Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Duets?”

“Yep!” The President spins around in his chair, whirling and whirling as Mamoru fights the vague sense of dread creeping up inside. He skids to a stop with a heavy hand on his desk, and Mamoru can’t help but notice the particularly thick folder it lands on. “The RE:START series will—surprise!—have duets, too!”

It’s only thanks to his former years of corporate employment he manages to bite back his surprise, and while it manages to keep him from slumping visibly in his seat, it can’t quite keep him from opening his big mouth to question the President. “Duets… too? Sir?” He resists the urge to fidget in his seat. “On top of those unit songs…?”

“Of course,” The President replies, balancing a pen on his upper lip—Mamoru’s thinly-veiled panic doesn’t seem to register with him. “Why would we ever drop an opportunity to make more music?”

You could give us more time to record and master, he thinks to himself. You could also let us have more hours of sleep, he continues to no one who would help.

John trots up and rises to place his front paws in Mamoru’s lap, which he takes as a small measure of comfort. Hang in there, his eyes seem to say. It could also be Sorry he’s crazy, but good luck—it’s a look open to interpretation and, after all, John is a Shiba Inu.

“Yes,” Mamoru remembers to reply. “It sounds like it could be fun!” It could, in a strange, optimistic, deluded bent. “I’ve never had the opportunity to try out combinations of our group like Shiki-san has with SolidS, maybe this will be a good opportunity.”

The President’s grin is so wide and full of teeth that Mamoru starts to fear he’s signed up for more than he’s bargained for by admitting writing more songs is a good idea. “Mamoru-kun, I’m glad you think so. That’s exactly what I was thinking! Which is why there will be four duets, so you get—”

“—more opportunities to make music,” Mamoru echoes with him. Yep, that’s it, never doubt the President to come through like this. His shoulders ache in the vague, phantom way they did in his salaryman days, when Itou-senpai would come by with that apologetic face that meant he would be taking the late train that night—but at least, he thinks, Itou-senpai was kind enough to feel sorry.

“And,” the President picks up the same folder he slammed for dramatic effect earlier. “I set themes for each of the groups, just as a fun little twist! Here’s yours, and some notes on concept ideas from the departments. See what kind of direction you want to go in for the songs, and we can have another meeting then. Maybe even with a sample of the first track! I believe in you.”

“Yes... sir,” he remembers to nod, and accepts both the folder and the pressure. He opens to the first page, introducing the topic. “Time?”

“Yep.”

“Time…” Mamoru repeats, turning the word over in his mind as he reads on. “It’s, it’s pretty abstract, isn’t it?”

“Is that a problem?”

“N-no,” he shakes his head. “Not a problem! Just, there isn’t a whole lot more in the explanation.” Calling it an explanation is generous: the words barely take up half the page, and the sentence detailing their topic is the very last line of the paragraph.

“Well,” the President looks ready to spin in his chair again. “Thought I’d leave it open-ended for you! You can do whatever you want.”

“Ah, I see,” Mamoru automatically replies, ingrained habits from his working days carrying him through the one-sided conversation.

“Anyways! Relax, it’ll be fun! I’m sure you and Kouki will both do great. You two are the first duet up, but I’m sure you’ll do fine!” He winks as if to imply no pressure, which Mamoru most definitely feels.

Great, he sighs to himself. No, Fujimura; he shakes his head as the President distracts himself with an avant-garde paperweight. This is great. You can do this! Get a grip, you are a professional now.

He bows his way out and heads back to the dorm, giving himself a pep talk all the while.

You can do this, you’ve done well enough so far!

What’s the big deal? You see Kou-kun every day. You live together, remember?

And besides, it’s just a duet; it’s not like you’ll be stuck together permanently. No one’s locking you two together in a room.

Not to mention, it’s not like Kou-kun would ever.

It’s all on you, Fujimura. You’ve kept it together thus far, you can make it through another song. Even if Ken-kun and Ryou-kun aren’t there to distract.

You made it through Lila, okay?

Yeah, I can do it again, he swallows thickly before entering their dorm. I can keep it together, I can write us a good song, i can keep ‘us’ as we are.

He walks in to the living room, where the other three are already waiting for him. He waves to Kensuke first, and takes his time settling in—hanging his jacket, putting away his bag, taking out the folder and organizing the papers. Eventually he settles down on the couch, out of small things to tidy up, and sets down the folder.

Kouki speaks up first. “What did the President say?”

“We’re going to have duets,” he replies, not looking up from the folder yet. He turns to the first page, the one with no explanation, and finally looks up.

Kouki’s bright, clear eyes meet his and Mamoru breathes normally, one, two, in, out. When he next breaks into a smile at the rest of the news, pure in his anticipation at being the first ones up, Mamoru’s carefully-built defenses feel something come loose and rattle around in his chest.

Oh God, he thinks behind his own smile. This is going to be very long, and very hard.

“Ah! It’s Kouki!”

“Oh,” Kouki’s hand stops on the door handle as Sora and Mori exit the dorm elevator. “Sora, Mori, it’s been a while—ah,” he claps his hands, remembering something. “Do you want to come in? I made more of that cake I mentioned the other day.”

“Kouki, ohmygosh—” Sora leans back in his chair, face scrunching together as he remembers to breathe between mouthfuls. “—I dunno how you do it!” His hand curls tighter around his fork. “This might be the best cake I’ve had, ever.” He scrapes a dollop of cream off the plate to lick. “You could—” he pauses for another large bite, “—totally be a pro.”

“This really is good,” Mori joins in, savoring his slice slowly. “And the tea, too, it pairs well with the cake.”

“Thanks,” Kouki smiles. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Is this how you guys eat all the time?” Sora helps himself to another slice. “Does Growth get to eat this kinda food every day?” He turns to Mori. “Why haven’t we come over more often? Because we should.”

“When they’re not busy,” Mori offers, with a placating hand on his shoulder. “And we’ve all got new projects coming up, don’t we?”

“Oh,” Sora pauses, mouthful of cake muffling him. “You’re right, we’re starting the duets soon.”

“You guys, too?” Kouki refills their teacups. “We just heard about it yesterday—Mamoru came home from a meeting with the President. Apparently we get themes this time.”

“Oh yeah, us too!” Sora breaks into a grin. “Our theme is—” he mimes a banner with his fingertips. “—’Amusement parks’.”

“...Amusement parks?” Kouki turns to Mori, who answers his look with a nod and tiny shrug.

“Yeah! What’s yours?” Sora presses.

“Time,” he responds, without the hand motions.

“‘Time’?” Mori sets his cup down. “That’s, ah, pretty vague, isn’t it?”

“I’m surprised, too—your ‘amusement parks’ is pretty different from our ‘time’.”

“Betcha the President threw darts at a wall or something,” Sora slurps his tea. “Either that, or he picked whatever John barked at... something random like that, probably.”

“I’m sure he had his thoughts, he—” Mori dutifully rises to the absent President’s defense, but can’t help but falter slightly; the cup in his hand doesn’t make it to his lips. He cocks his head to the side. “Well, I guess considering who he is, I can’t entirely rule that out…”

“Told you,” Sora shrugs. “You didn’t believe me when I said he was weird, but he’s weird.”

Kouki turns to Mori. “You met him?”

“Yeah,” Mori nods. “I went with Sora the other day to talk about the first duet—ah, we’re up first—and I think that was the first time I had a long, proper conversation with him. It, well,” Mori pauses to polish his glasses. “He’s certainly a character.”

Kouki thinks back to the time he first met the President, then all of the subsequent leader meetings. He also remembers Shiki’s reluctance to be there at all times. “Yeah,” he agrees. Something else sparks in his memory then. “You said you went to discuss your duet?”

“Mhm,” Mori replaces his glasses on his nose. “I wanted to try working with Sora during the writing process this time.”

“Heh. You see, Mori here—” Sora pats his shoulder, nose in the air as if showing off a prized pet. “—is actually pretty good at all that music theory stuff! And I’ve always bounced ideas off him, anyway. And he’s good at guitar, and his karaoke scores almost always outrank mine!” To his side, Mori smiles through the groan he stifles.

“Oh,” Kouki nods along.

Sora barrels on. “So why not just bring him in from the beginning? Great idea, right? I know. It’s been awesome so far,” he emphasizes with additional heavy thumps on Mori’s shoulder. “We’ve got a bunch of ideas bouncing around, it’s crazy seeing how we come up with different lines for the same topic!”

“Sounds fun,” Kouki nods along.

“It is!” Sora says empathically, and Kouki briefly worries for Mori’s shoulder. His worry fades fast when he stops and abruptly leans over his kitchen table, eye-to-eye, nose to nose, just a bit too close. “You should try it, too!”

“Careful,” Mori pulls him back with an apologetic smile, and Kouki breathes out. “Though I do agree with Sora: it’s been great so far, and I think you’d enjoy it, too.”

