Archive of Our Own

i.

It’s dark.

A gentle sigh, and layers of dreams turn into dust. Half-forgotten memories of a lifetime ago, when there was nothing but a constant present, now a distant past.

The past and the present. A reconciliation—Mao realises that he isn’t the same person he was back then, and neither is Ritsu.

His childhood friend’s bedroom hasn’t changed all that much over the years, however. It’s a kind of time capsule: frail picture books on the shelves that they used to read aloud as kids, a plush cat on the windowsill with an unevenly sewn-on leg, a wooden photo frame on the bedside table containing a picture of the two of them, taken a couple of years ago. A middle school diploma rests in Ritsu’s hands, while Mao has an arm around his shoulders.

In actuality, Mao can’t really see all of this right now. It’s long past midnight, he thinks, and the utter lack of light makes it hard to see. He knows it’s all there, though. He probably knows this room better than his own.

He struggles to remember how he got here in the first place. The eve of the school festival had been a resounding success, and then, in contrast to the high-energy atmosphere of the school just a while ago, he and Ritsu had taken a peaceful walk back, beneath a sheet of stars. They had taken a break to sit in the park, Mao relenting to his friend’s characteristic complaints of tiredness, and he recalls lying back in the grass, everything else fading out except the stars and the lilt of Ritsu’s voice.

He must have fallen asleep, then. And that can only mean—

“Maa-kun.” The sleepy voice he hears now comes from beside him. Dark eyes peek out from below the heavy covers, and a hand latches onto Mao’s wrist. “You’re thinking too hard again. I can hear it from here.”

“Sure you can,” Mao sighs, and lets himself be dragged back onto the pillow. Strands of hair fall into his eyes as he belatedly notices that Ritsu is wearing his hairclip, comfortably tucked above an ear, but he chooses not to say anything about it.

“Then stop thinking and get some more sleep. You have no idea how tired I am, carrying you all the way home.” The last sentence is punctuated by a yawn, and Mao averts his eyes from the sight of Ritsu’s fangs. Then he starts, and the iron grip still around his wrist is the only thing stopping him from shooting up in bed.

“Wait—Ritsu, where’s the transfer student? You didn’t leave her alone in that park, did you?”

An offended scoff comes from beneath the sheets. “I’m not that irresponsible. I walked her back to her place, don’t worry.” A pause. “She told me that she’s proud of you, y’know.”

“Proud of me? Why?”

There’s a shrugging motion, and the grip around him loosens just a little. “Dunno. You’ll have to ask her that yourself.” Ritsu’s eyes flicker to the side, a telltale sign that he’s hiding something, but his words seem like a definitive way of shutting down that avenue of conversation.

Just what had the two of them been talking about earlier?

“Anyway,” Ritsu continues, “it’s three in the morning and you’re already making me think too much. And after I went to all that effort not to wake you on the way home, too. How cruel...” His words taper off with a fake sniffle, and Mao sees that there is no use in arguing here. Ritsu’s right, after all.

Besides, he’s stubborn as anything. That, at least, is something that hasn’t changed since they were kids.

Much of their past may have faded into the furthest corners of Mao’s mind, flickering and dimming lanterns, rusty and unpolished, but the scene he is living right now is proof that this past exists, has existed for all this time.

As long as there is tangible evidence, the past exists even without memories. As long as there are memories, the past exists even if there is no physical representation.

The thought is comforting somehow. Mao brings his gaze up to the photo on the bedside table that he cannot see, evidence that they went to middle school together, and a new memory springs to mind.

A walk home from school in an autumn sunset. Except Mao’s the one actually doing the walking; Ritsu rests on his back as usual. They’re both clothed in the uniform of their middle school.

A statement. I’m going to Yumenosaki. I’m gonna see what being an idol is all about.

A question. Maa-kun, what high school do you wanna go to? What do you wanna be when you grow up?

He laughs it off. He’ll think about it when he gets there, he says. There’s no rush, he has time.

The past and the present blend together into a single portrait, and in the darkness of Ritsu’s bedroom, while his fingers fiddle with the gold pin on his blazer, Mao thinks to himself: there’s no rush.

ii.

There’s a weight on his back. For once though, in a change from the norm, it’s not Ritsu.

“Isara-dono,” comes a muffled voice close to his ear, “I apologise for making you go out of your way for my sake like this.”

Mao gives a light shake of his head, careful not to disturb his half-asleep junior. “Don’t be silly, Sengoku. I willingly offered to bring you home, after all. Helping one of my best friends is no trouble to me in the slightest.”

Shinobu perks up at that, a little more alert than before. “Best friends? Th—that is far too much of an honour for me!”

A comforting smile spreads across Mao’s lips, even though Shinobu surely can’t see it. “I promise you it isn’t. How many times have you helped me out before, huh? You’re far more valuable than you think, so don’t go putting yourself down, okay?”

The arms draped around his shoulders tighten a little, a squeeze of affection. “Thank you, Isara-dono. Your words mean more to me than anything.”

Mao straightens up, tilts his head towards the cloudless sky. Perfect weather for Tanabata. There are specks of light in the far distance on all sides, seeming to mark their way home.

Shinobu’s own words echo in his head, again and again, in time with his heart. Am I a worthy enough senior for him?, he continues to ask himself in time with his footsteps.

In theory, it should be obvious enough—the way Shinobu’s eyes sparkle around him, the way he proudly states that Mao is the only one allowed to pat him on the head.

Still, it doesn’t mean that Mao doesn’t worry. A mirror is most visible when you’re standing right in front of it, and he can see himself reflected in Shinobu clear as day.

You’re far more valuable than you think. A reassurance or a promise?

Maybe this is why he had become so drawn to the younger boy in the first place. A desire to watch someone grow, someone who shared so many similarities with him but was so starkly different at the same time. While Shinobu has endless amounts of passion and drive, a bright, burning star despite how small he is, hesitation marks many of Mao’s steps.

