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Makoto doesn’t feel pain.
He hears the crash and the screams, the pounding of footsteps across the stage. He sees the auditorium go dark, the spotlights spiraling out of their perfectly timed choreography. He feels the sticky wetness running down his face, warm and comforting like a mother’s lullaby singing her child to sleep. He feels the pull of exhaustion, hears muffled, incomprehensible shouting behind a muted buzzing in his ears, sees blurs of faces he can’t name.
But he doesn’t feel pain.
And then he does, and he blinks awake in a sterile, white room, the only noise coming from a rhythmically beeping machine at his side, a thick cord winding out of it across a thin, scratchy bedsheet and into his arm.
He stares at the cord for a few moments, half-baked fragments that might be words and might be gibberish floating through his mind before disappearing altogether. Then, deciding it a fruitless task, he lifts his gaze to try and understand something, anything. It looks like a hospital, but thinking long enough to come to a conclusion hurts too much—as if there’s a wall between him and coherent thought, a blockade pressure building up in his head the more he tries to grapple with awareness.
Straining himself, he shifts in the bed, fingers curling into the blanket when his head seems to split open with pain—and there’s a yelp at his side. A yelp, then a bang, then a rustle he can’t see because his neck refuses to turn any more.
He doesn’t have to, then, because a face pokes over the side of the bed, electric blue eyes wide and worried, mouth hanging open as he trails his gaze across him.
“Yuu-kun?” he says, and Makoto stares up at him, those pretty eyes tearing down the blockade in his mind, brick by brick until he finds he can actually catch the fragments of thought before they slip through his fingers.
He blinks a few times, but his vision never gets clearer. Except for the blended silver and blue watercolors that blend together in a vibrant, abstract painting, he can’t see the man’s features, can’t figure out who it is here beside him, waiting for him.
“Oh—Oh! Your glasses, let me…” There’s a shuffling, a few taps of plastic against wood, and then something cool and light brushes against his cheeks.
He blinks again, and then the world is in high definition. He can confirm it now: he’s definitely in a hospital. And past the solid blue rims of the glasses, he finally gets a good look at this person.
He’s pretty—gorgeous. At first sight his heart rate spikes, and it’s mirrored in the monotone beeps that echo in the silent room. He looks away, heat creeping up his neck, but the man’s allure draws his eyes back. If the pain in his limbs and the headache pressing mountains of pressure against his skull weren’t physically stopping him, he might just make an even bigger fool out of himself.
But man… gleaming, silver hair and a face so flawless it looks unreal, he has to be a model. At the thought, something stirs in his chest, quiet amongst the pounding blood in his veins.
He makes a small noise, and beautiful, manicured hands reach out—only to stop right before they grab onto him, a pitiful moan escaping his lips as he draws back.
“Yuu-kun, you’re awake…?” he asks, and somehow his eyes get shinier as tears threaten to spill over.
Makoto realizes with a start that this “Yuu-kun” is him. Funny, he thinks; it sounds so familiar, and yet it’s so foreign at the same time. It has him loosely grasping the thin blankets at his side, and another grunt—mirroring his confusion, his recognition—pushes out of his throat.
“Oh, thank god—” The man draws away and presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose, breathing in deep and slow before turning back to the hospital bed. “What was all that? When I heard what happened I–I just…”
Makoto isn’t sure what this is about, but he supposes that maybe it has something to do with why he’s here in this hospital, why he has this headache, why he’s attached to a machine. He tries to clear his throat. “I…”
“And I got the first flight back here, you know!” The man throws his arms out and spins around, never letting his eyes wander from Makoto for too long—as if he might disappear if he looks away. “I couldn’t… Yuu-kun, what was that?”
Makoto’s voice is hoarse; he tries again anyway. “I don’t…”
The man rushes toward him and grabs something off a nearby table—a cup. “Are you thirsty? Do you want some water? I’ll—Here, Onii-chan will help you.”
“Onii—?” Makoto coughs once, a horrible, painful thing that rips through his body and clouds his vision with dizzying vertigo. There’s another yelp, and his bed rattles in time with the sound of a shoe pounding against the floor.
“Shit—!” the man says, and there’s a cold shock against his arm where the water spills over the rim of the cup and splashes against his hospital gown. “God, shit—Yuu-kun, are you okay?”
It’s an arduous movement, and he has to squeeze his eyes closed to prevent the thick, burning lump of bile in his throat from being the next thing to stain his clothes, but he manages a shaky nod. “I’m…”
A finger presses to his lips, warm and soft. “Shh, you don’t have to talk if it’s hurting you. I’m just… You’re okay, so it’s… I mean. I should call everyone else.”
The finger pulls away too soon and sinks into the man’s pocket before producing a sleek, minimalist phone.
“Who…” Makoto takes a breath, tries again. “Who’s everyone?”
It comes out scratchy, hoarse, a barely-there whisper, but it’s enough to make the man pause, look up from the phone, look back at him. Makoto drinks it in—his eyes, which stare at him with a gentle desperation, as if he might break; his shoulders, which lean in toward him as if longing to embrace him; his fingers, poised over the phone screen but perfectly still as he listens.
“What do you mean, Yuu-kun?” The man lets out a dry chuckle and waves his phone in the air. “Your roommates, everyone in Trickstar—hell, everyone at ES at this point; you’re important to all of them, too.”
Makoto very deliberately, very carefully, shakes his head, gritting his teeth against the pain. “Trick...ster? ES? I…”
The phone drops onto the bed with the tiniest of thuds. “Yuu-kun?”
“Sorry, I…” The more Makoto tries to think, the more his head pounds, a thick mist covering every memory in a shroud of darkness. “Who?”
“Who?” the man repeats, as if tasting the word. “What do you mean? They’re your…”
Makoto stares at him, hoping for an answer.
“Yuu-kun,” he says instead. “Do you know who I am?”
Makoto’s brow furrows, and he shakes his head.
Those beautiful blue eyes widen and he throws himself at the wall. Makoto’s eyes follow him as he scrambles to press a button there, and then there’s a flurry of movement he can’t keep up with as a mechanical beep sounds and the man falls backwards into a nearby chair and the doors burst open to reveal a short woman in white.
Makoto grips the blanket in his hand, a lifeline against the nauseating activity around him. His head pounds; his thoughts disperse entirely as he concentrates on not emptying his stomach onto the bed.
The man reaches out, and for the second time Makoto is able to feel the warmth in his hands as fingers grab onto his arm—gingerly, carefully, never too rushed. His thumb rubs absentminded circles on Makoto’s forearm.
A new voice speaks up—the nurse. “I’m sorry, sir. What’s your relation to the patient?”
“I’m his—!” the man says, the last word seemingly caught in his throat. “I’m Sena Izumi. I’m his—his boyfriend, please.”
The nurse nods, and a chill settles in Makoto’s stomach, icy tendrils spreading out across his body—everywhere except where skin meets skin, where the man—where Izumi holds him as if he would break in his hands.