“Hmm,” Kouki sips his tea, pausing, feeling the taste spread and linger as he considers their suggestion. “It’s up to Mamoru, but…”

He thinks about it. He imagines himself next to Mamoru, shoulder to shoulder on the bench, watching usually-clumsy hands slowly and gracefully tease out the beginnings of a song. He sees them fluttering around: a melody here, a chord progression there, a rhythmic part thumped out of the lower keys. Kouki sings his imagined phrases—and Mamoru joins him seamlessly, supporting him with harmonies and improvisations. Their phrases build into a world, their world, spilling out onto pages upon pages and it could be his thoughts, his words that set Mamoru’s hands into motion like that.

His fingertip fidgets against his cup. “Maybe I’ll try.”

“Yeah! Also, do you have any more of that cake?”

I can do this, Mamoru tells himself. It’s just one new song! And then three more new songs after this, and then the group songs. That’s all. Mamoru sinks in his seat, sighing all the way down until his head comes to rest on the keyboard’s stand. He raises his head weakly and lets go, repeating the soft thud, thud as he tries to count and divide the amount of work days he can give each new piece. He tries to concentrate and work out a plan: he could write the melody and think of the arrangement first for all of them, instead of slowly struggling with the lyrics on each one. He’s always been a composer first, lyricist second and, truth be told, outside help has always gotten him through.

Lila was like that, he thinks. Kou-kun wrote the lyrics to that one, and that turned out pretty well. Great, even. And Ryou-kun did fantastic on Primula, too, because he was so involved in writing it.

His fingers move to retrace the melody of Lila without thinking; he lets himself relax into the familiarity of it, lets the warm memories of the song wrap around him. He remembers Kouki’s voice reaching higher and higher, sweet and plaintive in his distinct timbre. You are my star, he hums to himself. “Even when I close my eyes,” he sings softly under his breath.

“You are there,” he hears notes like clear water slipping above his own whispers, washing over his ears, and he shifts to a lower register to support the last trailing notes.

“Lila,” he sings in invented harmony, and his eyes snap open to the sensation of someone sliding onto the bench next to him.

“You’re not going to continue?” Kouki is there, not just in his memories. Real, and very much present, and Mamoru almost falls off the bench.

“K-kou-kun! Wow, uh, hey,” he grips the edge of the bench to keep from falling over. “Didn’t see you there!”

Kouki cocks his head. “We just sang together.”

“Ah,” Mamoru laughs nervously. “W-we did, huh, haha, silly me…” I can’t exactly tell him I thought I was imagining the whole thing, what kind of weirdo does that? Oh, that’s right, that weirdo is me.

Kouki motions to the keyboard. “You could continue,” he says, completely unaware of Mamoru’s internal struggle.

Mamoru waves it away. “It’s just something I was doing for fun, I only have that one line so far. Maybe I’ll think about the rest another time.” He hurriedly shuffles through the pages on his stand. “Anyways! Let’s move on to our duet, we should get working on that.”

The thing about Kouki is that as hard as he tries not to, he shows his disappointment visibly—like a child who knows the right lines to recite, but never quite learned how to lie. But he lets things go quickly and tucks it away in his heart, effortlessly switching off to help those around him instead. He is every inch the accommodating, cooperative teammate; the thoughtful leader; the gracious host. Right now is no different. “You’re right,” he says to Mamoru, dropping the request that Mamoru probably would have said yes to, if he had just asked for it a little more. Mamoru wishes he would, sometimes.

I’ll write a good song instead, I promise, he bargains with himself for Kouki. “So I came up with a few phrases here and there, just as a starting point. I’ll run through what I have, so let me know what you think?” He sets the sheets against the stand and rolls his shoulders. “Oh, and feel free to suggest anything!”

“Anything?”

“Anything,” he nods at the music stand.

“Then… there is something.” This is unexpected. Kouki is usually patient and offers his suggestions after listening, and rarely does he make requests preemptively, if he does at all.

“What is it?” He asks lightly as his hands hover over the keys; he runs a finger along a gap as he waits.

He feels Kouki shift on the bench before he ventures his thoughts. “I ran into Sora and Mori earlier, and they talked about working together to write their duet. So I was wondering,” Kouki’s voice takes on a familiar spark, the kind of tone Mamoru associates with suddenly feeling very weak. “I was wondering… could we try that, too?” The hopeful, expectant note in his voice at the end of his request drags his head upward until he’s meeting Kouki’s gaze, face to face.

“Yes,” Mamoru replies without fully comprehending it all. It doesn’t matter if he heard what he said or not—when Kouki looks at him like that, all earnest hope and eagerness, Mamoru could never say no anyway.

“Great,” Kouki relaxes into a full, warm smile, and Mamoru finds himself bracing against the rattling in his chest again. “Let’s get started.”

Keep it together, Fujimura. It’s just this song. And then three more. And then the rest. Mamoru grips his pencil tight as he sharpens it. But just get through this song first, and the rest is downhill! Probably. The lead snaps inside the sharpener just then, a sort of harbinger of bad luck, maybe prophesying how wrong he is to hope. Great, he drops both pencil and sharpener on the stand. I’m doomed.

He drags lead-smudged hands through his hair and stretches, breathing in, out, in, out. Suddenly the studio feels a little stifling around him, and he entertains the thought of going for a walk.

Another walk, a more responsible side of him corrects himself. You had one twenty minutes ago.

But it helped, didn’t it? he argues back. And then I cleaned the console panels, tested the mic, made some tea, sharpened my pencil…

His head lands on the music stand with a dull thunk, sending his recently and dramatically shortened pencil rolling away. He hears it clatter onto the ground, rolling off and away into some corner somewhere, and feels no leftover willpower inside of him to muster him up and after it. I’m hopeless, he sighs into the scribbled-out papers piled on the stand. I’ve even got Kou-kun contributing, and here I am, holding us back.

During the writing process, Mamoru has realized a vital truth: having Kouki help is a double-edged sword, and he is clumsy at best.

First and foremost: this brings Kouki closer to him than ever, as he shows up day after day to spend hour after hour working on the song with him. Second: Kouki is genuine in his efforts, and Mamoru can’t deny such eagerness—so he lets him take his place beside him, minute after hour-long minute, trying to focus on the music and not on every brush of their shoulder, or the curve of his wrist when he tucks his hair behind his ear, or the lilt in his voice every time he tries a phrase he scribbles.

Third, and worst of all: he is very attentive to their work. It becomes a real and urgent problem when every lyric Mamoru finds himself drafting is too close for comfort, and therefore utterly unpresentable to Kouki. Of course a duet would put ideas in his head, he gnashes his teeth as his fingers start venting his frustration on the keys. And of course Kouki would want to work together, and bring his whole heart into it, making Mamoru expend considerable effort to resist his instinct to respond in kind. His fingers start hitting the keys harder and harder as the noise fails to block out the thoughts swirling inside him.

And of course he would innocently and gently press Mamoru into doing his best instead of accepting his admittedly half-hearted lyrics finished within the deadline, because of how his kind heart knows he can do better. And now Kouki waits: for Mamoru to get his act together and present real lyrics, for Mamoru to respond with his heart like Kouki has been so honest with him all along. Mamoru could never, of course. He could never reveal all of his heart, never let himself form them into words, never make it real in the first place. It would endanger more than just their song.

But on the other hand, Kouki is helpful—but of course he is, the only reason his aid is double-edged is Mamoru’s own inability to rein himself in. With Kouki there to bounce ideas off of, and provide suggestions, and help write the lyrics, the song is progressing somewhat smoothly. Better than he expected, if he’s honest—not because of any shortcoming he expected on Kouki’s part, but because of his own lack of faith in getting a grip on himself. Maybe he deserves a reward or something after this song is done: for how well he’s made efforts to maintain a grip on reality and be productive.

Productive, ha. He shakes his head, fingers slowing down to a plodding, sad little melody. I’m already a disaster with him around, but without him, I. He stares down at the mass of crossed-out pages, blinding in their chaos. I’m definitely not anywhere near the word ‘productive’ right now.

Lost in his wallowing, he doesn’t notice the studio door open. He doesn’t notice the footfalls of someone entering, either, until said someone speaks up.

“Mamoru?”

“Yes?!” He bolts up and whirls to face the voice. “Ah, Shu...san?”

“Just ‘Shu’ is fine, really.” Maybe to you, but my commoner heart can’t handle that quite yet, sorry! “What are you doing here?”

“Ah, uh, just trying to get some work done,” he scratches his head. “What about you?”

“Same reason,” Shu replies. “Sorry, I thought the schedule listed this studio as open—I can find another room.”

“No, it’s ok!” Mamoru starts gathering his items. “I don’t think I’m going to get any more done today; please feel free to use it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, really,” Mamoru shoves a few stray sheets into a crumpled mess at the bottom of his bag. “I’m a little stuck on how to progress from here, so I might need to just, ah, think on it some more.”

“Hmm,” Shu shrugs off his jacket and puts down his bag. “If you’d like, I could try and help?”

“Really?” Mamoru perks up at the offer before he can help himself. He’s always been curious about Quell’s music, and now, presented with the chance to get input from someone with as much experience as Izumi Shu, top-idol-turned-producer? He stares long enough to catch himself and be slightly embarrassed. “Would you really be willing to?”