What was it he had thought earlier, back on that shining stage? A desire to stand with everyone he loved for just a little longer? A hesitation, stopping himself at the last moment from expressing the full extent of this desire.

Meanwhile, Shinobu had sung and danced like his life depended on it, no matter how exhausted he was, no matter how close that flame was to sputtering and burning out. His desire worn like a proud badge, his wishes clear for anyone to see. Watching him grow fills Mao with a warm sense of pride, but at the back of his mind, there’s still that constant worry.

Worry that he isn’t good enough, worry that he’s stumbling his way through things, setting Shinobu on an accidental path to becoming exactly like him, a perfect mirror image.

At least the one thing he is certain of is the other positive influences surrounding him. Chiaki, Kanata—eccentric as they may be, they are role models without a doubt.

Knowing this, Mao’s heart is set at ease again. A tentative kind of ease, but ease nonetheless.

The sudden light of a screen distracts him momentarily. Shinobu’s phone is gripped in his left hand, hanging over Mao’s shoulder. The time is displayed in bold numbers—it’s later than he had thought, but most of his attention is drawn to the wallpaper of the lock screen. A picture of Shinobu standing in what appears to be a museum, clad in an elaborate ninja costume. Behind him is a glass case filled with weapons: a katana, shuriken, kunai—anything a ninja would use, it’s there. The subject of the photo himself wears a bright grin, and it’s so infectious that Mao finds himself smiling too.

To be able to show off his passions with such pride is a valuable thing. Mao wonders if he had ever been like that, but there are neither the memories nor the souvenirs of such a time to suggest that he had.

“It is late,” Shinobu mumbles into the crook of his neck. “I had no idea that the Tanabata festival had gone on for that long. I was having so much fun.”

Mao laughs. “Yeah, I could see that. So much fun you can barely stand now, huh?”

“We—well, I was so excited to perform with you! And the wish I had made only sparked my motivation even further!” Shinobu’s voice carries a hint of indignation as it increases in volume slightly. “Which reminds me...If it is not so impudent of me to ask, may I wonder what you wished for, Isara-dono?”

Mao’s breath hitches; he wills himself to continue moving, one foot in front of the other. Putting up the tanzaku earlier in the evening had allowed him an insight into the minds of many of the students, their biggest wishes and desires, the things that motivate them to keep going.

He had put up his own, of course. A sentence neatly scribed on a thin piece of pink paper, that blended in with the many other wishes adorning the bamboo branches. For someone unused to making wishes with great significance, Mao had spent a long time sifting through various thoughts, petty wants, nothing that could be considered grand enough for the festival.

And then, with a gathering of resolve and a strong hand, he had eventually put pen to paper and written a wish that he knew had been there the whole time, buried and suppressed under layers and layers of uncertainty.

He doesn’t say this all to Shinobu, though. He doesn’t need to know his entire thought process, and Mao can take a good guess at what his wish was. For someone so driven and single-minded, it’s not too difficult to figure out what he wants the most.

So instead he takes a different approach. “Hm, I’m keeping my lips sealed on that one. If you tell other people what you wish for, it might not come true, isn’t that right?”

Shinobu gasps. “Of course! Please forgive my rashness. I shall also remember to keep my wish closely guarded!”

With a laugh, Mao adjusts his hold on Shinobu’s legs and quickens his pace. While his junior is far lighter than Ritsu, Mao had just spent the entire day on his feet working, followed by a lengthy performance with complex choreography, courtesy of Makoto. He’d also fallen off a ladder. His arms are starting to sting.

He continues to follow the warm gold of the streetlights, and it’s a few minutes until Shinobu speaks again, voice laced with sleep.

“Do you want to stay at my house tonight? It would be far too rude of me to send you home alone at this time, and I am certain you must be tired too.”

“Are you sure? Would your parents mind?”

Shinobu gives a fervent shake of his head. “Of course not! I talk about you all the time to them, and they are extremely grateful to you for taking good care of me. I know that they would love to have you over!”

Mao hums. The neighbourhood is coming into view, finally marking the end of their long journey. Trees line the street, and many of the windows are dark, the families inside probably asleep after a fun night of festivals.

He doesn’t remember the last time he celebrated Tanabata with his family. Maybe the lights in his own house are dark, maybe his parents had taken his sister to a festival, maybe they had eaten dinner around the table together. He doesn’t know too much about them, these days, and he’s sure it’s the same for them.

An odd kind of guilt roots itself in his stomach, and he continues talking in an attempt to stave it off. “Then I’m down for it, as long as I’m not intruding.”

“Nonsense, Isara-dono! You could never be an intruder in our house. You are welcome anytime.” There’s a soft giggle. “In fact, I have never had someone sleep over before...I believe my parents would be happy to know that I am making friends.”

Mao detects a hint of something in that last sentence, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. Something almost melancholy, like a recollection of the past. Still, the idea of crashing at Shinobu’s place for the night is more appealing than the alternative, and so the seeds of guilt are watered.

A familiar house stands in the middle of the street, lights still turned on despite the time, and Shinobu hops off Mao’s back, walking to the front door on unsteady legs.

He’s a strong person. Far stronger than Mao, who watches his figure from behind and hopes, desires that he will become worthy enough to guide him with pride.

The guide and the guided. The thought occurs to him that maybe those two aren’t mutually exclusive, and he walks up beside Shinobu and keeps on wishing.

iii.

Everything hurts.

His limbs are screaming, begging him to stop, but there’s no way he can stop now. Not in the harsh artificial light of the room where there are mirrors on all sides, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He’s stuck where he is, dancing and dancing while beneath the gaze of the silver-haired young man in front of him who can surely tell the difference between passion and desperation.

Nagisa’s piercing eyes keep him rooted, boring with ease through layers of carefully constructed bravado and nonchalance, tearing them away and exposing him in his barest, plainest form, for the fraud he is.

