silence stretch between them as they approach a small amphitheater area with terraced seating that overlooks the main plaza.

“The view’s nice from here,” Hokuto observes, settling onto one of the stone benches. From this elevated position, they can see the entire garden spread below them, the fountain where Taiga took his photograph earlier, the scattered groups of people still enjoying the evening.

Taiga sits beside him, but not too close. His camera bag rests between them like a buffer, though Hokuto notices he seems more at ease now that they’re stationary, not walking with purpose toward any particular destination.

“Thank you,” Taiga says suddenly. “For tonight. The museum, the film... it was thoughtfully planned.”

Hokuto feels warmth spread through his chest. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“I did,” Taiga confirms, then hesitates. “I’m not very good at this. Dating, I mean. I used to meet people in pubs, but setting a day… I don’t really know the... protocols.”

“I don’t think there are protocols,” Hokuto says gently. “At least, I hope there aren’t, since I’m making this up as I go along too.”

This draws a small smile from Taiga—barely there, but genuine. “Right. Your first date too.”

“Our first date,” Hokuto corrects, and immediately feels heat rise in his cheeks at his own presumption. “I mean, if you... if this counts as...”

“It counts,” Taiga says quietly. His eyes are fixed on the view below them, but there’s something soft in his profile that makes Hokuto’s heart skip slightly. “As a first date. It definitely counts.”

The admission hangs between them, more significant than it should be. Hokuto wants to reach for Taiga’s hand again, to recapture that moment of connection from the outdoor cinema, but something in Taiga’s posture suggests he’s already retreating into himself, preparing for the evening to end.

“We should probably head back now,” Taiga says, checking his phone. “It’s nearly ten.”

Hokuto nods, though reluctance settles in his stomach like lead. “Of course.”

They stand and begin walking back toward the station, retracing their steps through the garden. The magic of the evening doesn’t dissipate exactly, but it transforms—becomes something more fragile, more precious for being temporary.

“Hokuto,” Taiga says as they reach the main pathway. He stops walking and turns to face him fully. “About tomorrow. In class, I mean. Let’s just... keep things normal. Between us.”

The request stings more than Hokuto expected. It settles in his chest like a discordant note, jarring and wrong, even though he understands why Taiga would ask for it.

Part of him wants to agree immediately—the part that always says yes when someone needs something from him, the part that prioritizes others' comfort over his own desires.

“Of course,” he hears himself say, though the words taste bitter. “Normal. I understand.”

They resume walking toward the station, but now the silence between them feels different—heavier, laden with things unsaid. Hokuto finds himself studying Taiga’s profile in the amber glow of the streetlights, trying to reconcile the person who held his hand during Boyhood with the one now requesting they pretend tonight never happened.

As they pass the fountain where Taiga photographed earlier, something crystallizes in Hokuto’s mind. The evening replay in fragments—Taiga’s genuine enthusiasm in the museum, the way he leaned closer during dinner, that moment when their hands found each other during the film. None of it felt like obligation or politeness. It felt real.

“Actually,” Hokuto says, stopping so abruptly that Taiga takes several more steps before realizing he’s alone. “No.”

Taiga turns back, eyebrows raised. “No?”

“I don’t want normal.” The words come out stronger than Hokuto feels, but once he’s started, he can’t seem to stop. “I like you, Taiga. More than just as a friend or study partner. I want to see where this goes between us, and I thought—when you held my hand tonight—I thought maybe you wanted that too.”

Taiga’s expression shifts through several emotions too quickly for Hokuto to track. Surprise, something that might be panic, then a kind of resigned sadness that makes Hokuto’s chest tighten.

“Hokuto, you don’t understand,” Taiga says, his voice careful and controlled. “I’m a walking disaster. I don’t do relationships. I don’t do... this.” He gestures vaguely between them.

“That’s not true,” Hokuto counters, taking a step closer. “You’re not a disaster. You’re complicated, maybe, but that’s not the same thing.”

“Yes, it is.” Taiga’s tone sharpens. “You don’t know what you’re asking for. I left London because I couldn’t handle the pressure of being what everyone expected me to be. I push people away when they get too close because I’m fundamentally broken in some way that makes me incapable of—”

“Stop.” Hokuto’s own voice rises, surprising them both. “Stop talking about yourself like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re some kind of lost cause. Like caring about you would be a mistake I’d inevitably regret.”

Taiga laughs, but it’s hollow. “Because it would be. Trust me, I’m saving you the trouble.”

“You don’t get to make that choice for me,” Hokuto says, frustration bleeding into his tone. “You don’t get to decide what I can and can’t handle.”