“Sure,” Shu smiles in that easygoing way that every idol seems to be able to pull off flawlessly. “I’m a bit ahead of schedule, anyway, and I’ve always been interested in Growth’s music. I’d love to hear what you have.”

“Interested?” Mamoru blinks. “In Growth’s music?” Someone slap me, I must have fallen asleep on the table. I’m dreaming right now, definitely.

“Yes,” Shu answers, and Mamoru sneaks a pinch on his thigh. It hurts.

“Really?”

“Really,” he repeats with infinite patience as he taps a few keys and logs into the workstation.

Is it weird that I want to call home and brag about this? That famous top idol Izumi Shu is interested in my compositions? Well, even if I called home Kou-kun would probably say something sweet like ‘Of course he would, anyone would be interested in your music.’ Takes an idol to be immune to another idol, I guess. Oh god, he stops himself. Focus, Fujimura—focus.

“I-I, I’m flattered you’d think so!” Mamoru chuckles nervously and digs in his bag for his sheets. “And uh, thank you for offering—ah, sorry, I’m still a bit analog when it comes to this stuff. I’ll play it on the keyboard if you don’t mind.” He shuffles the pages back on the stand, struggling in vain to smooth out the fresh wrinkles. “Takizawa-san always helps me out on the arrangement and production; I don’t know what I’d do without him and the production staff always helping me.”

“That’s fine,” Shu smiles back. “I like to start on the piano, too. There’s a sort of fluidness, a sort of hmm… spontaneity, I suppose, that comes with having an instrument at hand.”

“I know what you mean,” Mamoru faces Shu, really faces him this time, and for the first time he feels a bit of his nervousness fade. Even we can have points in common, he marvels quietly. “Ah, not to take away from the production side, though! That side is definitely fascinating, too, with all those digital effects you can add in. Like the way you started Nemophila, with distorted digital sound effects first and then that unexpected tropical instrumentation in the second verse—I really liked that!”

“Thank you,” Shu laughs. “It was part of an experiment as I was mixing, but I’m glad it worked.”

“It did! I’d love to be able to get to that level soon.” He lightly traces the keys in front of him and starts with a few tentative notes. “I’m comfortable on the piano, but I know there’s a lot more I could add if I learn that part properly, too.” He waves the thought away and starts playing the lead-in to the verse. “I think I like what I’ve got for the melody, but the lyrics don’t seem to fit them very well—tell me what you think?” Shu nods, and Mamoru dives in.

He sings through the part he’s struggling with, figuring if anything, some feedback is better than no feedback. Halfway through he abandons the half-hearted lyrics causing him so much grief and makes up syllables out of pure frustration, and once he’s done he’s rewarded with light, polite claps and a smile a bit too small to cover up the confusion behind it.

“That was… interesting,” Shu finally says, and Mamoru knows the face of someone being politely supportive in the face of lackluster performance when he sees it. Well, there goes any good opinion he had of me, probably, he thinks glumly. Focus, Fujimura! “You stopped singing the lyrics you have, can I ask why?”

“Well,” Mamoru shrugs in place. “The more I sang them, the more they just didn’t seem right.” He tries to spin it around. “How do you come up with lyrics? If you don’t mind me asking, that is—I could really use some suggestions.”

“Not at all,” Shu deigns to still smile at him. The smile that forms on his face reminds Mamoru, then and there, of the difference between a normal human and a lofty top idol—so in short, the difference between himself and Izumi Shu, the face of dramas, cosmetics, luxury goods, everything more expensive than himself. That same Izumi Shu now opens his mouth, and Mamoru awaits the surely-amazing advice he’ll dispense. “I think a lot about the person who’s going to be singing the song.”

“Mhm,” Mamoru nods. Okay, great, that’s the one thing I usually do, but I can’t this time!

Shu goes on. “Though, now that I think about it, a duet does feel a bit different than composing a group song or a solo for someone else. It’s as special an occasion as a solo is, maybe, but there’s still someone to share the moment with you. It’s a special moment of closeness, in my opinion.”

“Huh,” Mamoru blinks. I thought I was the only one who thought a duet was different. And ‘special moment of closeness’, what is this? A romance novel?

Shu goes on. “My first duet will be with Eichi, and I’ve wanted to write a duet for us for a while now—so when I finally got the chance, I was writing before I knew it.”

Mamoru’s facade is a bit better from his years as a salaryman, but the disappointment still drops inside. Beautiful and talented, what’s that like, Mamoru smiles back at Shu, all the while gripping his knee in an effort to not slump in his seat—Shu is graciously sparing him some of his time, after all. Kou-kun is like that, too, he thinks as Shu waxes poetic about the opportunity to write with Eichi. They really are worlds apart from me, aren’t they?

“So it just came naturally, huh?” Mamoru says, chipper through his disappointment. “What’s your theme, by the way? Something like family, or togetherness, maybe? That seems like Quell.”

“‘Natural phenomena’,” Shu replies.

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah,” he nods back. “Interesting, isn’t it?”

“No kidding,” Mamoru replies. “Ours is ‘time’, and I hear SOARA’s is ‘amusement parks’.” He reconsiders what Kouki told him about Sora’s theories, and the image of John placing a paw on items in the President’s office starts taking shape in his mind.

“Well, that’s the President for you,” Shu chuckles lightly, as if it were just a cute quirky habit of a friend versus the reason for the currently greatest hardship in Mamoru’s life. “Ah, on that note, I hear SolidS’ theme is ‘alcohol’. Now that one’s unsurprising!”

“Yeah, haha…” Mamoru chuckles with him. “To be honest, the theme is kind of giving me difficulty.”

“Why?”

“Well, Kou-kun—ah, he and I are co-writing this time—came up with ‘the time between people’ as our concept from the theme. You know how it’s common to hear about ‘time spent together’ with people? He thought of doing the opposite: the time that flows by between people until they can meet again. Anyways, back on topic: we split up the work and while Kou-kun’s lyrics have been great so far, I haven’t been able to write quite as well.”

“Hmm, two writers…” Shu rubs his chin. “I can see how that makes things more of a challenge.”

“You can?”

“Of course: when you’ve got two writers, each with their own sensibilities and tastes, half the work is making those two viewpoints align on the same page.”

“Huh.” Mamoru can see that: on one hand there’s sensible Kouki, doing his best like a reasonable human being. On the other hand there’s Mamoru, desperately trying to make sure Kouki doesn’t see the inner pages of his heart, let alone be on the same page as him. “I see,” he says numbly, ignoring the small voice in the back of his mind scolding him with a you knew this already!

“While Eichi hasn’t been a part of the songwriting itself, I have asked him what he thinks throughout the process to make sure our points of view align. We are the two performers of this song, after all; since he’ll be the other half of this duet, it was important to me to make sure he gets his input. Hearing what he thinks has helped me write for him, and in the end, we know how each other feels. And that lets me write all the better for him.”

Wow, Mamoru thinks. What nice, sane people, completely unlike me. “You’re right,” he opens his mouth without thinking. “I do want to do better for Kou-kun, too. I want to write him a good song, he deserves that much.” He lets out a sigh he’d been holding back. “I just wish it were easier.”

Shu pats his shoulder, and for a moment Mamoru wonders what the deal is with top idols—how even a simple gesture can feel more… luxurious than if he’d been clapped on the shoulder by a passerby on the street. Is it the manicure? Is it the classy and tastefully refined rings around his fingers? Is it the perfectly moisturized skin? They know how to deal with people, he thinks, and wishes he had the same grace. “People all have their different paces,” Shu goes on. “I’m sure you’ll get there; you make good songs already, there’s a reason I’ve been interested in Growth’s music for a while now. Just communicate with your partner, and let them in—that’ll lead you to your answer.”

That’s exactly what I can’t do, he sighs inside. “Thank you for the advice,” he smiles at Shu.

“Growth, please stand by!”

“Are the mics ready?”

“Quell is in the back, ready as well!”

Kouki stands in place on the platform, where Ryouta and Kensuke have already gathered. “Where’s Mamoru?”

Kensuke shrugs in the dark, while Ryouta tosses out a casual “not sure” as he adjusts his mic.

“Oh, that’s fascinating! Really, I didn’t think of trying out that progression… I guess I kind of fixated on my usual patterns instead of branching out.”

Kouki whirls around towards Mamoru’s familiar voice, and sees him approaching—good, good, he’s here on time. There’s a figure walking with him, and he doesn’t recognize Shu in the dim light until he speaks.

“Yeah, I think that’s the nice thing about working in a unit here—there’s something about being given creative freedom to explore and experiment, and I know I myself wouldn’t have tried out such experimental tracks if I weren’t given the opportunity here.” Shu gives him what is probably a smile, and as Mamoru steps closer to the lights Kouki sees him reflect a smile right back.

“True, I mean, I didn’t expect my style of music to be accepted—and for idols, no less! And I’m given relative creative freedom, though I guess I could always use a helping hand every now and then.” He shrugs in the colored lights. “I don’t have formal training and all that, so I can understand if people think my tracks aren’t always the most, ah, polished? I think that’s the word.”