It’s a small mercy when he finally shuts the music off with a decisive click of a finger on the CD player.

The only sound in that instance is the dull thud of Mao hitting the floor, pressing his hands to the wood, slick with sweat, in an already foregone effort to maintain any last possible shred of dignity.

The next sound he hears is the erratic thumping of his heart, blood rushing to his ears and his head and he wants to cry but he can’t, not now, not when this top idol standing in front of him has a low enough opinion of him as it is.

But more than that, he hears the crushing sound of disappointment in the silence.

And a voice cuts through that silence.

“—Are ya even listening to me? Hey, Forehead!”

Mao’s gaze snaps up. The room of the Light Music Club is dark as it often is, the curtains are drawn, and the only music in here has petered out long ago. His fingers still press into the strings of his guitar, and moving them away reveals red dents left in the skin.

Koga is watching him with unimpressed eyes. “Seriously, if ya can’t fully focus, what’s the point of practicin’?” There's a guitar on his lap too, sleek and well looked-after.

With a sigh, Mao stretches his arms. Practicing here with Koga (and sometimes, the rest of the club) has become a semi-regular occurrence, something he can have to look forward to after hours of sitting in the student council room where documents begin to blend into one and he can’t tell where his legs end and his chair begins.

“Sorry about that,” he says, offering up a sheepish smile. “Just got a little distracted, is all.”

“Hm.” Koga clearly isn’t convinced. He runs a hand through his hair, looks at Mao, looks at his guitar, looks back at Mao, and sighs. “ A little distracted doesn’t exactly cut it when you’ve been walking around school lately like someone pissed in your cereal. I know Halloween is just ‘round the corner, but it’s way too early to be gettin’ into character as a miserable ghost at this point.”

Heat travels up Mao’s face, and he turns away, holding his guitar tighter. “Uh, I didn’t think I was being that obvious.” The thought of everyone noticing a change in demeanour is slightly mortifying, as someone who had thought he had gotten good at the art of masking certain emotions.

The last couple of weeks had done a lot to him, it seems. Shattered glass is near impossible to put back together without a single dent, a trace that it had ever been broken in the first place.

Whatever Mao had thought he had, it simply wasn’t enough. Weak, transparent as paper-thin glass, easily cracked and irreparable. A false sense of ego, a false sense of self, leaving behind only a trail of deceit and all-consuming guilt once finally broken.

(He’s surprised it took as long as it did to break.)

“Yeah, well, it’s as obvious as your dumb hairstyle,” Koga deadpans. “That timid glasses friend of yours even asked me to keep an eye on ya during class, y’know. It takes a lot for that guy to even look my way sometimes.”

Mao raises his eyebrows, and at the same time, a pit forms in his stomach. This shame doesn’t seem to leave him—now he’s just causing trouble for the rest of Trickstar. They’re not supposed to worry about him. He’s supposed to be the one protecting them , a shield, an infallible barrier.

But of course, that too has turned out to be made of glass.

“Actually,” Koga continues, “you’ve been like this ever since gettin’ back from that—what was it—Autumn Live thingy. Surprising, really.”

“Surprising?”

Koga seems to consider answering his question or not for a brief moment, but gives in with a tut. “Ritchii had dragged me over to his place and forced me to watch the live broadcast of the performance with him. You looked more fired up than ever. Like you were a completely different person or somethin’. It was kinda badass, to be honest.”

Mao grins. “Oh, now that’s a compliment I never thought I’d get from you.”

“Don’t change the subject, Forehead.” With an exasperated shake of his head, Koga pulls out his phone. His fingers tap away at it for a few seconds before turning it towards Mao.

It’s an article. New Shining Stars Prove Threat to Industry Favourites—these words appear at the top in large, bold characters. Just beneath that is a picture Mao recognises well.

It had been all over the news in the days following the live. Who wouldn’t want to learn about this group of underdogs that had somehow amassed quite the fame and are now considered to be rivals on-par with Eden, of all units? And as though to hype up their status as shining stars, all of Trickstar look radiant. 

Bathed in a soft glow by the lights of the stage, a spotlight shining over them. Their arms are around each other’s shoulders, beads of sweat rolling down their faces, clearly exhausted but joyous.

Mao recalls feeling as though a weight had lifted off him in that moment, the moment he realised that he wasn’t alone, isn’t alone, and he smiles a little at the memory.

The energy he had expended trying to mask and conceal his weaknesses can now be fully focused on improving himself, especially proving that he deserves to be on that stage just as much as anyone else.

But it’s easier said than done. Practising with Trickstar, working on overdrive in the weeks to Halloween, he is painfully aware of just how much he needs to get better. In his efforts to maintain a perfect (fragile) persona in the past, he had neglected some of the most basic aspects of being an idol. The most basic aspects of being a friend.

While he wants to deserve being on stage, he wants to be deserving of those close to him more than anything.

“So?” Koga questions, levelling Mao with an intense stare. “Where’d all that energy go? Bottlin’ things up gets ya nowhere, you should know that.”

“I…” Putting his thoughts into words is also easier said than done. How does he express the full extent of his newfound desire, bright and burning like a star but ultimately insignificant to others? He runs his fingers over his guitar. “It’s nothing.”

Even as he says this, Mao feels his hands shaking. In the end, he’s just as much of a coward as ever. Undeserving. Glass, glass, glass.

But then a thought comes to him, and he finds himself backing up. “No, actually.” He returns Koga’s gaze. “Do you think I’m worthy enough as a guitar player? A musician?”

“Huh?” Koga recoils as though taken aback. “What kinda question is that?”

“Just answer me, please.”

“Well—“ His eyebrows furrow, and his eyes turn steely. “D’ya think I’d be spending all this time hanging out with you if I thought you were a lost cause? I don’t waste my energy on people who clearly don’t give a shit ‘bout what they’re doing.” He pauses. “Your style is lame, but you’re not half bad.”