“I’m trying to be honest with you—”

“No, you’re trying to run away before anything real can happen between us.”

“Because nothing real can happen between us!” Taiga’s composure finally cracks, his voice rising to match Hokuto’s. “Because I’m not—I can’t—”

“Can’t what?”

“I can’t be what you need. I can’t be what anyone needs.” The words come out raw, desperate. “I tried in London, I tried to be the prodigy everyone wanted, the perfect student, and I failed spectacularly. I failed so completely that I had to come crawling back here and start over, and even now I can barely—”

Hokuto closes the distance between them in two quick strides and kisses him.

It’s not planned, not careful or gentle the way he might have imagined their first kiss would be. It’s urgent and slightly desperate, born from the need to stop the stream of self-deprecation pouring from Taiga’s mouth.

For a moment, Taiga goes completely still, his lips soft but unresponsive beneath Hokuto’s.

Then he kisses back.

It’s fierce and hungry, like he’s been holding back for longer than just tonight. His hands come up to fist in the front of Hokuto’s sweater, pulling him closer. Hokuto can taste the lingering sweetness of the coffee he had earlier. The world around them—the fountain, the garden lights, the distant sounds of the city—fades into white noise.

When they break apart, both breathing hard, Taiga’s eyes are wide and dark.

“This is a mistake,” he says, but his hands are still gripping Hokuto’s sweater. “This is such a mistake.”

“Then why does it feel right?” Hokuto asks, his voice rougher than usual.

Taiga’s answer is to kiss him again.

This time it’s slower, more deliberate, and Hokuto’s hands find their way to Taiga’s waist, feeling the warmth of him through his burgundy shirt. Taiga makes a soft sound against his mouth—almost like a sigh, but more vulnerable—that sends heat shooting through Hokuto’s entire body.

When they separate this time, Taiga rests his forehead against Hokuto’s, his breathing uneven.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits quietly. “I don’t know how to be with someone without destroying everything.”

“You’re not going to destroy anything,” Hokuto says, though his own heart is racing so fast he’s surprised Taiga can't hear it. “And you don’t have to know how. We can figure it out together.”

Taiga’s laugh is shaky but not entirely without humor. “You’re impossibly optimistic.”

“Someone has to be.”

They stand there for a long moment, still close enough that Hokuto can see the flecks of gold in Taiga’s dark eyes under the streetlight. A couple walks past them on their way to the station, giving them a polite berth, and the mundane interruption seems to remind them both where they are.

“We should go,” Taiga says, but he doesn’t step back immediately. “The train...”

“Right,” Hokuto agrees, though he makes no move to release Taiga’s waist.

Taiga’s fingers uncurl from Hokuto’s sweater slowly, reluctantly, as if each one requires conscious effort to release. Around them, the garden continues its quiet evening rhythm—the soft murmur of late-night conversations, the distant hum of traffic beyond the plaza walls, the gentle splash of water in the fountain. Normal sounds that feel surreal against the magnitude of what just happened between them.

“One more,” Taiga says quietly, his voice rough around the edges.

“One more what?”

“Kiss.” Taiga’s hands find their way back to Hokuto’s face, fingers threading through the hair at his temples. “Before we have to think about what this means.”

Hokuto doesn’t need to be asked twice.

This kiss is different from the others—slower, more exploratory. Taiga tastes like coffee and something indefinably sweet, and Hokuto finds himself mapping the texture of his lips, the way his breath catches when Hokuto’s thumb traces along his jaw. There’s a tenderness to it that makes his chest ache, as if Taiga is trying to memorize something he’s convinced he’ll lose.

When they finally part, Taiga’s eyes remain closed for several heartbeats before he opens them, blinking up at Hokuto with an expression so vulnerable it makes him want to promise impossible things.

“Now we really have to go,” Taiga murmurs, but his voice carries a note of regret that wasn’t there before.

They walk toward the station in silence, but it’s not the comfortable quiet from earlier in the evening. The air between them feels heavy with unspoken questions, weighed down by the knowledge that something fundamental has shifted between them. Hokuto finds himself hyperaware of the distance Taiga maintains—close enough that their shoulders occasionally brush when they navigate around other pedestrians, but far enough that it feels deliberate.

As they approach the station entrance, Taiga slows his pace until they're standing just outside the bright fluorescent glow spilling from within.

“Hokuto,” he begins, then stops, running a hand through his hair in a gesture Hokuto has come to recognize as nervous anxiety. “I need to be honest with you about something.”

Hokuto’s stomach clenches. “Okay.”