His boyfriend, his mind repeats over and over and over.
His boyfriend?
His boyfriend?
Makoto groans under his breath—Izumi squeezes his arm lightly. If Izumi’s his boyfriend then that’d mean… But…
He closes his eyes and tunes out the discussion crackling like static around him. Because he has to—he has to figure this out. Because how…
How would he forget something like that?
Now that he thinks about it, it makes sense. So does the whole “amnesia” thing the doctor talked about, but that’s not as pressing right now. Maybe it should be, but apparently there’s nothing he can do about it, not at the moment.
So Makoto focuses on what can be done, and what can be done is rectifying this mortifying situation.
“Um, Sena-san,” Makoto tries after he’s properly gotten some liquid in him. His throat is still hoarse from disuse, his head is still screaming in agony, but it’s better. Manageable.
He feels a stab of guilt far more painful than his headache when Izumi flinches.
“I mean uh—” Makoto racks his brain. How would he address him? What would the old him, the real him, call his—his boyfriend? “I–Izumi…?”
Izumi eyes him warily, but he never leaves his side. Even after the doctors and nurses have gone, Makoto can still hear Izumi’s breath above the beeping of the machines. And that’s why it makes sense.
Because why else would Izumi have stayed here, why else would Izumi have taken the first flight out of Italy to see him? To check if he was okay? Why else would his otherwise perfect skin be marred with the puffy redness of dried tears?
There’s a flutter in his chest when Izumi draws in close, grabs onto him again and fills him with that warmth he’s come to crave in this cold hospital room.
“What is it, Yuu-kun?” Izumi asks. “Do you need something? Are you hungry? I can call room service. Lemme just—”
“It’s fine.” Makoto can’t physically stop him, but it seems words are enough to make him pause, frozen in a half-sitting half-standing position—and then Izumi sinks back down into the chair and just stares at him.
“Do you really not remember anything…?” He speaks slowly, tentatively, each word punctuated with a question. “You don’t remember anyone? Or—or me?”
If Makoto weren’t strung up to an IV he would reach out, do something, to try and comfort him. But he’s effectively immobile, and moving too much jostles his head around, and so he settles with his raspy, dry voice. “I’m sorry. But… But I do remember you, Izumi. A little bit. You’re a… model, right?”
Izumi’s eyes flicker up to his, and his voice is small. “You remember me?”
“A little bit,” Makoto repeats. “I’m sorry, I don’t… I’m having trouble still. But um. You said you’re my—boyfriend, so I’m trying to…”
Izumi’s fingers clench around his arm, then quickly release. “No wait—Yuu-kun, that was—”
Makoto’s brow draws in and he frowns. It’s still hard to think through the fog in his brain, the pain beating against his skull. “What’s wrong, Izumi? I–I know you’re probably disappointed, but I’m—I’m trying to remember. Please don’t…”
A pang of icy fear grips his chest, and he can’t help but imagine himself, alone in this cold, sterile room, Izumi gone from his side.
“Please don’t give up on me yet.”
Izumi’s expression crumbles, breaking down all at once. When Izumi squeezes his arm again, he doesn’t let go. “I wouldn’t do that. Of course I wouldn’t do that. I can’t.”
Makoto releases a breath. “Thank you. I swear I’m trying, I just—It’s like there’s this fog in my head, so… It’s gonna get better, though. That’s what the doctor said, right?”
“Right.” Izumi nods. “It’s gonna be fine, Yuu-kun. You don’t have to push yourself. Just—just focus on getting better.”
The icy fear recedes, and Makoto settles into Izumi’s warmth, allowing his eyes to drift closed. “Thank you.”
“Huh?” Izumi says. “But I–I didn’t do anything, so—”
“You were here for me,” Makoto says before Izumi can finish. “It still kinda hurts to think, but the more I push myself, the more I’m sure you were… always there for me, right? Something like that. I’m glad I have someone like you in my life.”
Smooth, manicured nails press into his skin, but it doesn’t hurt. Izumi wouldn’t hurt him. “Yuu-kun, I think you should know—”
If Makoto breathes in deeply, he can smell traces of a fancy cologne on him. “I feel like I could fall in love with you all over again. So please wait for me, Izumi.”
Izumi lets out a tiny, strangled noise, and then there’s a sudden weight that dips the bed at Makoto’s side. He peeks an eye open to see Izumi’s face pressed into the blankets there.
“Yeah,” Izumi says, barely above a whisper. “I’ll wait for you.”
It’s not long before the room is filled with noise, and Makoto finds himself wishing for the peace and quiet of when it was just him and Izumi.
Makoto squints at the newcomers, their faces familiar and not, and when the one with orange hair and sparkling eyes shoves his face close to his, he reaches into his mind for a name—only to come up empty-handed.
“You remember me though, right Ukki?” he says, and Makoto tilts his head at what he can only assume to be a nickname. His head throbs, but it’s not as painful anymore.
“Um.” Makoto racks his brain, trying to remember everything Izumi told him. He’s an idol, he’s in a unit called Trickster—no, Trickstar—he has three other members who all care about him. “You’re the leader of Trickstar…? Hidaka-san, right?”
The boy’s bright smile flips upside down, and he slumps away and tugs at another one’s clothes. “Hokke, he doesn’t remember me. Me, of all people!”
“Naturally,” the one called Hokke says. “The doctor said it was amnesia, Akehoshi. He can’t control what he remembers.”
Then maybe he has it opposite. He points at the boy in blue, mirrors his tiny frown. “You’re Hidaka-san, then. And he’s…?”
“Akehoshi Subaru,” the boy finishes. “And I’m Hidaka Hokuto.”
“What all do you remember, Makoto?” another boy asks, and if he uses the process of elimination then… this must be Mao. Isara Mao, whose name had elicited a chuckle of sorts when it spilled from Izumi’s lips. Something about his childhood friend, but Makoto can’t seem to remember the names when he doesn’t have a face to go with them.
Makoto shakes his head. “Not much of anything. I know my name, my age…? Sometimes, someone’s face is familiar—like Izumi’s—but it’s hard to think right now.”
Mao’s eyebrows raise a little, and his eyes flicker to where Izumi sits in the chair at his bedside, then back to Makoto. “I see. Has Sena-senpai been here this whole time?”
Something about the situation, something about Izumi’s constant presence, brings a smile to Makoto’s face. “Yeah. He was here when I woke up, and he hasn’t left since. He’s been helping me a lot, since there’s so much I can’t remember.”
Izumi crosses his arms over his chest and turns up his nose at the others in the room. “Don’t get any stupid ideas. I just answered the questions he had.”
“Honestly…?” Mao asks, staring at him hard.
Izumi doesn’t respond—so Makoto speaks up instead. “I can’t imagine why he’d lie about it, Isara-san. In any case, he didn’t say anything bad.”