His words are full of conviction; Mao feels them burrowing their way into his chest, through the raw skin that had been freshly exposed and burned by dazzling heat.

And Koga continues. “And if someone tells ya that you suck and you have no skill, you just gotta practise more. Put everythin’ into getting better and better until you can blow everyone away and have ‘em choking on their pathetic words. If that’s what causin’ you all that worry, the answer is simple.”

For the first time since the live, a genuine smile works its way up Mao’s face. Because the answer is simple—he may continue struggling and striving to reach the heights of his friends, but if he does it with pure, focused drive, he might reach them sooner.

Even if he crashes and falls, shattered beyond all saving, at least he’ll be able to take pride in the fact that he did everything he could, not a single drop of energy spared. A dim old flashlight that used to light the way, once upon a time.

“Thanks, Koga,” Mao tells his friend, with all the sincerity lying in his heart, unbound by the layers of shaky protection that had kept it there all this time. “You’re quite the motivator.”

“It’s nothin’,” Koga grunts, but the way he turns back down towards his guitar, preoccupied with wiping the dust off it all of a sudden, hints that it may mean more to him than he lets show. “And ‘sides, that vampire and the twins like havin’ you around here. They’d give me no end of trouble if I drove you away from us.”

If he were in a less generous mood right now, Mao wouldn’t hesitate to poke and tease him. But in this moment, in the quietness of the dark room, this little world he is a part of, he focuses on his beating heart, his mind, his skin, all bare and open to the world.

It’s a wonderful feeling, having nothing to hide.

iv.

The first thing Mao lays his eyes on upon entering the Student Council room is a halo.

Sunlight filters in through the window behind the grand desk and chair, a throne that Mao had somehow found himself in possession of. He’ll give it back to Eichi soon—thrones and kings and emperors are concepts he has no place in, a commoner that had won the lucky draw of a lifetime.

The emperor himself stands right by the window, back turned to Mao, hands out of sight in front of him. The sun sits at just the right angle to cast his golden hair in a bright halo. It’s almost too strong to look at, but Mao knows, better than most, that Eichi really is no angel. He’s no divine entity, no bringer of justice sent from the heavens.

He’s a man. A man with plenty of money and power and influence, but a man nonetheless.

Eichi turns towards him, and the halo promptly disappears behind him. His casual clothing, while still worth more than Mao’s entire house, gives him a sense of relative normality. It’d be ridiculous to expect to see him in his school uniform, anyway, considering that he has graduated.

—It’s ridiculous to even expect him at school in the first place, considering that he has graduated.

Before Mao can speak, Eichi steps towards him, keeping a hand behind his back the whole time. A gentle smile rests on his features, delicate and well-practised.

“Mao,” he greets. “I see you’re ready for the new school year. I’d expect nothing less from my successor.”

Successor. The word feels a little weird, a little unnatural. An establishment of the mountainous expectations Mao has no hope of living up to. He’ll do his best, of course; he’d hate to let down his seniors that had given him so much of a future, but it almost feels like his attempts are in vain before he has even started.

Eichi chuckles. “Don’t sell yourself short now. I wouldn’t have chosen you if I didn’t think you were the right person for the job.”

Clearly, he’s a mind reader as well. Mao shakes his head, forcing useless self-deprecation out of his mind. He’s better than this.

So he takes a deep breath and puts on a bright voice. “Good morning, Pre—Tenshouin-senpai. What are you doing here?”

As far as they have come, he still sometimes isn’t sure of the exact way to act around his senior. Does he maintain a distance or approach him with the casualness that he is used to with everyone else? He waits for Eichi, a signal, a green light. 

“Haven’t I told you this before? There’s no need for you to be so stiff around me. We’re friends, right?” And there it is. Mao eases the tension in his shoulders, loosens his clenched fists. Reminds himself that yes, he knew the answer all along, and no, hesitation has no place here, where he is surrounded by constant reminders of the man whose mantle he has taken up.

The corners of Eichi’s mouth hitch up a little, a pleased gesture. “I had just come here to see how you were getting along. To cheer you on while you begin a new chapter as the leader of this kingdom.” He straightens up. “And I wanted to gift you something.”

“Huh?” Mao’s eyes drift to the hand behind Eichi’s back, which he removes and holds out in front of him. 

There’s something long in his hand. Something long, and fabric, and green.

It’s a tie.

“It’s the one I wore while I was a third-year,” Eichi confirms, grazing his thumb over the soft fabric. Icy-blue eyes soften, a nostalgic remembrance of times just gone. “I’ve always wanted to give it to someone to continue carrying out my wishes, to do what I couldn’t. It’s a selfish thought…but I’ve looked forward to the day when I could finally do this.”

“I…” Mao’s finger hover over the tie, tinted gold where the beams of light sparkle and dance through the glass window. “Are you sure? Am I really the person that’s right for this? You could pick Tori, or Yuzuru, or… anyone. ”

A sigh comes from Eichi, heavy and worn. He’s been expecting this. He steps closer until he takes Mao’s old blue tie between his fingers, still around Mao’s neck. In slow but fluid movements, he begins the process of removing the loops on the tie, before it slides off altogether.

“You should know that I don’t take decisions like this lightly,” Eichi answers. He rests the blue tie on the table, and holds the green one up. “Would you let me?”

His intentions are clear. Mao nods his head and watches as the tie is brought around the back of his neck, the ends hanging down his front.

He’s a third-year now. More than that, he’s the leader of one of the top idol schools in the country. He almost wouldn’t believe it, but he has the memories, the green tie over his shoulders, the man in a casual sweater standing in front of him—all proof that the past and this present exists.

“I’m not looking for a replica of myself,” Eichi says in a low voice, wrapping the tie around itself. Around, above, under. “I’m not looking for an absolute ruler who reigns with fear. I’m not looking for someone who will only tread the beaten, bloody path that I once did, shrouded in darkness and shadows.”