“Well, that’s something that comes with experience, right?” Shu turns to face him, and the two stop far away from where Kouki stands. “You have to try things out, that’s how you grow. And if given the chance, why not throw in some experiments in there?” He chuckles. “At least, that’s what I tell myself when I want to try out some new and interesting instruments. It’s a wide world with lots of different sounds; it’d be a shame to not try them out.”

“Like in your second album! Breaking Haze had a lot of interesting ethnic instrumentation.” Mamoru nods in excitement. “And then there’s the bubbling sound in Seafloor: was that a sample? Or did you record it yourself? Though,” he chuckles. “That’s not an instrument, is it?”

Kouki can hear the wink in Shu’s voice. “Anything can be an instrument.”

“Hah! That’s true,” the laughter carries in Mamoru’s voice. “I’ll think about that.”

“Mamoru,” Kouki finds himself calling out. When Mamoru looks up at him, and the others already on stage, he ducks a quick bow to Shu and rushes over.

“Kou-kun! Sorry about that. I’m here!”

“What were you talking about earlier? With Izumi-san?”

“Ah,” Mamoru breaks into a sheepish grin. “We were just talking about composing our upcoming songs. I’ve been asking him for advice lately, and it’s great hearing from someone with so much experience, not to mention musical know-how. He’s been a real help, I’m glad I got to talk with him!” He sighs, with a faraway dreamy look. “I still can’t believe we’re the same age.”

“Holy crap,” Kensuke turns back to them.

“Are you guys really?” Ryouta follows suit, wheeling back in obvious disbelief. “Really? The same age?”

“Yeah,” Mamoru just laughs. “I know, I know.”

“We’re starting soon, let’s get in position.” Kouki turns and motions to the others, all the while stepping into position—his place, right beside Mamoru.

He sneaks a glance as the platform rises and the lights shine on them.

You could talk to me, too. I could help.

“I regret it. I regret everything.”

“There, there,” Rikka pats his shoulder—and again, Mamoru is struck by how different such a basic gesture can be depending on the person. Rikka’s hand is soft, and comforting, and his fingers are long and beautiful.

“There, there,” repeats Shiki on his other side, and Mamoru’s theory solidifies as Shiki’s pat—or at least, what he assumes is his version of a friendly pat—lands heavy and clumsy on his other shoulder. To be fair, he concedes, he has emptied significantly more glasses than Rikka or Mamoru have, combined.

“I’m sure Kouki doesn’t think badly of you,” Rikka continues, as Shiki continues drinking.

“But that’s the thing!” Mamoru buries his head in his hands. “Kou-kun is too nice, and would never think badly of me even when it is my fault.” He looks up at Rikka. “Do you know what that feels like? To have such a nice kid around you?”

It might be a trick of the light, or maybe they’re also reaching their limits, but Rikka turns a faint pink. “In a way,” he tosses offhand, but Mamoru misses the longing in Rikka’s voice.

“Must be nice,” Shiki scoffs over yet another refilled glass. “To work with ‘nice kids’. Kids who actually offer to help, and are nice about it.”

“Shiki,” warns Rikka.

“I’m not wrong,” Shiki raises his eyebrows at him.

“Bartender, please, no more for him.”

“Fine, fine—anyways, Fujimura. I don’t see why you’re struggling so much.”

“Of course you don’t,” Rikka quips breezily to his side.

Mamoru chooses to ignore that bit of confusing exchange. “Er, well… we keep coming back to the lyrics—the ones I write just don’t quite match up to Kou-kun’s, and yet we—well, he doesn’t want to give up on the co-writing.”

Shiki looks at him, single eyebrow raised as if he’s looking at a particularly dim coworker. “You have a theme, and a nice partner. What’s the difficulty? Just, hmm, pick a thing. Like for Rikka, I always know what kind of things to write because there are things that I know he’s good at. It all just comes to mind.”

“Easy for you to say,” Rikka mutters into his glass. “I’m the one who has to sing it, though.”

Mamoru accidentally lets a confused laugh tumble out; fortunately, neither of them seem to pay it any attention. “So, you just think of who’s singing and write for them? That’s what Shu-san said, too.”

“Shu, huh?” Shiki pauses, staring into his glass. “He’s paired up with Horimiya, isn’t he?”

“Ah,” Rikka giggles into his glass. “Makes sense why he’d say that. Also makes sense how fast he wrote it, too.”

“Does it?” Mamoru looks between the two of them. Am I missing something? Is it that obvious to everyone else?

“Anyways, like Shu said, have you been considering your duet partner? And what else would he say…” Rikka swirls the liquid in his glass. “He probably said something about communication, I bet. Have you discussed the topic with Kouki?”

“How’d you know?” Mamoru starts.

“How did you know?” Shiki asks immediately after.

“Because he’s not you,” Rikka shakes his head at Shiki. Mamoru lets it go again, and chalks it up to another thing about SolidS he’ll never quite understand. “Going back to the issue at hand—you guys have discussed it together, right?”

“Er… yes?” He thinks back to their hours of unproductive brainstorming. All the time, actually. And it’s him who always comes to me to discuss it, because Kou-kun is diligent like that. Though I know that’s not the issue, because I’m the issue. “Sometimes, I think it might be best if Kou-kun just writes all of the lyrics; I’m not doing a good job with my half, and Shu-san said it can be a challenge for two writers to be on the same page.”

“Hmm,” Rikka hums. “I don’t think that’s the issue. And I also don’t think that’s what Shu meant.”

“It isn’t?” Mamoru puts his glass down.

“It isn’t?” echoes Shiki, not putting his glass down.

Rikka has had enough by now to allow himself to sigh, long and deep, and shake his head at the both of them. Mamoru hopes just a little that more of it is aimed at Shiki. “He said it came naturally for him because he was thinking about Eichi, right?” Mamoru nods. “And you, up until now you’ve always written like that for your group, yes?” Mamoru nods again. “And you’ve brought the same approach this time, but it’s not working.” Mamoru nods a little less emphatic this time, unable to meet Rikka’s eyes. “So.”

“So,” Mamoru follows.

“So,” Shiki mimics, not to be left out.

“Shiki, go have another.” Rikka turns back and smiles sweetly back at Mamoru, and he vaguely feels as if Ryouta is facing him instead. “You, on the other hand, no more. What you need to do is go home and think about what’s holding you back.”

“What’s… holding me back?” How’d you know? he wants to cry. Instead he stares down at his glass, distracting himself with the way the lights hit the ice. “I mean, everyone gets writer’s block every now and then, right? I’m sure that’s the case for me, and since we have deadlines and more songs to write, we should just cut our losses and—”

“—No,” Rikka pulls the glass out of Mamoru’s hand. “That isn’t the problem, and you know it.” He leans against the bar, facing Mamoru with a smile curling into something sweet, something feline. Is it just me, or is he enjoying this? What is this, a game of cat and mouse? “Mamoru, why are you holding back?”

“What?” Mamoru starts, then stops. “I, uh. Am I?”

“You are; you’re not a bad writer, Fujimura.” Shiki inches in, pinning Mamoru between him and Rikka. He reeks of alcohol, which is a statement considering they’re in a bar. “Usually, anyway.”

“Shiki-san, I uh, I think you’ve had too much.” Mamoru inches away from him, or at least, as much as he can with Rikka just on his other side.

“Oh, don’t worry; he’s fine,” Rikka dismisses with an airy wave. “He’s not even drunk.”

“What?” Mamoru waves an arm at all the empty glasses near Shiki. “Look at how much he’s had!”

“Our Shiki here—” Rikka gestures vaguely in his direction, “—has been blessed with absolutely unreal genetics when it comes to holding his alcohol.” He giggles as he sips at Mamoru’s glass. “I know this will come as a shock, but this is how he is all the time.”

“I’m sorry,” says Mamoru, not realizing his insult—and Shiki’s apparent drinking levels—until after it tumbles out of his mouth.

“Ha!” Rikka laughs high-pitched and sharp, unexpected from the beautiful, poised image he gives off normally. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you.” Before Mamoru can offer a haphazard apology, Rikka barrels on. “But anyways. Don’t deflect from the matter at hand. Where were we?”

“I was, uh, going home! Yeah, haha, thank you for the talk and all.”

“Oh, were you?” Shiki frowns. “Weren’t we talking about how you’re holding back?”

You didn’t understand a thing your groupmate said in the past half hour, but the one time I needed you to be even a little bit drunk, you had to have a great memory! Mamoru smiles outwardly, hiding his anguish, feeling his heart sink inside as Rikka and Shiki both place their hands on his shoulders to keep him fixed where he is.

“You’re holding back.” Rikka sets his glass down and leans in again, with a hint of light glimmering in his eyes. Mamoru hopes it’s just the alcohol. “You don’t want Kouki to know how you feel about him.”

“What?” Mamoru says, again, struck dumb for the umpteenth time.