Subaru and Hokuto share a look that Makoto can’t decipher, then Subaru turns back to him. “Well, whatever. You know what’s what then, right? About how Trickstar’s the coolest unit ever and we’re your best friends and we’re making the world sparkle with our music!”
“More or less…” Makoto responds. It feels like Subaru draws the breath from the room when he speaks, like there’s a spotlight on him, like he is the energy that hums around them. It makes Makoto really believe that they make the world sparkle because if Subaru’s there, they never had any other option.
Hokuto’s hand clamps down on Subaru’s shoulder. “Akehoshi, calm down. He’s probably still tired.”
“No, I’m fine,” Makoto insists, fighting down the yawn that creeps up his throat. “If you just leave me alone, I’ll never remember how things are, you know?”
“You don’t have to push yourself, though,” Mao says. He stares at Makoto with a pitiful expression, like he’s a fragile doll about to break. “How about we all give you a break and go get lunch? We’ll bring you something back, promise.”
“You too, Sena-senpai.” Hokuto beckons him with a finger. “We have some questions for you.”
Izumi sighs and drags himself out of the chair. “As if I want to spend any time with you guys. But whatever, I’m hungry too.”
The fear of being alone stabs through Makoto’s stomach, and he reaches out desperately, stiffly, only to just barely catch the hem of Izumi’s shirt as he steps closer.
Izumi stops short anyway and looks down, instinctively taking Makoto’s hand in his own. It fills Makoto’s mind with possibilities—about what was, about what is. “Yuu-kun…?”
“Don’t…” He looks down. “Please don’t leave… yet.”
There’s a small noise of surprise from someone in the room, but Makoto doesn’t look up to see who made it. Izumi falls back into his chair without hesitation.
“Yuuki?” Hokuto asks.
Makoto whips his head up. “Ah, sorry. I mean, you guys go ahead, I just—there’s a few more things I want to ask Izumi about.”
“Why d’you wanna talk to that seaweed head?” Subaru asks, and Makoto does his best to ignore the name.
“Um, well,” Makoto hedges, but there’s something comforting about the way he clings to Izumi, and the way Izumi clings back. “I figured he should be able to tell me more about myself, since we’re dating and all.”
There’s a silence, then an explosion.
“You’re what?!” Subaru shouts, a flashbang of emotion that leaves Makoto blinded and stunned, reeling with the force.
“You?! Sena-senpai—?!” Mao lurches forward, but the bed is between them. He stops short before he knocks into it.
Izumi clenches his hand tighter around Makoto’s. “You’re all so annoying. Can’t you tell Yuu-kun’s exhausted?”
“Wait,” Hokuto says, physically holding Mao back. “Sena-senpai has a point. We shouldn’t do this here.”
“Yuu-kun,” and when Izumi smiles down at him it’s warm and strained all at once. Makoto wants to question it, but he isn’t sure where to begin—so he stays quiet. “I think I’m gonna go with them after all. Just hang tight for a few minutes; I’ll be right back, okay?”
It doesn’t ease the worries in his mind, in his gut, but he lets go of Izumi’s hand. “Y–yeah, that’s fine. Go ahead.”
Izumi reaches out toward his face, then pulls back too suddenly when his eyes catch sight of the bandages wrapped around Makoto’s head. “Just wait for me here.”
Makoto nods. “I will.”
It’s probably not appropriate to call this their first date. For one, they’ve apparently been dating for at least a year, and Makoto can’t imagine that they’ve never been on a date before. And even if they hadn’t, he can hardly call the hospital cafeteria romantic.
Still, Izumi’s eyes are sparkling as he offers Makoto a sip of his drink. “You’ve gotta be thirsty, right Yuu-kun?”
Makoto nods, and even though he has some water of his own, he takes the paper cup from Izumi’s hands and lets his fingers linger when they brush against Izumi’s—as if they’re giddy high schoolers just learning how things work.
And maybe he is—Izumi is a year older than him, after all. And according to the various rundowns he’s been given, Makoto is just a high schooler. On summer break, thank god—he wouldn’t want to deal with a pileup of homework due to this—but still just a kid.
Izumi’s graduated, an adult living abroad, and while the fleeting thought passes through his mind as to why Izumi left Japan when Makoto’s still here, he doesn’t press the issue. It’s not a problem right now, and he’d rather not bring up such potentially unpleasant topics when there’s still so much he doesn’t remember.
“Izumi, you’ve barely touched your food,” Makoto points out instead, pointing his fork at his plate.
“You expect me to eat this trash?” Izumi wrinkles his nose and pushes the food away. “Absolutely not. I’m having Naru-kun bring me something later.”
“You’re a picky eater?” Makoto guesses.
Izumi scoffs. “More like I care about what I put into my body. If you hadn’t… you know, if that hadn’t—Anyway, under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t let you eat this, either.”
Makoto frowns down at the mushy potatoes. “It’s not that bad.”
“It looks disgusting.”
Makoto laughs once and scoops up a spoonful. “C’mon, Izumi, I’m sure you’ll change your mind if you just try it.”
“Yuu-kun, get that away from me.” Izumi pushes himself as far away from the table as the back of his chair will let him, but Makoto leans forward, arm outstretched, trailing the spoon in a spiral toward him.
“Open wide,” Makoto sings, a wide, cheeky grin on his face, and Izumi’s eyes flicker between him and the gross-looking potatoes so fast he feels dizzy just watching it.
“No! Yuu-kun, sto—!” When Izumi’s mouth is open just wide enough, Makoto takes his chance and strikes, popping the spoon directly in. He lets go and drops his elbows to the table, just narrowly avoiding the plates there.
Izumi retches, the spoon hanging out of his mouth, and then he swallows thick and slow. When he rips the spoon out, his tongue and a loud, exaggerated gag come with it. “What the hell was that about?!”
Makoto just stretches his grin until he can feel it pull at his muscles. “See? It wasn’t so bad.”
“It absolutely was that bad!” Izumi protests, snatching his water cup back and downing it in one gulp. He slams it on the table and finally lets himself relax, falling forward in the chair—and coming nose-to-nose with Makoto.
Through silvery hair, Makoto can see the tips of his ears flush an unattractive pink, and Izumi tries pulling away. But Makoto reaches out and stops him. “Wait.”
“H–huh?” Izumi’s gaze darts around everywhere and nowhere all at once, his mouth opening to form words then closing before he can make a sound. It’s cute, Makoto thinks, seeing him so flustered when he’s usually so calm and collected around everyone else.
So he musters up his courage and pecks a kiss onto Izumi’s cheek. It’s probably nothing compared to before, compared to the year they’ve spent together. But he has to start somewhere, even if it’s small.
Izumi pushes him away, and Makoto teeters backwards until he falls back into his chair. “Yuu-kun?! What, wh—!”