Mao’s eyes land on a picture on the desk that Eichi used to sit at. An elaborate frame, but the photo itself presenting a scene not unlike a family. 

It had been taken a couple of weeks ago. Eichi had begged and begged until Keito had finally given in with a long-suffering sigh, allowing himself to be dragged in. He stands behind Mao, a warm hand on his shoulder. Tori is next to Eichi, arms curled around his waist. Even Yuzuru is present, at the insistence of everyone else, with his usual serene smile.

A memento of their time together. There had been hardships, loss, and everything in between, but in the end, Mao can’t say he regrets anything. Not when everyone is able to smile like they do in this picture.

“It’s up to you to walk into the light and maintain the smiles of everyone here, too,” Eichi adds, perceptive as ever. He straightens the tie one last time before stepping back, looking Mao up and down. “Not bad, if I do say so myself.”

And when Mao catches a glance of himself in the reflection of the window, all he can think is: radiant.

The sunlight surrounds this reflection, a beacon, a star. Eichi’s shoes are still too big for him to fill, but there is padding now, soft like the clouds on this cool spring morning.

“And isn’t it fitting,” his senior continues, “that one of the Trickstar revolutionaries is now the school’s guiding star. Mao, I know I made the right decision with this, so don’t go backing down now.”

With Eichi’s full support, the tie wrapped around his neck, the portraits of everyone’s smiles painted to perfection in his mind, Mao already has his answer.

“Of course, Tenshouin-senpai. I’ll see this through to the end.” It comes as a declaration, a promise of a duty that he won’t shirk away from, and he knows that he means it.

“Thank you.” And Mao knows that Eichi means this, too. The blue tie is held back out towards him. It’s a tie that he has no use for, anymore. He’s grown and changed and moved past the person he was even yesterday. “Here. Don’t you think you should be giving this to someone, too? Do you have a junior you consider suitable to continue your own legacy?”

And of course, there’s barely any need to think about it. Someone springs to mind, a person that Mao is proud to guide, proud to consider himself a senior of. So he takes the tie and slips it into his pocket. “Yeah, I think I do.”

The harsh rays of the sun are starting to calm now, obscured partially by the clouds. 

There’s no rush, Mao thinks. He has time, a whole year in fact, to become big enough to fill those shoes. To reach the stars and the heavens, to break through the clouds and light a path ahead. To save others as much as they have saved him.

“I look forward to seeing you in action, New Pres,” Eichi says, a teasing smile dancing on his lips.

“I won’t let you down, Old Pres.”

v.

The text comes while he’s working his way through the usual unending mountains of paperwork.

Isara, when are you free? There’s something I need to talk with you about.

The sudden beep of his phone surprises him—his hand freezes where it is, hovering over a document, and his mind starts to whirr.

The tone seems urgent, and Keito surely wouldn’t bother Mao if he thought he was busy under usual circumstances.

Besides, Mao owes his senior a great deal. The least he could do is make himself available now, even if it means he’ll have to pull another all-nighter tonight.

So he taps out a quick reply. I’m free now. What’s up?

A bit of a lie, but Keito doesn’t need to know the planning going on inside Mao’s head to make up for the loss of time later. He worries enough as it is.

Don’t turn out like me, Keito had once told him, and now look where he is. Endless worries over endless student council work, endless worries over his own juniors, his mind never stops.

The reply comes almost instantly. Thanks. Meet me inside the café near ES.

Mao blinks. Keito had always been punctual, but this seems somewhat desperate. Is he in that much trouble?

So he picks up his pace, stuffing his belongings into his bag and grabbing the key to the school gates that lies on his desk. (He doesn’t know what he’d do if he didn’t have access to that key—spending entire nights at school has almost become the norm for him, which is another thing that he doesn’t need others to find out about.)

The journey to the café goes by quicker than expected. Mao appreciates the chance to stretch his legs after being cooped up in an office for this long, and the light of the early summer seeps through his clothing and warms his skin. The melodic sounds of a new Trickstar song fills his ears through his earbuds, and he hums along as a sort of practice.

Because another disadvantage of the never-ending mountains of paperwork is that he doesn’t get to attend practice all that often.

It’s a little lonely, being away from his unit so much, but listening to their songs like this helps Mao keep his friends close to him even when they can’t physically be together.

And then he finally pushes the doors open, and scans the busy café in a search of a familiar head of dark hair.

Keito sits alone at a booth in the corner. He’s maintaining a sense of composure, but Mao notices the restless bounce of his legs beneath the table, the constant adjustment of his glasses.

It’s alarming—Mao had always known him to be the very embodiment of stoicism, always in control. Sure, there are those who rile him up, but in the end, Keito has never seemed to be a particularly nervous person.

Mao slides into the booth opposite him, and when the waiter comes to take their orders, he finally snaps out of whatever daze he was in.

“Isara,” he says, and clears his throat. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” is Mao’s default reply. He hesitates for a brief moment, before figuring that he may as well address the elephant in the room right away before it grows any bigger. “Are you okay, Hasumi-senpai? You seem kinda…on edge.”

Keito’s hand moves up to his glasses again, but he seems to make a conscious decision not to fiddle with them again, and instead rests it on the table. A veil, a mask, something that Mao knows all too well. Seeing himself so perfectly mirrored in the man in front of him is almost unsettling.

“…I’d be lying if I said that nothing was on my mind.” The words come slowly, a careful process of picking the right ones. “But I’m not doing badly,” Keito addends, as though to reassure Mao.

—A reassurance, or a promise?

“So…you asked me here so you could talk about it?” Mao questions. He offers his best smile. “Obviously I wanna help you with whatever you’re going through right now, so there’s no need to worry.”

Keito’s eyes linger on him for a while. The feelings, the troubles conveyed in them aren’t unfamiliar, but then he closes them, and those feelings are masked once more. “You’re far too kind. I can understand why everyone comes to you about their concerns.” He sighs and opens his eyes again. “I should stop stalling and tell you everything outright. I’ve been delaying this for long enough.”