“...Oh,” Shiki breathes out behind him. “Shu and, uh, Horimiya.”

“Yeah,” Rikka nods at him, with the kind of smile Ryouta smiles when he’s about to drop a bomb. “It makes sense why he’s being shy and nervous all of a sudden. Why he’s not willing to show Kouki how he feels, when, well.” Rikka waves a hand in the air as he trails off, sipping at his glass again.

“Does it?” Shiki counters. “If you got it, why hide it?”

Rikka rolls his eyes. “Shiki, not everyone is like you—or like Shu, for that matter.” He giggles into his glass. “I’m sure Eichi was flustered for weeks after receiving that song.”

“Why would he?” Mamoru ventures—he might as well, Shiki seems to have forgotten his hand is still holding him down.

“Think about it,” Rikka offers, then leans back to enjoy the rest of his drink.

Horimiya-san is going to be flustered? From a song Shu-san wrote for him? Meanwhile, I’m being shy and nervous? Because I don’t want Kou-kun to know what I feel?

Well, yes, I don’t want him to know. I can’t let him to know what he’s like to me.

What is Kouki to him? A good person: generous and, just maybe, a bit too trusting. Someone who picked him up off the streets one day and gave him a home, without thinking of the danger or the burden to himself.

More than that: he’s the one who encourages him the most, the one who’s first in line to sing his songs, the one who brings him out of his doubts time and time again with that unshakeable faith of his.

He’s also a kind person: too kind, sometimes, when he gives his best without even being asked, and when he offers everything he can, all with little regard for how much of himself he spends until he can’t anymore. Someone who needs support, too, just as much as he supports others.

He’s a great cook.

He loves plants.

He’s terrible with horror movies.

His lips quiver when he’s excited.

He gets surprisingly tired.

He has a killer falsetto.

He…

Mamoru grabs the nearest glass and drains it—or at least he tries, before he chokes and sputters on it less than halfway down because it’s Shiki’s glass and he was never all that great at holding his liquor. He hears Rikka murmur a soft, “ah, there he goes,” somewhere off to his side, but he finishes the glass anyway so he doesn’t have to keep thinking.

There’s something strange going on, Kouki thinks.

Mamoru has never been the smoothest person, or a particularly cool character. He’s not exactly the kind of person you’d consider “skillful” in the social sense, either. But he’s always been warm, and more than that, believable. He’s never hidden his weaknesses, never put up pretentious fronts, never manipulated those around him into imagining he was something else. Kouki knows this from watching him during their years together.

It’s the reason he’s so comfortable around Mamoru, and why he felt like he could let him into his life so easily in the first place: it’s because he has never felt the need to be guarded around him. There’s a lot of reasons to keep one’s guard up in this world, especially in entertainment; it’s an exhausting mental and social effort, and he’s lucky to have groupmates he can relax around and a place he can call home. Mamoru is just that: someone he can lay down his guard around, someone he knows can handle his worries with a smile and open arms and a gentle pat on his head. There’s something... reliable, even, about him that belies his downright unreal clumsiness at the simplest of kitchen tasks.

It’s different from Ryouta or Kensuke—Ryouta is caring, but sensitive and with his own worries to think about. Kensuke is reliable and level-headed, but in a way that stems from his tough mental fortitude borne of a personality opposite of Kouki’s own. Mamoru, though, is someone who he can trust to see from Kouki’s own perspective, to accept all of who he is and not falter under the weight.

Kouki breathes out. Mamoru has never been particularly smooth, so it shows, even to Kouki: he’s avoiding him.

It started off small and innocuous, low-key enough to make Kouki think he was imagining it. But the more they wrote their song, and the more they subsequently stagnated, it became all the more apparent: the small slow shifting away until he was on the other side of the table, the startled jumpiness in his hands when they accidentally brushed, Mamoru suddenly and quickly becoming very punctual to arrive on the dot and leave on the dot.

He’s never been punctual, Kouki thinks. Usually when he gets to their studio Mamoru has long since been there, eagerly awaiting him with things he started on earlier. He can barely look me in the eye now. Is it because I’ve been too hard on him?

That’s the other thing: Mamoru’s lyrics have always been heartfelt, expressive, evocative—they’d have to be, to make people experience the worlds he comes up with. This time they’re flat and uninspired, simple turns of phrase and canned lines that he’d never expect out of him. He pushed back against them earlier, offering him more time to come up with better ones. Has he pushed him too hard? Even in the worst of times he’s pulled through, but maybe if there’s a reason, and the reason is also why he’s avoiding him—

“—I want to know,” he mutters out loud without thinking. The mug he clutches as he sits at the kitchen table, waiting through the late hours, has cooled without him noticing. He stares into the warm color. And if there’s something I can do, I’ll do it. All you have to do is talk to me.

A sharp series of knocks at the door snap him out of his thoughts, and he rushes up to open it.

“Mamoru? I thought you had a key with you—”

“—oh, hi,” Rikka’s face greets him instead, followed by the overwhelming smell of alcohol. Then he sees Shiki with a limp Mamoru on his shoulder, and his eyes go wide.

“We brought him back,” Shiki shrugs the shoulder Mamoru’s arm is draped heavily across. “C’mon, Fujimura, stand up. We’re here.”

“We… got a little carried away, sorry,” Rikka smiles apologetically at him. “Well, this one—” he elbows Shiki to the side. “—got a little carried away, and poor Mamoru accidentally got in way over his head. Well,” he shrugs, “long story short, it’s more or less our fault. Don’t be too upset with him.”

“Oh,” is all Kouki can manage as Shiki brings him inside.

“Tell me where his room is, quickly,” Shiki says. He looks a little sweaty, despite the crisp air outside.

“Shiki, I keep telling you to stop staying cooped up inside all the time. This is why,” Rikka breezes by him into the hallway.

“Second door on the right,” Kouki finally remembers to say. As Shiki visibly struggles to drag Mamoru over, Kouki goes around to support him from the other side.

Rikka opens the door for them and with some effort the two finally manage to drag Mamoru to his bed. Kouki politely walks them out, and once they’re gone, he brings back a glass of water to Mamoru’s bedside.

“...Mmm…”

“Mamoru? Are you awake?” Kouki gently shakes his shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you into bed properly.”

“Kou-kun?” Mamoru blinks and fails to keep his eyes open. “Kou-kun, izz you…” He takes the hand on his shoulder into his own and nuzzles into it like a pillow. “Sorry…”

“It’s okay, Rikka-san told me it’s not your fault.” He tries to maneuver him into his blankets with his one free hand, not daring to pull away the hand currently trapped.

“But it isssss,” he whines. “We talked about it, Rikka-san an Shiki-san… what nice people, listening to me…” He drifts off for a few seconds, and snaps back. “Ha, haha, Shiki-san wasn’t even drunk…” he giggles to Kouki’s hand.

I’ve never seen this side of Mamoru before, Kouki thinks as he struggles to keep up with his words. And what did they talk about?

“You could’ve talked to me,” Kouki finally lets out. He gives up on the blankets and sits down at his side, shifting until he’s holding Mamoru’s hand.

“No, no… couldn’t do that to you…..You’re toooo nice, Kou-kun…” He buries his face in his pillow. “I’m sorry… ’m sry…”

“Don’t be,” Kouki whispers. “Just get some sleep.” He tucks what he can of the blankets around him and gets up to leave.

A hand reaches out and catches his sleeve; Kouki feels his heart leap to his throat at the contact. “Hey,” he hears, husky and rough behind him, and he turns around to answer, to hesitantly reach back with his own hand. He missed this, he realizes—he missed his warmth, he missed the feeling of clumsy, knobbly fingers and calloused skin. He missed the way Mamoru looked him in the eye, like he does now, face half-hidden behind tousled hair and eyes glassy from the night.

The silence stretches between them as their fingers twine and linger, both sides barely hanging on to the other. “What is it?” Kouki dares to whisper back in the dark, afraid to let this rare, fragile moment end.

“I’ll do better,” Mamoru’s fingers curl tighter around Kouki’s. “I promise.”

Kouki takes up his hand fully in his own, wrapping both his hands around his. “I believe you,” he finally whispers, and hopes it reaches.

“Sorry, Kou-kun, I think that’s all we’ve got time for today,” Mamoru sighs as he packs up.

“Do you have something after this?” Kouki asks, head cocking in that way of his when he knows neither of them have work after this. Mamoru starts sweating through his shirt.

“Yeah,” he scratches his head. “Itou-senpai and his wife invited me to dinner together, and I figured, why not? It’s been a while since I’ve seen them.” He blinks and looks up. “Since the wedding, now that I think about it.”

“Oh, those two,” Kouki nods. “Hope they’ve been doing well,” he offers politely as they get up and exit the studio.

“They have!” Mamoru flicks through his phone and pulls up a photo: it’s the happy couple on their honeymoon, all smiles and cheer. “He can’t stop showing off like this.” He feels his face stretching into a smile despite himself. “I’m happy for them, Itou-senpai really deserves it.”