Makoto looks down at the table, suddenly sheepish, suddenly second-guessing himself. “I, um. Sorry, I just thought… I just got a little overwhelmed, and. And I wanted to show you how grateful I am that you’re here, Izumi. With me, I mean. Through all of this.”
He gestures a little around him. When Izumi doesn’t respond, Makoto looks up and braces himself for the worst.
But Izumi’s just sitting there, eyes wide, hand cupping his cheek. Makoto fidgets in his chair. “Izumi…?”
Izumi squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “I—Sorry, I. You—”
Makoto tilts his head.
“I didn’t think…” Izumi takes a breath. “I didn’t think you’d ever kiss me.”
Makoto tilts his head further. “What do you mean? Have we… Wait, oh no—Was that our first…?”
Izumi jumps in his seat and reaches out toward him—What that accomplishes, Makoto can’t say. “No! I mean, it’s—I meant I didn’t think you’d kiss me um, again. Now. Here. With all of this going on!”
“Should I not have…?” Makoto asks, and a pit of regret turns over in his stomach and folds into the gross mushy potatoes sitting there.
Izumi’s knee bangs into the table as he stands up and leans over, hands planted firmly on its surface. “No. Yuu-kun, you—It’s fine, I just. I wasn’t expecting it.”
His face is red now, but still he tilts his head and returns the kiss to Makoto’s cheek. The spot where his soft lips touch tingles with something exciting and vibrant, and yeah, Makoto thinks he really will fall in love all over again.
Makoto is greeted with more fanfare than expected when he’s released from the hospital, and sure, maybe he should have expected it, supposedly being an idol and all, but when the cameras turn on him and flashes blink in and out of existence, he can’t help the dread that courses through him, the sense of urgency that tells him to get the hell out of here right now.
So he does, pushing into the car as fast as he can to escape behind the glass windows. He’s overreacting, he knows it, but it doesn’t calm his breathing, it doesn’t still his heart. When he closes his eyes, the bright lights of the cameras are still there.
“Hey,” Izumi says, because he’s still here, too. He’s always here, wherever Makoto goes, and when Izumi puts a hand on his knee, the clicks and flashes seem to fade away. “You okay?”
“I’m—Yeah, I’m…” He trails off because when he opens his eyes and looks at Izumi, there’s a frown on his face, a wrinkle in his brow. He’s concerned, for Makoto, about Makoto.
He feels safe here.
“It’s just the—the cameras. I dunno, maybe I just didn’t expect so many of them—”
Izumi puts a hand on his knee. “Yuu-kun, it’s fine. It’s normal, okay? This is—It’s why you left modeling. Mostly.”
“The cameras?” Makoto muses. Even now, he struggles to imagine himself as a model, working alongside Izumi since childhood. The kid in the magazines Izumi had shown him doesn’t look like him, doesn’t act like him. There are so many little blond boys in the world; the kid on the cover could be anyone.
But deep down he knows that’s not true. Something stirs in him when he sees the boy on those covers, when he sees another boy with blue eyes and silver hair next to him. He’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t recognize them.
He wonders what was so bad about the industry that made him like this. He wonders why Izumi’s still so deeply entrenched in it.
“Yuu-kun.” Izumi’s frowning, which isn’t anything new. Makoto forces a smile, leans over in his seat, and squeezes Izumi’s hand.
“I’m fine, Izumi,” he says, and he’s about eighty percent sure he means it. These thoughts, these feelings—they’re all in the past. From a time he can’t remember and isn’t sure he wants to. He can put this behind him and keep moving forward.
But Izumi doesn’t seem convinced. “No, that’s stupid.”
He shrugs off his blazer and reaches across Makoto, so close their chests are practically pressed together, and hangs it on the pull-down hook on the grab handle. The car dims considerably as the thick fabric of his jacket blocks the light—and the paparazzi.
And suddenly all of Makoto’s worries feel so silly, now that there are no peering eyes on them, now that it really is just them two in this little space. So he acts on this sudden burst of confidence and presses a short kiss into Izumi’s head where his hair tickles Makoto’s nose.
“Thank you,” he breathes out with his relief.
“Wh—?!” Izumi pulls away too quickly, leaving a draft of uncomfortably cold air in his wake. “What are you thanking me for?”
Makoto chuckles at how poorly Izumi is hiding how flustered he is—crossed arms, a turned-up nose, pink ears, all of it incriminating, all of it endearing. “For looking out for me. You always do a lot for me, don’t you?”
Izumi stumbles over an unintelligible string of words before he can settle on something. “Well, that’s—Of course I would, duh. Why wouldn’t I?”
Makoto’s lips quirk up in a smile. “That’s what I mean, then. Aha, I really am lucky.”
“Lucky…?” Izumi stills, peeking down his nose at him.
“To be dating someone as great as you.” Makoto nods once and reaches out to tuck Izumi’s hair behind his ears. It’s warm where skin meets skin, where his hand meets the burning red of Izumi’s deepening flush.
Izumi pulls away, and the chill returns.
“Izumi?”
“Yuu-kun, um.” He looks down at his hands—opens them, clenches them into fists. “I don’t know if we should…”
Makoto squints and leans over, a spike of anxiety piercing from deep in his gut up into his throat. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No!” Izumi looks up suddenly, eyes wild, frantic. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You could never do anything wrong. You’re perfect, Yuu-kun. That’s—that’s the problem.”
Makoto makes a little noise of confusion and tilts his head, not sure if he even wants Izumi to finish his thoughts.
Izumi looks back down. “Yuu-kun, I don’t think we should do this.”
Makoto freezes, ice forming in his veins. “What?”
“I’m not—None of this is what you think. You don’t—you can’t remember, but—”
“Wait.” Makoto presses a finger to Izumi’s lips, cutting him off. “Sorry Izumi, this probably isn’t what you want to hear, but—I don’t think I care.”
Izumi makes a noise.
“I’m trying hard to make things normal—for you, for me, for us, but.” Makoto takes a breath. “I don’t know what happened in the past. I only know what’s in front of me right now. I only know you right now. For me, this is all that exists, so… I don’t know what’s eating you up, but I don’t think it matters.”
Izumi squeaks behind Makoto’s finger, but he stays still, doesn’t protest.
“You’re here in front of me, Izumi. That’s what I see. I don’t care about the past. It’s the you that’s sitting next to me, helping me—That’s who I love.”
Izumi shoots up straight and grabs at Makoto’s finger, his hand shaking like crazy. “What did you say?”
Makoto flashes a funny little smile. “I said I love you, Izumi. Who you are now, here. That’s what matters—to me, at least. I’d really like it if you felt the same.”
Izumi trembles, so slightly that it’s only because they’re touching that Makoto can tell. His eyes are wide, his lips are parted, and he looks young and vulnerable, like he might break apart. After a silence that spans a heartbeat, he takes a breath. “Really?”