Mao blinks. “Everything?”

“Yes. It’s…” They’re momentarily distracted by the waiter coming by to deliver their drinks, a pair of identical coffees. Steam rises from the mugs, and Mao clasps his hands around his for a little warmth. Keito takes his by the handle and sips from it. When he lowers it again, his mouth is set in a thin line. “How much do you know about the events of two years ago?”

“You mean the conflict that happened at school?” Upon Keito’s nod of affirmation, Mao thinks. 

To be honest, so much has changed since then that it feels faraway. He’d been thrown into a story not unlike that of a shounen manga, the heroes against the villains, the heroes coming out on top and dismantling the system of corruption. Though now, standing in the very position that the Emperor used to occupy, he’s aware of just how much nuance and complexity goes into these stories. Those that he used to appreciate as a child for having cool action and showy fights are now ones that he can relate to as an (almost) adult, tales of loss and growth and perspective.

Perspective. “I know a bit,” he says. “Not that long ago, Nagisa-san told me and a couple of friends about the ordeal from his point of view.”

Keito raises his eyebrows. “He did?”

“Yeah. It taught me a lot, actually. And I’d be willing to learn even more about it from you, if that’s what you want.”

“I see…” Straightening his back, hands folded calmly in front of him, Keito nods. “Then that’s what I will do.”

And that’s exactly what he does.

He launches into an account of times that have likely been burned into his memory forever, beginning in the spring of two years ago when Mao was a fresh-faced new student at the grand idol school, and ending after the bitter defeat of the Five Oddballs, their public executions, and the subsequent takeover of the student body by the young man who had taken on the burden of becoming a divine entity, bringer of justice.

Keito recounts his involvement in the whole affair, how he’d personally come up with many of the plans that had been used during that era, how he had done much of the dirty work himself. How he’d attempted to use a friend of his, all for the utopia he’d hoped to raise with his own bloodstained hands.

He shows Mao an image on his phone, one that he couldn’t bring himself to delete even after all this time. An image of a concert in an underground live house, Keito dressed in an outfit that Mao can’t imagine him in at all now. He’s singing into a microphone while other familiar faces stand on either side of him, engaged in the performance of their lives.

In the end, it’s a tale that leaves the both of them quiet and subdued once all is said and done.

“I’ve always been a coward, you see,” Keito says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’d known the whole time that you would have to hear this story eventually, if only to know how to prevent something like this from ever happening again. But I kept putting it off because I was afraid.”

Mao can’t find any words in him to say, so he repeats, “Afraid?”

“You have always looked up to me like I was someone good and righteous. Both you and Kanzaki. I hadn’t wanted that illusion to be shattered, and I was afraid you would hate me for everything I have done. But I also didn’t want to keep lying to you, especially given the role you have taken up now. And I didn’t want you to turn out exactly like me. I don’t want a reflection of myself, Isara.”

Mao takes a long sip of his coffee. It’s lukewarm at this point, and it tastes bitter on his tongue. Keito’s remorse, his worries and his insecurities, have a dangerous familiarity to them. Mao can picture the words rolling off his own tongue just as easily.

But it’s because of this, that he can understand him. 

“I get that,” he says. “I get feeling like a coward, frightened of breaking other people’s perceptions of you.” His thoughts are spoken with ease, spilling over like a waterfall. There’s no need to explain himself, to justify his feelings to someone who has fought similar battles. “But I also remember that time last year when you saved me from my regrets. And I know that it takes so much strength to tell me everything that you have just now.”

Keito frowns. “I wouldn’t call it strength—I just did what I had to do. And I wouldn’t say that I saved you, either. That decision was all yours, in the end.”

“But doing what you have to do also needs strength, right?” Mao responds, mind flickering to all the decisions he’s had to come to as the school’s leader, the tough ones, and the ones that seem to have no right answer. His gaze lowers, watching his reflection swaying in the coffee. “I still have a lot to learn from you, Hasumi-senpai. And I want you to be there to watch me grow. I know I’m no Tenshouin-senpai, but I wanna become the best version of myself, and that means learning everything I can from everyone that I can.”

Keito huffs out a short laugh, and the smile that reaches his face is more genuine than any that Mao has seen from him in a while. “You’ve had this in mind for a while, huh? Well, I can’t deny that I’m grateful for it. You make a fine Student Council President.”

The illusion is shattered, but that’s not a bad thing. There’s value in finding all facets of a person’s personality, a prism reflecting light in all different directions. As Mao knows, obscuring even some of that light can lead to the darkest paths.

He sits back, and a more relaxed air falls over the table. There are discussions of school, manga, and idol performances. A noticeable weight has been lifted off Keito’s shoulders, and the very thought brings a lightness to Mao’s chest, too.

vi.

Mao doesn’t notice the person standing behind him until he feels a hand on his shoulder.

He yelps out in surprise, whirling around and holding his knife out. Not that it would be particularly effective; it’s a plastic knife that’s barely good enough to cut through the vegetables that he’s preparing. 

Midori backs up, raising his hands beside his head. They’re frozen in place for a few seconds, until Mao clears his throat and lowers the knife, Midori’s gaze following it.

“Uh, morning, Takamine,” he says, keeping his voice as even as possible. “You’re up early. Couldn’t sleep?”

A yawn comes from the other boy, which he doesn’t attempt to hide. “Not couldn’t sleep so much as was woken up. I shouldn’t be surprised that you get up at the crack of dawn, huh?”

“Oh…” Now that his heart rate is finally calming down from the sudden shock, Mao takes notice of Midori’s mussed hair, his sleepy voice. Definitely not a morning person, then. “Sorry about that. I was trying to be quiet, but I guess I wasn’t quite as stealthy as I thought.”

Midori runs a hand through his hair, making it more unruly than it had been before. “It’s fine…I should’ve known you’d be up at this time, anyway. You’ve been the one preparing breakfast for us all this time.”