“Tonight was... it was perfect. The cafe, the museum, the film, everything. And what just happened...” Taiga gestures vaguely toward the garden behind them. “I can’t pretend I didn’t want that. Because I did. I do.”

Relief floods through Hokuto’s chest, but Taiga’s expression doesn’t match the words he’s speaking. “But?” he prompts gently.

“But I need time to think.” Taiga’s voice is steady now, more controlled. “About what this means, about whether I can actually... whether we can actually work. I don’t want to hurt you, and I’m not sure I can avoid that if we rush into something I’m not ready for.”

The words hit like cold water, dousing the warmth that had been building in Hokuto’s chest since their first kiss. He wants to argue, to insist that they don”t need to think about anything—that what happened between them was real and obvious and worth exploring.

But he can see the genuine conflict in Taiga’s eyes, the fear that lurks beneath his careful composure.

“How much time?” Hokuto asks, though he hates how small his voice sounds.

“I don’t know.” Taiga’s honesty is both appreciated and devastating. “Days? Weeks? I can’t give you a timeline because I don’t know what I’m trying to figure out.”

Hokuto’s mind races through possibilities, through scenarios where Taiga thinks himself out of whatever they’ve started tonight. Where the careful walls he maintains around himself prove stronger than whatever connection sparked between them in the garden. The thought of returning to their previous dynamic feels unbearable after tonight.

“What if...” Hokuto begins, then pauses, trying to choose his words carefully. “What if we didn’t put pressure on it? What if we just... kept things light for now? Casual.”

The word tastes bitter in his mouth even as he speaks it. There’s nothing about his feelings for Taiga that feels casual, nothing about the way his heart rate spikes every time Taiga smiles or the way he finds himself looking forward to their study sessions more than anything else in his week.

But if casual is what Taiga needs to feel safe enough to explore whatever exists between them, then Hokuto can give him that.

Even if it kills him.

Taiga’s expression shifts, relief flickering across his features before he can hide it. “Casual,” he repeats, as if testing the word. “You’d be okay with that?”

“I’d be okay with whatever you need,” Hokuto says, and it’s true even though it’s not the whole truth. “We could just... see how things go. No expectations, no pressure.”

“No pressure,” Taiga echoes, and some of the tension in his shoulders finally releases. “I think I could handle that.”

The practical voice in Hokuto’s mind whispers that this is a terrible idea—that casual rarely stays casual when real feelings are involved, that he’s setting himself up for heartbreak by agreeing to less than what he wants.

But louder than that voice is the certainty that losing Taiga entirely would be worse than having him in some limited capacity.

“Okay then,” Hokuto says, forcing a smile that he hopes looks more confident than he feels. “Casual it is.”

They walk through the doors of Ebisu Station together, the bright fluorescent lighting a harsh contrast to the gentle amber glow of the garden they’ve left behind. The evening rush has long since subsided, leaving the station platforms populated with the usual mix of late diners, young couples, and shift workers heading home.

Hokuto pulls his IC card from his wallet, the familiar motion grounding him in routine even as his mind reels from everything that’s happened in the past hour.

Taiga walks slightly ahead of him toward their platform, his camera bag bouncing gently against his hip with each step. There’s something different in the way he carries himself now. His shoulders don’t have that defensive hunch they often carry in crowds, and when a businessman bumps into him while rushing toward the Yamanote Line, Taiga simply steps aside without the flash of irritation Hokuto has come to expect.

“I’ll transfer to the Marunouchi Line when we reach Kasumigaseki,” Taiga says as they approach the ticket gates. His voice is casual, matter-of-fact, but Hokuto detects a kind of careful neutrality that suggests he’s working to maintain the boundaries they’ve just established.

“Right,” Hokuto replies, tapping his card against the reader. The electronic beep seems louder than usual in his heightened state of awareness.

The platform is moderately busy but not crowded, and they position themselves near the edge to wait for the next train. Hokuto finds himself cataloging details he wouldn’t normally notice—the way Taiga adjusts his camera bag strap, the slight furrow between his eyebrows as he checks his phone, the careful distance he maintains between them. Not obvious to casual observers, but deliberate enough that Hokuto feels the space like a physical presence.

When the train arrives, they board together and find seats near the middle of the car. Taiga settles by the window, his reflection ghostlike in the dark glass as the train pulls away from the station.

Hokuto takes the aisle seat, close enough to catch the faint scent of Taiga’s shampoo—something clean and understated that he’s noticed before but never let himself consciously acknowledge.