Even his voice is small, unsure, and it piques Makoto’s curiosity in a way that almost has him asking just what happened in their past to make Izumi react like this. But that would defeat the purpose of this whole conversation, and so he chases the thoughts away with images of Izumi’s expression now, of his eyes and lips and pink cheeks. “Of course. You make it hard not to.”
Tears well up in Izumi’s eyes.
“Izumi?!” Makoto’s hands fly everywhere in a frenzy before settling themselves on Izumi’s cheeks, frantically wiping away the tears.
Izumi sniffs once, wet and gross and ugly. “Ah—Sorry, I–I was just—You just—I was surprised, that’s all.”
“Are you okay?!” Makoto runs his thumbs against Izumi’s perfect cheeks again before the tears can stain them.
“I’m fine, I’m—” He takes a shaky, emotional breath. “I’m happy. I didn’t think I was allowed to be happy anymore.”
The confession stabs right through Makoto’s heart, and before he’s even consciously aware of it he’s gathering Izumi in his arms and pecking kisses across his face. Izumi melts into him without any resistance and lets himself be held.
“Me, too,” Makoto whispers into Izumi’s hair. “I’m happy, too.”
Makoto leans his head back against the mirror and blinks a few times to clear his vision. It’s not that he’s particularly exhausted, but watching Trickstar practice their choreography in slow motion for an hour straight is hardly stimulating.
“Does that make sense, Yuuki?” Hokuto asks, and Makoto jumps.
“Uh, yeah! It’s just a little spin, right? I can handle that much.” He almost moves to get up, but a disapproving glare from Mao keeps him in his place.
“You can practice the real thing with us in a few days, when you’re feeling better,” he says, and Makoto sinks back against the wall with a nod.
“Don’t you think he’d learn better if he was doing it, though?” Subaru proposes, and Makoto’s heart almost bursts with anticipation. “You gotta get up and move if you wanna learn how to dance! Only Eichi-senpai can do stuff like watching videos forever and ever.”
“He’s still recovering,” Hokuto explains, his harsh tone a warning in itself. “And besides, he doesn’t even remember any of our songs. There’s no way he can perform with us right now.”
“Well yeah, but he’s not gonna learn them if he just sits there.” Subaru folds his arms, confident in his comeback.
Hokuto mimics the pose and frowns. “He’s not doing anything until his injuries are fully healed.”
“Um,” Makoto tries, shifting forward as if to physically re-insert himself into the conversation they’re having about him. “I feel fine, really.”
“Just because you feel fine doesn’t mean you are fine, Makoto,” Mao says. “And besides, there’s still the matter of the—you know.”
Of course Makoto knows, and it’s only made clearer when Mao awkwardly gestures at his own head.
He sighs and pushes himself up from the floor. Yes, it makes him feel a little lightheaded, and yes, he admits that he shouldn’t be doing strenuous physical activity right now. But even so—“I get it. But just because I don’t remember much about you guys or our past or our songs and choreography—it doesn’t mean I can’t do my job.”
Mao and Subaru share a look behind Hokuto’s head, but Hokuto keeps a level gaze trained on Makoto. “Trickstar’s strength is in our synergy and bonds with each other, Yuuki. Right now, you have no bonds with us.”
The words stab through Makoto like ice, but with his hand already steady on the wall, he doesn’t waver.
“Until we can regain that, we won’t be able to perform at our full strength.”
“Hokuto’s right,” Mao says with a weary chuckle, “even if he could have said that better. So you shouldn’t push yourself so hard right now anyway. Our fans know you’re on leave for the time being, so there’s nothing to worry about.”
“It’s all so you can focus on recovering!” Subaru’s voice is loud, but it lacks that certain pep he’d seen when they’d first met at the hospital. “So you can come back to us, Ukki.”
Makoto gets it; he really does. He can’t imagine what he’d do if the positions were reversed. If he were the one whose closest friend had become a stranger overnight. If, say, he’d lost Izumi in the same way Izumi lost him.
“I’m gonna go refill my water bottle,” he says, pushing off the wall. “You guys can get some real practice in while I’m gone.”
He hears some weak protests, but he doesn’t care to listen to them.
When the door to the practice room clicks shut behind him, he realizes he doesn’t even know where to go from here. According to Izumi, ES has only existed for a few months, so Makoto can’t imagine he’d know its layout by heart even if he hadn’t lost his memories.
Or maybe past him was really good with directions—he wouldn’t know. And frankly, he doesn’t care one way or another. It doesn’t help him find the cafe.
He pulls out his phone to look for a map of this unnecessarily large building, but his finger pauses on his home button when he sees a notification light up his screen. It’s from Izumi, which even without the name he can tell because of the string of heart emojis so long they run off into a little ellipses.
It’s cute, Makoto thinks, and before he can decide against it he’s tapping out a reply. Izumi’s still on break from idol activities right now anyway; he can’t be that busy. So he asks where Izumi is, if he wants to meet up, if he can guide Makoto through this impossible labyrinth just so he doesn’t have to do it alone.
“Whatcha doing?”
Makoto jumps and tries to pretend the squeaky noise that echoes through the hall didn’t just come from him. When he spins around, there’s some guy with black hair and red eyes and skin so pale he looks like a—
“You’re Sakuma Ritsu,” he guesses based on everything Izumi’s told him. “Right?”
“Right.” Ritsu nods once and leans in, sniffing deeply. “You smell better than usual, Yuu-kun. Did you stop eating all that junk food?”
Makoto takes a step back, as far out of Ritsu’s space as the hallway will allow. “Wh—?”
“Don’t worry.” Ritsu waves his hand in the air and yawns. “Secchan told me all about your condition.”
“That’s not what I was worried about,” Makoto admits under his breath.
An evil smile curls at Ritsu’s lips. “Oh? Did you think I was gonna take a bite out of you? But I think Secchan would be mad at me if I played with his toys.”
Makoto’s gut roils. “I’m not his toy.”
“Semantics.” He waves his hand again. “You’re being nice to him, right Yuu-kun? Secchan came all the way back here for you, after all.”
Makoto nods. “I know. And I’m grateful. Of course, I’d want to do the same thing if I were in his place—but then again, I hope it never comes to that.”
Ritsu raises an eyebrow. “Are you finally a happy couple now?”
“Finally…?” Makoto repeats, chewing on the word for a moment. Curiosity builds in his chest, but he pushes it down with a shake of his head. “We’re fine. I may have gotten hurt, but I don’t love him any less than I did before.”
“Before…” Ritsu stares at him for a moment—or perhaps it would be more accurate to say he stares into him, peering into his mind and extracting what he wants to know.
Good luck, Makoto thinks bitterly. There’s not much up there.
“I think I get it,” Ritsu says finally. “Secchan really hit the jackpot with this one. Hey Yuu-kun, you’re an expert now, so what do you think I’d have to do to give Maa-kun amnesia?”