“They were nice,” Kouki matches his smile. “So do y—”

“—Ah!” Mamoru digs through his bag, feeling the sweat spreading. “Where’s my pass?”

“Do you want to borrow mine?” Kouki manages to pull out his pass card in the time it takes Mamoru to shake his bag and dig through it again, and he stops at Kouki extending it in offering.

“Oh!” Mamoru’s hand moves to the card, then pulls back in hesitation. “Uh, are you sure? You won’t need it?”

Kouki nods. “You’ll be late if you have to go back home and look for it, right?”

Mamoru looks at the card, then to the time on his phone—even at a glance, he can tell he’d be cutting it close if he took Kouki’s card now and ran for it. And he’d hate to keep nice people like them waiting, it’d be impolite when both Itou-senpai and his wife are busy with their own work and lives.

“.......Aaaah! I’m sorry! And thanks, Kou-kun!” He takes the card. “I promise I’ll fill it up again!”

“Don’t worry about it,” he waves it off. “Go on, don’t be late.” He smiles as he pats him toward the station. “And send them my greetings, too.”

“Roger!” Mamoru gives a mock salute before running off. He stops and briefly looks back. Sorry, Kou-kun, for always bailing me out! You’re definitely too nice.

Dinner is pleasant, and Itou-senpai and his new wife are both just as wonderful. Beyond the initial surprise on his wife’s part, the subsequent explanation of who they are, and why they were in the cooking class, and then further explaining the chaos to Itou-senpai, dinner passes wonderfully. The newlyweds are settling into their lives nicely, learning to work with each other on who does what well—turns out, Airi is sharp and manages the household finances deftly, leaving Itou-senpai to feel at ease to take care of other things around the house. Itou-senpai jokes that he can clean without worrying the cleaning supplies will run out, to which his wife jokes back that that’s why she does all this. Her nails aren’t as fancy as they used to be, which she explains as her still making efforts on her part to contribute to the housework.

“We won’t let things be one-sided, for either of us,” she smiles with a resolve behind it, and Itou-senpai nods and echoes the sentiment with how he’s also learning to manage finances better, to not put the whole burden on his wife.

“We’re learning from each other now more than ever,” he smiles as he takes her hand.

“I’m happy to hear that,” Mamoru smiles back at them, feeling their happiness mirror in his own heart. I’m happy for you, Itou-senpai, that you’ve found this happiness; someone as kind as you deserves it.

They part and Mamoru returns home, staring up into the sky on his walk back. There’s something about the good people in your life finding happiness, he muses. It makes you feel as if it were your own happiness.

“I’m home,” he announces to a dim living room.

“Welcome back,” someone says, and Mamoru feels a bit of the earlier warmth again. I guess I have a bit of that here, too—I have a home here.

Kouki turns to him from the couch where he sits, book in hand. “How was it?”

“Great,” he replies. I should work hard—gotta protect what we’ve got here, after all! A memory hits him then. “Ahh, sorry, Kou-kun... I forgot to refill your pass.” Nice going, Fujimura, what were you saying earlier?

“It’s fine,” Kouki replies, serene as ever. “I’m glad you made it in time.”

“Me too! I would’ve hated to keep them waiting, they’re such nice people.” He hangs up his scarf and jacket, shuffling over to the kitchen for a cup of tea. “Kou-kun, I’m making tea—do you want some?”

“I’ll help,” he replies as he follows him into the kitchen. “Did Airi-san remember us from the cooking class?”

Mamoru sets out a teapot and two mugs first, then busies himself looking for the tea leaves while waiting for the kettle to boil. “Oh, yeah,” he snickers. “That was a lot to try and explain... and then we both had to explain to Itou-senpai!” He laughs to himself again: at the memory of Itou-senpai’s confused face, the haphazard explanations, and the relief afterwards. “But everything turned out fine in the end, in a lot of ways.” He pauses to lean against the kitchen counter, hands clasped around the tea tin and looking up into the air, eyes retracing the scenes from earlier. “I’m happy for him—for them both, really. They work together so well.” He lets out a dreamy sigh. “It must be nice… to have someone like that.”

Of course, he thinks to himself. It’s probably out of my reach. He responds to the sound of the whistling kettle and takes it off the stove. No use longing for the impossible—I’ll be content with what I have right now. He adds the leaves to the teapot. I have it pretty good right now, if I think about it! He pours water into the teapot, staring into the leaves, eyes following the bubbling motions in sudden focus. Don’t think about it too hard, Fujimura.

A hand comes to rest against his arm and Mamoru starts at the sudden contact. On hindsight, it’s nothing compared to the words he hears next.

“I could be that for you,” he hears in Kouki’s voice.

He blinks.

His hand forgets the kettle he’s holding and the teapot streams water and loose leaves, flowing over and spreading across the counter surface.

Kouki takes his wrist and angles the kettle back up. “Careful, the water’s hot,” he says, like he’d only offered to water his plants, or run to the convenience store for him.

Mamoru blinks again. Of course, that’s it, that’s Kouki being his usual nice self: offering to help where he can, without actually realizing how deep that can go. There’s no way Kouki would actually mean what he thought he said. I’m insane, he decides. I can’t believe for a moment I let myself think he was seriously suggesting… He shakes his head. He probably misheard. I definitely misheard. Play it cool, Fujimura, stay calm, don’t make a mess.

He looks down at the overflowing teapot, the mess of leaves on the kitchen counter. He stares at Kouki’s hand, still wrapped around his wrist. “I’m sorry, I was spacing out there. Silly me, haha, look at this mess!” He grabs a towel and lets it drop over the cooling water. “Did you say something?” And now he’ll say something completely normal, and not at all what I thought I heard, and I’ll get over my delusions.

Kouki guides his hand to set the kettle back down, and unwraps it from the handle only to wrap it in his own afterwards. “I could be that for you,” he repeats, grip on his hand steady.

“Ah,” Mamoru tries to reason, edging away as alarms start to sound in his mind. He also tries and fails to tug his hand out of Kouki’s, hand clearly not obeying the signals from his brain to budge. “You mean a helper? Thanks, Kou-kun, I know I’ve been struggling with the song lately. But that’s not on you!” He shakes his head. “You’ve been working with me just fine, I’ve got to pull my weight now.” He tries what he hopes is a smile, while his hand gathers sweat where Kouki’s hand curls around it.

“No,” Kouki shakes his head. “I mean I could be like that.” He twines their fingers together and stares down at the tangle. “I could be there for you. Be with you, like they’re with each other.” He looks up, finger tapping his chin in thought. “I guess you could call it working together, but in more than just music…” He pauses, looking pensive and then suddenly very, very serious—and Mamoru starts feeling his soul leave his body. “The thing is, you’ve been different lately and I... I’m worried. How can I help?” He tugs his hand closer toward him. “Talk to me: whatever it is, I want to help.” he says, plaintive and sincere in the drop of every syllable.

“Uh,” is all he manages to stutter out, so eloquent in the face of Kouki’s heartfelt feelings: the rest of his brain is still processing his words, unable to handle the sheer amount of, well, whatever this is—is Kou-kun seriously doing this? Saying this? And holding my hand? He’s not letting go, he dumbly notices. Why is he holding my hand? What’s going on?

“Kou-kun,” he starts—until he can’t, breath squeezed out by the anxiety gripping his lungs.

“I want to be there for you,” he goes on. “And I want you to rely on me. You don’t always have to go to other people like that.”

What?

“There are these feelings for you,” his words tumble out, in an uncharacteristic rush Mamoru has never seen from him. “That are different from the friendship I feel with Ryou or Ken, it’s.” He looks down. “I know I can always go to you with whatever’s on my mind, and I want you to do the same with me. But that’s not all of it, there’s something more than that—I’m not sure how to phrase it yet, but I guess… I want you to really look at me. And let me in. Let me share your thoughts.” He looks him in the eye again, whole face alight as if he’s realized something, angling his head as if expecting Mamoru to confirm what he says next: “I think I love you.”

Love you, he says.

It echoes for a while, ringing in his ears, and he wonders if that’s it, he’s fully gone insane, he’s pined for so long he’s hallucinating now. He pinches his leg and winces when it hurts. That means nothing—I could feel physical pain and still be insane. I probably am.

I would be, to let him go down this path.

He’s supposed to do better than this: he should end up with a high-class beauty to have a beautiful family with, not someone nobody who would barely amount to a scandal. He’s supposed to end up with someone all the magazines can write nothing but nice things about, and have dedicated specials to their perfect domestic lifestyle to the envy of all of Japan. And I’m supposed to get to look at those magazines, watch those specials; be happy for what he’s got, proud that I know him. I get to brag to a neighborhood granny that I know Etou Kouki—yes that Kouki—and that’ll be plenty for me.

Do it for his career. Do it for his future.

There are too many reasons this can’t happen, and no reason it should.

And he’s probably just being nice.