Flashing a smile, Mao turns back to the preparations at hand. In all honesty, he wouldn’t even have to get up this early if the thought of using real metal knives didn’t send his stomach churning, but he hopes Midori doesn’t notice it.

It’s been a fun couple of days despite this, though. With everything that had been going on lately, a Basketball Club training camp towards the end of summer break was just the thing that he needed, to have the opportunity to feel like just another school kid, an illusion of being a normal student.

A lot of work had been put into making this happen, but it did serve as a nice distraction from the more pressing paperwork and drama that seems to follow both the current and former Yumenosaki students wherever they go.

“—Uh, do you need help with cutting the vegetables?”

And damn, he did notice. Still, two pairs of hands are better than one, so Mao relents. He instructs Midori to take a (proper) knife from where they hang on the wall a few feet away, and then they’re both hard at work, the satisfying chopping sounds being the only rhythm in the comfortable silence.

It’s more vegetables than he thought he’d need, but he reminds himself of just how much the club has grown this year. Of just how much the school has grown.

Just how much of this has been due to Trickstar’s revolution the previous year and later win at the SS? It’s an almost frightening idea, being responsible for everyone’s decisions, just as frightening as it is for Mao himself to be responsible for everyone’s happiness, too.

“Isara-senpai, do you not like knives?” The question comes out of nowhere. Midori still hasn’t looked up from his pile of greens, which is working up faster than Mao’s own.

“…Not really,” he sighs. “It’s not just knives—I prefer to stay away from anything with a sharp point. Too stabby for me.”

“So you’re afraid.”

Mao gives him a lighthearted punch on the shoulder. “Have some tact, Takamine. Aren’t heroes of justice supposed to be kind and gentle to the innocent civilians?”

Midori pulls a face at that. “Ugh, now you’re just sounding like that guy.” He glances at Mao. “And anyway, you’re not much of a helpless civilian yourself. You’re, like, the most powerful guy in the school. Strong and fearless and all that. And afraid of knives.”

“I’m flattered if that’s how you see me. Excluding the knife part,” Mao laughs. It’s interesting to see how he’s perceived by others. He’s nothing special, some person who happens to have found himself in a position of importance, a guiding flashlight. A guiding star.

But if his presence brings comfort to others, he’ll embrace it as far as he can, use his power for good. Maybe then, with the prize of everyone’s smiles, he’ll become someone truly worthy of that title.

“I’m not all that fearless, though,” he concludes, dumping his vegetables into the large pot beside him.

“…Sure.” Midori looks over to the small pile of photographs at the back of the counter, ones that Mao had printed out in the faculty office before coming down here. Photos of the practice that the club had done over the past couple of days, running across the track outside, scoring goals, lying exhausted on the floor after a long day of exercise. Mao’s hoping to turn it into a little keepsake album for everyone, a souvenir of their time together. A souvenir of their youths.

And in a lot of these photos, he’s in the centre, leading his teammates, blowing into a whistle, instructing them on their next moves. Did Anzu pick these ones on purpose?

“Hm…I suppose these photos do a good job at making me look cool,” he says. “But I have just as many fears as everyone else. Maybe more. I’m definitely not some paragon of bravery or whatever.”

Lowering his head, Midori puts his knife down. “Compared to me, you’re super brave. I wouldn’t even know where to start if I ever became Student Council President. I think I’d just turn it down.”

“I did consider that at first, y’know.” Midori’s eyes widen a little. “Actually, I’m pretty sure I even told Tenshouin-senpai that I wasn’t the right person for it. But he insisted, and here I am, doing my best to live up to his legacy. And it sure is nerve-wracking as hell at times.”

Midori hums as though lost in thought, teeth worrying at his lip. Mao hesitates for a moment, torn between changing the subject or elaborating further.

He’s the senior here. He’s going to guide Midori and ease his worries, both as a friend and as the one responsible for overseeing everyone’s happiness at school.

“Chin up, Takamine-kun!” he says, putting his hands on his hips and gathering up the voice of the mascot he had created long ago for situations just like this. “It’s not all doom and gloom—being in a position of responsibility has a lot of positives once you realise that you can use it to change other people’s lives. Isn’t that just like being an idol?”

When Midori’s head raises, the sparkle in his eyes is apparent, and Mao is reassured that these moments are exactly what give him the most joy. “Y—yes, I guess you have a point…”

Mao doesn’t back down. His grin widens. “And even when you’re afraid, you still stand on stage to make the audience happy, don’t you?”

“You’re not entirely wrong…”

“Then that makes you just as brave as everyone else! It’s about overcoming your fears, just as I’m trying to overcome mine.” Mao slips back into his natural voice during that last part, but his spur-of-the-moment speech seems to be working. Midori’s face is carefully neutral, but his cheeks are dusted with a light pink and he doesn’t appear to be vehemently disagreeing with Mao’s words.

“How was that?” he can’t help but ask.

“Um, not bad. But it would’ve been more effective if you’d been holding up Basket-bon.”

“It’s called improvisation, Takamine,” Mao says, but he reaches up to ruffle Midori’s hair, who frowns at the action.

It’s just then that the door to the kitchen slides open, and Subaru comes bouncing in, Aira close on his heels. Midori returns to his ordinary unimpressed expression with record speed.

“Ah—mornin’, Sally, Takamin! We were wondering where that amazing smell of breakfast was coming from,” Subaru says, and immediately takes to sniffing at the food in the pot like a puppy.

With his presence, it’s like a light switch has been flipped on in the room. Even at this early hour, Subaru is sparkling as usual, a constant aura that rarely turns off. Mao hesitates to call him a supernova—those tend to take place at the end of a star’s lifespan, but the general idea is still there.

Scorching, blinding heat, but it doesn’t burn Mao this time.

“By the way, Sally, I saw you standing on your tiptoes to pat Takamin’s head just now, and it gave me an idea! Do you want stilts for your birthday?”