Makoto yelps wordlessly. “Maa-kun? D–do you mean Isara-san? You can’t just—”
“Just kidding.” Ritsu sticks out his tongue playfully. “Mostly.”
The buzz of his phone serves as enough of an excuse to ignore Ritsu and the unnerving emotions he inspires, so he unlocks it and puts it up to his face to see that Izumi’s finally responded.
Nestled within even more strings of heart emojis and sweet nothings is something that Makoto can kind of understand, although the unending yes yes yes yes yeses make it hard to tell exactly what he’s doing and where to go. And of course, he doesn’t explain how to get there.
“Is that Secchan?” Ritsu asks, plucking the phone out of Makoto’s hand without any mind to etiquette or the concept of personal property. He blinks once, lazily, and then again, this time much more alert. He scrolls up, then down, then looks back at Makoto with wide eyes. “Wow.”
“What?” Makoto says, squirming under the heat of Ritsu’s red gaze.
He hands the phone back to Makoto, almost as if in a rush to get rid of it. “I didn’t think he could ever get worse, but.”
Makoto looks back down at the messages. “Was he not always like this?”
“Oh no, he was,” Ritsu assures him. “But it’s like you dialed him up to eleven somehow. Good job doing the impossible, I guess.”
Makoto isn’t sure if he should feel flattered or not, so he decides to drop the subject altogether. “Sakuma-san, do you—”
“Ritsu,” he corrects, raising his hand up to cut him off. “I don’t mind it as much anymore, but I still have a brother. It’d get confusing if we were both called Sakuma.”
Makoto nods and turns his phone screen to face Ritsu, tapping between the chunks of red and green hearts. “Ritsu-san, then. Do you know where this place is? Um, cafe COCHI?”
“You want me to take you there?” Ritsu grimaces. “That sounds annoying. But I guess I’ll do it… for Secchan’s sake, anyway.”
Makoto lets out a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Ritsu-san. I have no idea how to navigate this building, so you’re saving me a lot of time.”
Ritsu hums and sets off toward the elevators, not bothering to check if Makoto’s following behind. Makoto hurries after him, and because Ritsu doesn’t continue their conversation, he lets the hallway dissolve into silence.
But when they get in the elevator and Makoto is essentially trapped, Ritsu turns to stare at him.
“Hey, Yuu-kun,” he says, and Makoto’s heart rate spikes. “You’re not faking, right?”
“Wh—huh?” Makoto takes a step back, the cool metal wall of the elevator pressing up against him. “Excuse me?”
Ritsu raises an eyebrow. “You really did forget all about Secchan?”
“Yeah, I mean—” Makoto swallows. “I forgot about everyone, everything. It’s not just Izumi. What are you—?”
“Hm.” Ritsu turns back to face the elevator doors. “Fine. But make sure you don’t hurt him again, Yuu-kun. He’s been through enough already thanks to you.”
“Me?” Makoto can’t help it—He starts thinking. But there’s still a fog up there clouding whatever memories he might have left. He clutches his head where it starts pounding, where the scar is. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m sure,” Ritsu replies coolly. “Well, whatever. It doesn’t matter in the end. But if he gets hurt because of this little game you guys are playing, I’m gonna get mad.”
The elevator dings, and Ritsu glances over his shoulder at him.
“Okay?”
As he walks away, Makoto can’t help but feel this is all too familiar. Which makes no sense—He’s never met Ritsu before. But the guilt tossing and turning in his stomach isn’t fresh, and the echos following Ritsu’s words seem too distant.
He follows Ritsu out of the elevator and all the way to the cafe in complete silence.
Izumi is standing outside the entrance, glancing around feverishly in pursuit of something. Makoto seems to be that something, because he abandons his post immediately and rushes them both, flinging his arms around Makoto and pulling him into a warm, gentle hug.
“Yuu-kun!” he gushes. “I was worried you got lost.”
“It would have helped if you gave me some directions, Izumi,” Makoto grumbles, but he returns the hug nonetheless. “Ritsu-san helped me find my way, though.”
“Kuma-kun.” Izumi’s voice goes hard, and Ritsu snickers under his breath. “You didn’t say anything dumb to Yuu-kun, did you?”
“Oh no, of course not,” he replies, a cheeky grin in his voice. “It was just pleasant chitchat. Right, Yuu-kun?”
Whatever response Makoto might have had catches in his throat as the phantom guilt threatens to overtake them, so he clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah, that’s all it was.”
Izumi visibly relaxes, slumping over enough to rest his chin on Makoto’s shoulder. “Good. Now could you give us some privacy, Kuma-kun? I’m on a date here.”
Makoto can imagine the scowl on Izumi’s face, and he bites down a snicker of his own.
“Sure, sure,” Ritsu says, already stepping back. “My nap got interrupted, anyway. Remember we’re having practice tonight, Secchan. Don’t let your date get in the way of it.”
“Whatever. I’ll be there.” He pulls away from Makoto but never breaks contact. “You’re sure he didn’t say anything weird?”
Makoto shakes his head, and somehow it feels like the fog is clearing. “Nope, nothing weird. C’mon, Izumi. What do you recommend here, anyway?”
Izumi’s smile is perfectly blinding as he pulls Makoto into the cafe.
He doesn’t know what Ritsu was going on about back there—Had he hurt Izumi before? Had something happened between them? But—but he shakes his head and pulls Izumi more tightly against him. It doesn’t matter what happened in the past. He knows he’ll never hurt Izumi again. He’s sure of it.
Izumi gets to work picking out the shrimp from Makoto’s dish before Makoto himself even realizes what’s happening.
So he whacks him lightly with his chopsticks. “What’re you doing, Izumi? Don’t steal my food!”
“What?” Izumi looks up and blinks twice before some sort of realization dawns on his face. “Oh, I mean. You don’t like shrimp, remember?”
Makoto stares at him. “No, I don’t remember.”
Izumi closes his mouth.
“Let me try,” he insists. “I’d rather be the judge of that—Not that I don’t trust you, it’s just… something I want to do for myself.”
“Fine, fine,” Izumi says, holding up his hands in surrender—but still eyeing the shrimp hungrily. “Go ahead, Yuu-kun. Maybe you’ll find you’ve developed a taste for them now.”
Makoto shrugs and plucks a shrimp off Izumi’s plate, shoving it right into his mouth—and then immediately regretting it. It ends up in his napkin, chewed up and mushy and nauseating to look at, so he folds the napkin as quickly as he can and pushes it halfway across the table.
Izumi raises an eyebrow.
Makoto stares back. “Yeah yeah, I get it. Just take the shrimp already.”
Izumi’s smile is bright and uninhibited as he piles a double serving of shrimp onto his plate. “See, Yuu-kun? I know everything about you. Well, you’ve been like this since we were kids, after all. It’d be weirder if I didn’t know this.”
“Why would it be weird for you to know a lot about me?” The question isn’t aimed at Izumi in particular, but it still makes his eyes bulge and he still shoves a shrimp too quickly into his mouth.