The train rocks gently as it builds speed, and Hokuto watches the city blur past in streaks of neon and shadow. Five stations to Kasumigaseki. Maybe twelve minutes if the train runs on schedule. He finds himself both dreading and anticipating each approaching stop, torn between wanting to extend this strange, charged intimacy and needing space to process what’s happened between them.

Beside him, Taiga seems lost in thought, his fingers absently tracing patterns on his knee that look almost like musical notation. It’s a habit Hokuto has observed during their study sessions—the way Taiga’s hands move when his mind is working through something complex, as if his body needs to express what his voice won’t articulate.

“Are you okay?” Hokuto asks quietly as they pull into Kamiyacho Station. The question feels too invasive for the casual relationship they’ve just agreed to, but not nearly sufficient to encompass everything he actually wants to know.

Taiga turns from the window, and for a moment his expression is completely unguarded. Hokuto sees uncertainty there, and something that might be longing, before Taiga’s usual careful composure slides back into place.

“I’m fine,” Taiga says, then seems to reconsider. “Actually, no. I’m not fine. But I’m not not fine either. I’m just… processing.”

It’s more honest than Hokuto expected, and he feels a flicker of hope that maybe the walls Taiga builds around himself aren’t quite as impermeable as they seem. “Good processing or bad processing?”

“Complicated processing.” Taiga’s mouth quirks up in what might almost be a smile. “But that’s not necessarily bad.”

The train begins to slow as they approach Kamiyacho Station, and Hokuto feels time compressing around them. Two more stops until Taiga transfers to another line, another part of the city, another orbit that will take him away from this strange bubble of possibility they’ve created tonight.

“Can I ask you something?” Taiga says suddenly, his voice low enough that the other passengers won’t overhear. “Earlier, when you said you wanted to see where this goes between us. What did you mean by that?”

The question catches Hokuto off guard, partly because of its directness and partly because he’s not sure he has a clear answer. What does he want from Taiga? More than friendship, certainly. More than casual study sessions over coffee. But beyond that, his desires are more feeling than thought.

“I don’t know exactly,” Hokuto admits as the train pulls away from Toranomon. “I know I like being around you. I like the way you think about things, the way you see details other people miss. I like that you’re honest even when it’s uncomfortable.”

Taiga listens without interrupting, his expression serious and attentive.

“I guess I want to know what it would be like if we stopped pretending we’re just friends,” Hokuto continues. “If we stopped being so careful around each other.”

“Careful how?”

Hokuto considers this, watching Taiga’s reflection in the window glass overlay with the passing cityscape. “Like the way you always sit just far enough away that we won’t accidentally touch. Or how you change the subject whenever our conversations get too personal. Or how you agreed to tonight but immediately started planning your escape route.”

Taiga is quiet for a long moment. Hokuto wonders if he’s pushed too hard, revealed too much of his own careful observations.

But when Taiga speaks, his voice is thoughtful rather than defensive. “You’re right,” he says simply. “I do all of those things.”

“Why?”

“Because...” Taiga pauses as the train begins to slow for Kasumigaseki Station. “Because if I let myself get too close to people, I tend to destroy everything good between us. And I’d rather have you as a careful friend than not have you at all.”

The train stops and the doors slide open with their familiar electronic chime. Passengers begin to shuffle toward the exits, and Taiga stands, shouldering his camera bag. The moment for deeper conversation has passed, compressed into the space between stations like everything important in their relationship seems to be.

“Tomorrow in Liberal Arts?” Taiga asks, stepping into the aisle.

“Tomorrow,” Hokuto confirms, though the word feels insufficient for everything he wants to say.

Taiga pauses at the threshold between their car and the platform, and for a heartbeat Hokuto thinks he might turn back, might say something that will bridge the careful distance he’s already rebuilding between them.

Instead, Taiga offers a small, genuine smile—the kind that transforms his entire face and reminds Hokuto why he’s willing to wait for whatever complicated processing Taiga needs to do.

“Thank you,” Taiga says. “For tonight. For understanding.”

Then he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd of transferring passengers, leaving Hokuto alone with his reflection in the window and the lingering scent of his shampoo on the empty seat beside him.

As the train pulls away, Hokuto closes his eyes and allows himself to replay the evening—the museum, the film, those three kisses in the garden.

Casual, he reminds himself. They agreed to keep things casual.

But as the train carries him toward home and whatever careful dance he and Taiga will perform tomorrow morning in Liberal Arts class, Hokuto finds himself hoping that casual might be enough to keep the door open.

Enough space for Taiga to find his way back to whatever they started tonight.

It has to be enough.

Because losing Taiga entirely isn’t an option Hokuto’s willing to consider.