“Kou-kun,” he tries again. “You’re very kind, you know that?” Before Kouki can open his mouth to reply he barrels on. “I’m sure you’re just saying that to be nice, to comfort me. But,” he grits his teeth and steels himself. Be an adult, Fujimura—help him onto the right path. “You should say that to people you really fall in love with later: not when you’re so unsure like this, and especially not just to console someone like me.” He finally pushes Kouki’s hand off of his, ignoring how cold it suddenly feels. “You could do better—you should do better.”

“But—”

“—I think, Kou-kun,” he interrupts, and hates himself for the look on Kouki’s face. “You’re mistaking your feelings.” I’m sorry, Kou-kun. But this is for the best, this is for your future. “I’m sure there’s someone out there who’s meant for you, someone much better.” He tries to smile, to put effort into being believable.

“How do you feel?” Kouki’s words wipe the smile off his face.

“What?”

“About me?”

“I—I… like you, of course, as a teammate…” Mamoru’s hands fidget together and tremble as he trails off. He’s never been good at lying, he knows this about himself. The one time, the only time in life I’ve needed to be a good liar, and I can’t even pull it off...! “I’m sorry,” he tumbles out, keeping his lips stretched while hating the way his voice shakes. “I’m sorry, Kou-kun, I—” his voice hitches. “I shouldn’t have let things get this way, I. I uh.” He backs away until his back hits the doorknob. “I should go.”

I shouldn’t have let things get this way, his voice echoes in Kouki’s ears. I shouldn’t have, I shouldn’t have…

I’m sorry.

Kouki buries his face into the cushion in his arms, Mamoru’s voice still ringing. He sits curled up on the couch, facing the direction of the front door, waiting in the dark.

Why would you say that? he wonders to someone who isn’t there. Why are you sorry? And for what?

The questions burn in his chest until he can’t stay still, and he goes to the kitchen to set the kettle on the stove again. He looks at the counter, water and teapot gone cold since his abrupt departure hours ago, and thinks better of it and turns the stove off. He returns to his post on the couch and faces the still-empty entryway, hugging the cushion again as he leans into the soft fluff of the sofa.

What did you mean by letting things get this way? Why did you walk out? Questions keep brimming up in his mind. You changed my life, and for the better—why would you apologize for it?

Don’t leave like this.

He imagines a life in which they never meet.

Where would he be? In a unit with Makoto and Mitsuru? No. Definitely still searching for a way to form a unit with Ryouta and Kensuke—they probably could have made something work, eventually, in a distant and vague way. But it wouldn’t be the same, they wouldn’t sing their songs.

Mamoru… he would be a salaryman, probably. He sees him, in his mind’s eye, pass by a billboard of three young boys. One of them might have blonde hair—but this Fujimura Mamoru would never know, he doesn’t spare it a glance. He walks by silently, no melody floating from his lips. His fingers stay still and silent as they grip a handrail on the train. He continues on, headed home to a place Kouki doesn’t know and will never see. There’s no hint of world-evoking melodies, none of his beloved harmonies, no trace of Lila—and Kouki, he would never get to sing them.

He grips the blanket and wraps himself up tight.

“You look terrible,” Kensuke mentions offhand like he’s describing the weather. But he offers him a bottle, still, and Mamoru takes it gratefully.

“Thanks, I feel terrible.” Mamoru admits.

“Y’know, you’re lucky Kou is such a professional and has a lot of jobs lined up,” he continues, ready to jab at every one of Mamoru’s weak points. “That’s the only reason you’ve been able to avoid him for so long.”

“Wow, h-haha… you noticed?”

“Mamoru,” he stops and deadpans, finger hovered over his own can. “It’d be harder not to notice that you literally ran away from home. And yes, Ryou noticed too.” He pops his can open and takes a sip. “He’s furious, you know.”

“Of course he is…” Mamoru sighs and sinks in his seat. “I upset Kou-kun.”

“Yep, you sure did. It’s pretty bad over there: Kou is moping, and Ryou is eventually going to break every plate in our kitchen. Ah, for the record, I’m also pretty mad! But not so mad that I won’t help you guys fix this.”

“Ken-kun... if you want to,” he braces himself. “You should punch me. I deserve it.”

“You do,” he gets up from his seat. “But I’ll call in that favor later. Right now, we have work to do.”

“We do?”

“In case you forgot,” Kensuke smirks at him. “We’re still idols, and we have a recording session in—” he glances at his phone. “—Thirty minutes.”

“What? We do?” Mamoru racks his brain for a recording session in their calendar, but comes up with nothing. Then again, he thinks, he hasn’t been the greatest at staying on top of things lately.

“Come on,” his voice breaks through another bout of self-scolding, and he waves a bag in his face. “I brought you clothes, let’s go.” He looks around at Quell’s dorm. “I figured you wouldn’t find anything your size to borrow here. Nice of ‘em—and SolidS, I guess—to let you freeload in their part of the building for so long. Literally everyone in SOARA would’ve ratted you out within the hour.”

“Then how’d you find out?”

“Ichiru complained about having to share his snacks because you looked so depressed,” Kensuke shrugs. “Which, really, Mamoru? Taking snacks from a child?”

Kensuke has always been razor-sharp with his wit, all wrapped up with a cheery smile, and today is no different as he quips his way into pushing Mamoru into new clothes, and to at least wash his face, before he continues to push him out the door and back into reality.

Time waits for no one, he thinks to himself, before laughing inside. There it is, my favorite theme in the world… Time.

“He’s here,” Kensuke announces into the recording studio. “Ryou?”

“Took you long enough,” comes Ryou’s delicate voice, prickly and sharp through the soft whisper of it all. That’s his cold fury voice, that’s it, I’m doomed, Mamoru sweats. He edges away, wondering if he could just call out sick or something, but Kensuke’s iron grip on his elbow catches him before he can even think of bolting out.

“H-hi, Ryou-kun…” His voice gives out before he can complete his greeting. His knees might go next.

“I want to kill you on the spot, right here and right now,” he breezes past Mamoru’s greeting. “But I won’t, because we are professionals and we have work to do.” He jerks a thumb to the recording booth. “Get in there, you’re up first. Kou is,” he hesitates. “He’s coming later.”

“Huh?”

Ryouta sighs, long and dragged-out, and Kensuke pushes him closer to the booth door. “This isn’t a conversation I wanted to have, and at this timing, no less.” He crosses his arms and looks Mamoru in the eyes, and Mamoru flinches back at the raw ferocity of it. “This isn’t a conversation I wanted to have ever, actually.”

“Well, here we are anyway,” Kensuke pops up behind Mamoru, still holding him hostage.

Ryouta tches at him—maybe them both. “Look: you messed up. And you’re going to fix this. Because—” he stops, and his hands twist into the fabric of his sleeves. “Kou is serious,” he breathes out. His voice softens a touch, and his eyes take on a sort of tenderness as he looks downwards. “He always is. You know that.”

“I do,” Mamoru nods, at a loss to say anything more.

“He deserves better, you know.”

“I know,” he echoes.

“Make it right, okay?”

“I’ll,” he takes a deep breath. “I’ll try,” he offers.

“You will. You won’t just try, you will fix this.” He nods at Kensuke. “Ken, do it.”

“Roger,” Kensuke answers with a glee much too chipper for the current mood and, with more force than Mamoru knew he had, shoves him into the recording booth. His back slams into someone at the same moment Kensuke slams the door shut in his face, and as he hears the turn of a lock and sees chairs stacking up from the window, he blinks as he’s pulled up from where he stumbled.

“Mamoru?”

Mamoru’s blood runs cold. “Kou...kun?” He looks up, and it is Kouki. He whips his head to the glass window between them and the rest of the studio, where Ryouta glares daggers into him while hollering something—he can’t hear it, though, until Kensuke remembers to hit the button.

“—stupidest thing ever, and I swear to God if you don’t work it out I will personally murder you, slowly and painfully, and kick your sorry corpse off a cliff! Is that clear!”

“Crystal!” he responds, automatically straightening up a little.

Kensuke scoots over next to Ryouta, still holding onto the button as Ryouta fumes to the side. “So, as you can probably tell by now: I lied! We don’t have a recording session, but what we are doing is locking you two in this room until you solve this. We booked this studio for the rest of today, so good luck!” He and Ryouta turn away, then he pauses and turns back. “Oh, right, we also left you some food in there. So take your time! Think of this as a date—ouch, Ryou, that hurt—and have fun!”

With a last wave the two of them leave, and he sees the bolt turn in place. He turns to the corner Kensuke pointed out earlier, and there is a box of food—along with plenty of water and even a blanket, neatly folded next to it all. But why only one? he wonders.

Kouki clears his throat behind him, and suddenly Mamoru is grateful to Kensuke for insisting he wash his face. What does that matter right now, he chides himself.

“So,” he tries, and fails to go on.

“So,” Kouki echoes across from him.

“Why don’t we sit down first?” He motions to the corner with the food. “Might as well be comfortable, right?” Mamoru sinks down onto the floor and leans against the wall, and Kouki quietly follows suit. The silence that stretches between them is excruciating, but neither of them can move.

“Hey,” both of them start at the same time.

“Ah,”

“Oh, um...”

“You first,”

“No, it’s okay, you first.”