“It’s not!” The words force themselves from his throat as soon as he swallows. “‘Cause we’re. We’re dating, so.”
Makoto hums, twirling his chopsticks in the air between them. “Right. We’re dating.”
It feels nice to say, to have it affirmed out loud. Between the worried glances he gets from everyone else, between the dissonant, uncomfortable things people say to him only to backtrack or divert the conversation—between all of the peculiarities and things that don’t seem to quite add up, he can still cling to this one certainty: that he is Izumi’s, and Izumi is his.
Right?
“We’re dating,” Izumi says again, more to himself than Makoto. It stirs up that same confusion that seems to follow him everywhere nowadays, lingering in the strange glances people give them or the things left unsaid.
“Hey Izumi,” Makoto tries. “Do you not come back here often? To ES, to Japan I guess.”
“Huh?” Izumi lifts his eyes and a shrimp falls out of his chopsticks and back onto his plate. “I guess not…? I’m trying to make a name for myself over in Italy right now, so the more time I spend here, the less people are going to remember me.”
Makoto nods once. “Oh, then maybe that’s why.”
“Why what?”
“Did you not notice?” Makoto makes a small gesture around them. “It feels like everyone’s been watching us lately. Or—I guess it could be my fault, too. Since I’m such a hot topic right now. But I only really notice it when you’re with me, Izumi.”
Izumi purses his lips together. “Yeah. It’s gotta be something like that. Or maybe they’re just jealous.”
“Jealous?”
Izumi’s head dips low to hide his smile. “Of us, I mean.”
Makoto thinks for a moment. “Man, that’s corny.”
Izumi chokes on his shrimp—the ultimate betrayal. “Excuse me?!”
Makoto bursts out into peals of laughter, doubling over at his waist until his hair threatens to brush against his food. “It is!”
When Makoto manages to look up, he sees Izumi pouting, slumped over in his seat like a child on the verge of a tantrum. It fills Makoto’s heart with an indescribable emotion, and he finds himself sobering up real quick in the wake of this pure affection.
“But, aha, you’re right. I’d be jealous too, I guess.” He grabs his own chopsticks and picks up the shrimp, goading Izumi to take it—and he does, reluctantly.
“Well, obviously I’m right.” Izumi scoffs. “I’m always right, after all.”
Makoto nods along complacently, letting himself feed Izumi’s ego just this once. “Of course, of course. It just seems weird… like people keep holding themselves back when they’re talking to me, like they want to say something but they’re afraid to.”
Izumi doesn’t respond, instead nudging at his shrimp with his chopsticks.
“Izumi? You okay…?”
Ah, he realizes as his head begins to pound. He’s thinking too much. Worrying too much about the past, pushing too deep into the fog.
It’s been clearer lately, but he’s carefully avoiding the thick blanket of gray that settles around the past, pointedly looking away when he finds himself too lost in thought. But now, as he wanders and wonders, he can’t stop inching forward toward those small pockets where the fog is lifting, where he could just grab onto a memory and take it home with him.
Through the pain in his head, he hears voices. Angry voices—and he realizes with a start that they’re Izumi and—and Subaru. The shouting is unintelligible until a third voice, his voice, mingles in, calling for help. In his mind’s eye he sees white. A reflection—himself. He shouts out again—
“Yuu-kun?” Izumi asks, and his voice is clear, close, and Makoto blinks and he’s suddenly in the present again, across the table from Izumi in a cafe. His phantom anxiety dies down, then becomes tangible worry when he notices the genuine, vulnerable frown Izumi wears.
Makoto shakes his head. “Sorry, Izumi. I’m okay. But… are you?”
Izumi looks away, down at his food, around the cafe. “Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Makoto shrugs. There’s an echo of his voice in his mind still. It has hard edges he doesn’t recognize, at least not any longer. Izumi’s voice now is gentle, comforting, never too harsh or too distant.
He squirms in his seat.
“You just seem upset,” Makoto says. “Did I say something weird?”
Izumi bites his lip and shakes his head. “No, you didn’t. You never did anything wrong, after all. It was always—”
When Izumi doesn’t finish, Makoto leans in. “Always?”
“Nothing,” Izumi says, shoveling another shrimp into his mouth. “Never mind.”
That’s the end of that conversation, Makoto supposes, but it doesn’t quiet the voices ringing in his ears.
Whispers fill his dreams and applause fills his days, and when the rest of Trickstar is impressed by how accurately he’s gotten the choreography down, Makoto finally accepts reality.
“It really feels like you’ve come back to us, Ukki!” Subaru says, leaning bodily against the mirrored wall in the practice room. “Whatcha think, Hokke-sensei? Did he pass your test?”
“What’s with that name…” Hokuto gives him a look, but ultimately shakes it off—probably for the best, honestly. “But I agree. We were moving together as one this time.”
“What d’ya say then, Makoto?” Mao says, taking a swig from his water bottle. “Should we start planning your comeback live?”
Makoto laughs a little. “If that’s what you guys think is best. I’ve gotten kinda tired of just sitting pretty like someone’s doll.”
Images flash in his mind, and he pushes them aside.
Subaru cheers, spinning around and landing directly on top of Hokuto, the momentum propelling them both across the room in a haphazard, flailing sort of waltz. “Ukki’s coming back! Ukki’s coming back!”
“Stop shouting!” Hokuto scolds, but even he can’t stop the smile that tugs at his lips. He looks over his shoulder back at Makoto as Subaru spins him around. “But I’m glad, Yuuki. It’ll be good to have you back.”
“Yep,” Mao says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “We’re not Trickstar without you, after all.”
“I guess that’s true…” Makoto knows it’s true, now that he can hear the thunderous applause of the SS auditorium ringing in his ears, now that he can see hands reaching out to him in his mind’s eye. “I’m glad to be back.”
“You’re all patched up now, so we shouldn’t have to worry about anything, right?” Mao asks, scanning Makoto’s face for some indication that he’ll fall apart if he really does start up idol activities once again.
Makoto shakes his head. “I’ll be fine. No pain anywhere, and the doctor gave his go-ahead, remember?”
“Right.” Mao breathes out and wipes the sweat from his forehead. “Speaking of remembering, what’s going on with all that?”
Makoto swallows and immediately presses his own water bottle to his lips, downing its contents in large, slow gulps. When all that’s left is air, he realizes he has nothing else to do but answer. “Um—uh, I think it’s going. Going okay, I mean.”
“Okay…?” Mao repeats, his brow furrowing in suspicion. “What does that even mean?”
“Have you started remembering things?” Hokuto asks, breaking out of the dance and leaving Subaru to spin and spin and spin helplessly into the opposite wall. They all wince when he crashes and falls into their bags.
“I’m fine! Thanks for nothing, Hokke!” Subaru jumps back up and sticks his tongue out before prancing back over to them. “But but! Did Ukki say he’s remembering stuff?”
Makoto looks away and grips at his sweat jacket. “Just some… small things.”
“Small things?” Hokuto raises an eyebrow.
Not now, Makoto thinks. “Yeah, just some small things. Like, uh—” He racks his brain for something, anything, that would suffice. “Like why I started wearing glasses, or—or when you guys invited me to join Trickstar.”
Subaru hums in approval, nodding seriously as he considers Makoto’s answer. Then his face splits open with a wide grin, and he leaps at Makoto, arms thrown wide. “That’s great! You’re gonna be good as new in no time at all!”
“The doctor did say you should regain your memories as all that head trauma goes away,” Mao says. “Good to know he was right.”
“Yeah,” Makoto says even as he feels a pit of discomfort and worry form in his stomach. “I’m glad.”
It’s that same night, after Makoto has asked Adonis to stay out late and forcibly kicked Chiaki out of their room, that Izumi is sitting in Makoto’s bed with Makoto’s head in his lap, humming a song that feels painfully familiar now as he runs his fingers through his hair.
There’s a smile on his face, but Makoto can’t bring himself to look at it. Instead, he squirms a little bit in place, tossing and turning until his back is to Izumi.
“Huh?” Izumi says, a little offended huff punctuating it. “Yuu-kun, come back. If you don’t like that song, I can sing another one, okay?”
There’s a desperate whine in his voice that has Makoto clenching his eyes closed, a shield of protection against the affection that wraps around him in dulcet tones and warm praise. “Izumi-san.”
“Yes, Yuu-ku—?” Izumi breaks off, nearly choking on his words.
With a sigh, Makoto pulls himself upright and teases his hair into something more presentable. He finally looks at Izumi, really looks at Izumi, and—
The color is drained from his face, his wide eyes even bluer in its contrast. His hand hovers in the air where Makoto had just been, and it shakes almost violently—his whole body is shaking. His mouth hangs open in forgotten speech, words lost on his tongue. And he looks young, vulnerable, scared.
Makoto stares at him hard. “What’s with that reaction, Izumi-san? You didn’t think I’d be like that for the rest of my life, did you?”
Izumi’s hand falls into his lap. “I—”
He swallows, but no more words seem to be coming. So Makoto continues. “You had to have known you were playing with fire, right?”
“Yuu-kun—” Izumi tries, but it comes out strangled, weak.
“You really had me fooled, you know.” Makoto quirks up a smile, tries to keep it neutral. “I was so convinced by everything you said, everything you did. I didn’t even question it. I didn’t let myself question it.”
Izumi’s big, fearful eyes are watery now, a line of tears threatening to spill over onto his perfect cheeks. “Yuu-kun, I’m—”
“I just let myself love you.” Makoto sighs again and runs a hand through his hair, messing up what he’d tried so hard to fix just moments before.
Izumi balls his hands into the fabric of his shirt where it pools at his hips. “I’m sorry, Yuu-kun, I just—You don’t get it, you were just so—I was so—”
“Happy?” Makoto guesses.
“Happy…” Izumi confirms in a small voice, a distant voice, a pitiful, tragic voice. “I didn’t think this could ever happen, that I could—that you would ever love me back.”
“I don’t really think lying and pretending to be my boyfriend when I’m incapacitated and vulnerable is the way to get that,” Makoto says.
Izumi nods once, lowering his head—perhaps so Makoto can’t see the tears spill over. “I didn’t want to. At first. But then you said all those things to me, and you made me believe that—that I could finally get what I wanted so badly, and…”
“You’re blaming me for this?” Makoto raises an eyebrow.
“No!” Izumi says quickly, fists tightening around his shirt. “I’m blaming myself. You didn’t do anything wrong—You never do. I was too weak, too… stupid or, or something. And I fucked everything up.”
“You sure did,” Makoto confirms, and Izumi sniffs, loud and wet and disgusting. Makoto curls up a lip at that. “Izumi-san.”
Izumi only hums out a pitiful response. He doesn’t raise his head.
So Makoto raises it for him, slipping a hand under his chin and forcing him to look Makoto in the eye. The sight of his tear-stained face is a stark contrast to that perfect, gorgeous one he presents to the world. This is a face only Makoto gets to see, he realizes. “Izumi-san, I get it. It doesn’t excuse anything, but I’m not mad.”
Izumi blinks. “You’re—you’re not mad…?”
Makoto just rolls his eyes. “I think you’re a complete idiot, but.”
“But?” Izumi squeaks.
“But… I let myself love you, Izumi-san,” Makoto repeats, stronger this time. “And in return you gave me a dream. I’m still having trouble coming to terms with everything—the past, the present, all these iterations of me—but. I don’t want to wake up from this dream with you.”
Izumi jumps—then looks around, as if searching for hidden cameras. Makoto chuckles and forces him to look back at him, only him. “Yuu-kun, what…?”
“Izumi-san, I love you,” Makoto says. “For real this time. The me who remembers everything, who knows everything we’ve been through together—that’s who loves you.”
Izumi’s lips part, but he says nothing. Instead, his eyes search Makoto’s face for something.
But whatever it is Izumi’s looking for, Makoto doesn’t let him find it. He pulls him forward and lets their lips brush against each other, ignoring the way Izumi yelps and flails about with all the grace of a teenager experiencing his first love. It’s in a way more real than any of the other kisses they’ve shared, and yet it feels familiar all the same, as if they’ve done this exact thing dozens of times now—and they have.
Izumi settles down after a moment, but his movements are jerky, awkward, as if he’s forcing himself to sit still and not fly completely off the wall. Makoto takes it in, takes him in, all his graceless imperfections and messy emotions and tear-stained cheeks.
He pulls away first, leaves Izumi chasing after him—like he always has, like he always will. And Makoto quirks up the tiniest of smiles and reaches up, running a thumb across the tears, replacing them with warmth.
And then he grabs at Izumi’s hair and tugs, hard.
“Ow?!” Izumi says, knocking him out of his stupor entirely. “What was that for?!”
“As if you don’t know,” Makoto retorts with a scoff. “Don’t you ever try pulling that kind of bullshit ever again, Izumi-san. I won’t be so forgiving next time.”
Izumi rubs at his head, messing up his meticulously coiffed hair. “I guess I deserve that…”
“Yeah. You do.” But Makoto smiles and takes Izumi’s hand, pressing another kiss into his head. “But thank you.”
Izumi pulls away, eyebrows drawn in with a question, a tinge of worry. “For what? How can you—how can you thank me, after everything I did?”
Makoto just shrugs. “Thank you. For waiting for me.”
Izumi stifles whatever noise tries to claw its way out of his throat, and instead he nods, a fresh wave of tears pouring down his face and dripping onto Makoto’s hands. “Well, obviously I would, since—”
“Yeah, I know,” Makoto says, and this time, Izumi smiles with him.