“...Okay, well,” Mamoru clasps his hands together in his lap, twisting his fingers together. “First of all... I’m sorry.”

“For what?” comes Kouki’s innocent response, and Mamoru deeply considers hurling himself through the thick glass divider.

“For, uh…” How about everything ever? “Not being home lately,” he tries. Kouki just stares at him, small and withdrawn with his arms around his knees, and he sighs. “And, and avoiding you. And not doing very well on the duet. And the list probably goes on, and on, and on...”

“I’m sure you had your reasons,” he replies, so sure of Mamoru’s supposed good intent, so trusting in those clear eyes of his.

Barely five minutes together, and Mamoru already feels what defenses he had left inside crumble.

“No, Kou-kun,” He runs a shaky hand through his hair to drag it out of his face. He deserves better than excuses, he deserves an honest explanation at the least. “That’s the thing—I didn’t have any good reason. I did all that because I was scared." He lets his hand drop to hang against his neck. "Terrified, even.”

“...Of what?”

“You,” he looks up at him. “Er, that’s not entirely right…” He fidgets in place, scratches his neck. “More like, what I am to you.” Kouki remains silent, but the expectation stays on his face. “This makes no sense, does it…”

“Try me,” Kouki replies. “Take your time and explain it to me, so I can understand.”

How are you so encouraging at a time like this! If it were anyone else they wouldn’t be so open to giving him a chance like this. If it were Ryouta, he’d already be dead. “Well…” He draws his knees in closer. What can he say, though? There are no excuses, there are no explanations. All he can say is the truth. “I’m not good for you.”

“What do you mean?”

Kou-kun, please, don’t make this so hard. “I, I was flattered! And, uh, happy! When you said you wanted to help me. It’s just,” he grips the fabric of his sleeves. “You could do better, you know? You don’t always have to be there for me just because you see me like that, fumbling around—I’d just drag you down, and hold you back from reaching the heights you could go.” There’s a hole he didn’t notice before in his sleeve, and he picks at it distractedly. “Kou-kun, you’re always very kind, so you always want to help people in trouble. That’s probably what it is, those feelings of yours. That, plus me holding you back, makes me scared of how I’m… I’m a bad influence on you.” The hole gets wider the more he picks at it, and soon he feels the touch of skin. “You’re still young, you have your whole future ahead of you—the last thing I’d want to do is drag you down.”

There. It’s out. Now Kouki can know what a coward he is, and get over him, and move on. He can still have those magazine spreads, be fawned over by aunties, become a household name positively shared on social media. Mamoru can still be proud of the future star Etou Kouki, and proud that he made the right decision to push him forward.

“Why would you decide that for me?”

“Huh?”

Kouki’s question snaps him out of the reverie the cobbled-together remnants of his dreams wove around him, and sends it crashing down. “Why would you decide that—that you’d be bad for me—all on your own?”

“Uh,” he blinks. “Because… I’m. I mean. Look at me,” Mamoru unfolds his arms to gesture to himself. “I’m a disaster. I barely pass as an idol, I’m also not exactly a ‘catch’ in terms of household management or career prospects, I’m not from a good household, I’m not a beauty like you are, and my music isn’t even professional—”

“—I love it, though.” Kouki slams a hand between them, with a ferocity that takes both of them aback. “Sorry,” he immediately backs away, and neatly folds back into position. “But,” he pushes on, tucking a lock of hair back. “I do love your music, professional or not. So that’s one thing that doesn’t matter.”

“I’ve been such a disaster during the songwriting process, though.”

“Like I said, I believe you. You told me you’d do better, and I believe that.”

Mamoru opens his mouth to start a dismissal, then pauses. “Wait. When did you tell me that? Wait... When did I tell you that?”

“The night you came home with the SolidS members,” he replies.

“I…” I blacked out! Stupid past me! What did you say, you idiot! “Oh my god.” He buries his face in his hands. “See, this is another reason why I’m a disaster.” He slides lower and lower.

“Everyone has those nights,” Kouki offers, automatically moving to pat his back until he remembers where they are, and snaps back. “But it doesn’t change the fact that I believe in you.”

“You believe in people too easily, Kou-kun.”

Kouki nods. “So I’ve been told. But I believed in you, ever since we first met, and didn’t that turn out great?”

Did it? he wonders. “Did it?” he asks.

There’s a pause before he replies, a hitch in his voice when he breathes in, and Mamoru finds it in him to sit up again and face him properly. “I thought about it, you know: a time we didn’t meet, where we didn’t become Growth.” His hands tighten around the fabric of his sleeves, twisting until his knuckles turn white. “ I... I didn’t like it. I hated it: I hated the thought of us never meeting.” Kouki looks up and stares into space, voice barely a whisper like he's recollecting a bad dream. “I hated that you didn’t know who I was, I hated that you lived in a place I’d never see, I hated that I’d never get to sing songs you write for me—I hated thinking about not having you in my life.” He turns and extends a hand and Mamoru lets it reach his sleeve, frozen where he is. “So you can’t go and decide you’re not good for me, because you changed my life for the better.”

“I…” Mamoru looks down at the hand clutching his sleeve. “I’m still a disaster, you know. You’ve seen me in the kitchen,” his voice wobbles at the end.

“I know.”

“I’ll ruin the laundry machine again.”

“We can fix that.”

“...I still haven’t refilled your train pass.”

“I can use yours,” he replies, smile growing through the water in his voice.

“I’m an all-around terrible person to have to take care of,” he squeezes out through the hope he didn't dare have before, while his own hand dares to inch closer. “I can get pretty burdensome,” he says, toward the blur in front of him.

“Not to me,” Kouki reaches out and catches him. “Not if it’s you.”

“I can’t believe that worked.”

“Told you so,” Soushi laughs next to Ryouta, a short, low chuckle.

Ryouta watches the others from the back of the room, leaning against the waiting room wall. Kouki and Mamoru run through bits of their upcoming stage, shoulder to shoulder, Kensuke plays card games with Ren and Nozomu, while Sora and Mori tune their guitars while muttering together about their piece. It’s a familiar, peaceful sight, in which everything is as it should be.

“...Thanks,” he manages out. When Soushi doesn’t respond, only turns to look down at him, he turns to stare back. “What?”

“Nothing,” Soushi smirks, shrugging and turning back. “Just glad it all worked out.”

“Yeah,” he sighs and crosses his arms. “I didn’t think I could stand another minute of that… that wreck.” He closes his eyes. “Why are my members all such disasters?”

“Look where we are,” Soushi laughs. “Everyone’s a bit of a disaster here.” When Ryouta squints at him, he raises his hands in mock surrender. “You gotta admit, we all kind of are.” He nods to the rest. “Doesn’t mean we don’t love them any less. And I’m pretty sure they’d do the same for us.”

“What, lock people in rooms?”

“No need to put it that way,” Soushi laughs again, and Ryouta stares. He didn’t know he was such a… laid-back guy. Who apparently found everything funny. “You know what I mean; they’d try to help us out, too, if we ran into trouble.”

“I guess,” Ryouta huffs out. A few moments tick by, and Ryouta remembers something he’d been curious about. “By the way… how’d you come up with the idea? And why were you so sure it’d work?”

“Practical experience,” he replies without batting an eye.

“What?”

Soushi shrugs. “Like I said—” he stares out at the SOARA members, at Sora and Mori in particular. “—disasters.”

Ryouta finally lets out a quiet laugh. “Well, it looks like they’re lucky to have you on hand. Since you’re clearly so, hmm, un-disastrous.”

“You, too.”

“Huh?”

Soushi levels him a look and a smirk. “You, too: clearly you care about them, to have gone out of your way to try and help like this.”

“I,” Ryouta turns away and huffs again. “Just wanted to get back on schedule, since we had more songs coming up.”

“Sure, sure.” He leans back. “Well, from one disaster-prevention plan to another, nice work and well done.” Ryouta feels warmth radiate from the big hand that suddenly pats his head. “We should hang out sometime, we probably have plenty in common.”

“What? Seriously?” Ryouta squints at him. “If you think I’m that easy, or if I’m heartbroken and rebounding or something—”

A cold can touches his forehead, interrupting him. “I meant as friends to talk about our group members, but oh, interesting… rebound, huh?” His grin gets toothy.

Ryouta bats the arm and can away. “You never heard that—you hear me?”

“Hey, hey, just kidding. Anyways, here—looks like you could stand to cool off a little.” He inclines his head towards the rest of the room, still blissfully unaware of everything.

“O-oh. Right.” He takes the can. “Thanks,” he whispers, careful to keep his voice low and neutral.

“SOARA, you’re up!”

“Well, here we go.” Soushi pushes himself off the wall and heads to follow the rest of his members, who have already gathered around the entrance. He stops to look back. “Offer still stands, by the way.”

“Which one?” Ryouta tries not to crush the can in his grip.

“Whichever one you meant,” he waves, not looking back, and Ryouta adds another name to the list of people he might want to kill.

He looks down at the can again. Well, maybe not the kill list. And maybe we can go for coffee... if he’s buying.