Never mind. He’ll become a supernova very soon.

Mao turns away. “Come on and help me set the tables, Takamine. And remember to leave Subaru’s plate empty.”

“Hey!”

As he leaves the room, Subaru’s indignant cries fading into the background, laughter bubbles up Mao’s chest.

Everyone here is enjoying themselves and having fun. Not all of this can be attributed to his efforts, not by a long shot. But if even one person is able to smile because of something that he did, it’s enough for him.

Everyone here is enjoying themselves and having fun. And really, isn’t that the essence of youth?

(Maybe he’ll attempt holding the metal knife tomorrow. Isn’t trying new things also an integral part of youth?)

vii.

With a steady hand, Mao pours tea into a pair of cups. They’re beautiful pieces of china, left to the Student Council by Eichi after graduation, so he does his best to polish them often, to keep them pristine and unscratched.

Tori flops into his seat, squinting at the sheets of paper in his hand. “Ugh…I’m tired,” he complains, turning his head in Mao’s direction.

He sets one of the cups in front of Tori with a smile. “Wait ‘til you become President next year. You’ll be feeling that a lot.”

“Ugh…” Said future Student Council President sags even further, and it’s only the sweet aroma of tea that makes him visibly perk up again. He sips with eagerness, taking great care not to look too sloppy in front of Mao.

A quiet afternoon alone at school, a break away from all the chaos at ES in the days following the SS finals. By this point, Mao can’t remember a time when ES wasn’t chaotic. Though it’s not a break from work; they are here for Student Council duties.

“So, how’s my speech, New Pres?” Tori asks, lowering his cup.

“Much better than mine was last year, to be honest,” Mao says with a laugh, and Tori pouts.

“Duh. You said your mind completely blanked back then and you just rambled on for a while. You’ve improved since then, I’ll give you that.”

Mao winces. “Now it sounds like you’re the senior here.”

Tori isn’t wrong, though. A stab of embarrassment worms its way through Mao’s nerves like venom whenever he’s reminded of that speech. His friends had told him that it was great, but he had concluded that their minds were clouded by bias.

He had also concluded back then that speeches in front of a crowd weren’t his thing. He’s a man of action—showing his passions through physical moves, helping others out. Words are a constant work in progress.

And making that speech last year was also a little terrifying. Everyone’s eyes and ears, focused solely on him, scrutinising his every move. It sends a shiver up his spine even now.

—However, Tori also isn’t wrong on the other part of his statement. Preparing speeches has almost become second-nature, and while standing on a podium appealing to the masses still isn’t his forte, Mao can say that he manages them pretty well now.

Being the centre of attention is more Tori’s thing, though, so Mao is happy to entrust this New Year’s speech to him.

“Exactly,” Tori replies, folding his arms. “How many times have I told you? You’re the senior here, so act like it! And that starts by advising me on my speech.”

With a light apology (“—and stop apologising while you’re at it!”), Mao picks up the papers left on Tori’s desk and starts to skim through them.

It’s all…pretty sincere, actually. Tori’s trademark haughtiness slips through here and there, but he’s making a genuine effort, genuine as anyone, to become the kind of leader that people will like. 

He’s not a replica, a reflection, of Eichi or Mao, as much as he admires the former.

Somewhere along the way, maybe he’d stepped back to reconsider things a little. Maybe he’d realised that Eichi isn’t someone to copy, maybe he’d felt it best to be his own person than trying to emulate someone he isn’t. Mao won’t ask, but he understands the thought process very well.

He isn’t Eichi. He isn’t Keito. He isn’t Subaru, or Hokuto, or Makoto. And he’d made peace with that long ago, that these people have their own strengths and weaknesses, just as he has his.

And Shinobu isn’t Mao. Tori isn’t him, either. Fears buried deep within his chest, fears that he might be having too deep of a bad influence on his juniors, so deep that they become rooted and stagnant—those fears don’t have to exist. 

He’s not afraid of leaving the school to Tori next year. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“Pretty good,” he affirms, handing the speech back. “You’ve been working on this for a while, huh?”

Tori’s cheeks redden. He sits back, swinging his legs, feigning nonchalance. “Well, I need everyone to take the Student Council seriously, and that won’t happen if I come out with some half-baked nonsense. This is my future, New Pres, and I’m gonna make sure everyone in the world knows this school’s name whether they like it or not.”

“I like your drive.” There’s nothing but respect in Mao’s voice, and for once, Tori doesn’t admonish him for being too soft, too humble.

Instead, his legs come to a stop and he puts a contemplative finger to his cheek. “Speaking of, what are you going to do next year? Graduation’s coming up fast, you know.”

And there’s something else that Mao has been burying deep within him for a while. The future is hard to ignore, just as hard to ignore as the present or even a clouded past, but he has an excuse. 

He’s busy with Student Council work. He’s busy with idol work. He’s busy catching up to his friends and becoming a star worthy of warmth.

…It’s not much of an excuse. His thoughts had gnawed away at the back of his mind, wondering if he was ever destined for anything, or if he ought to dig a path himself, with his own blood, sweat, and tears.

And then the university brochures had been thrust into his arms, and the cogs started to turn.

It had made Mao think back to his life before becoming an idol, a time that feels like several lives ago, when it was taken for granted that he’d go to university and get a job in a field that he didn’t feel particularly strongly about, one way or the other.

The difference between then and now is that there are options. So many options that it’s almost overwhelming. He doesn’t have to go to university, but in a way, that very thought makes the idea more appealing.

And it’s a path that feels like him. Breaking away from expectations, from shutting out his own desires, and he knows that it’s something he wants to do. To expand his skillset and experiences and have even more “magic” tricks up his sleeve.

He tells Tori the short version: he’s thinking of university alongside being an idol. That learning new things is fun, that he wants to keep his horizons open for the future.

And Tori huffs. “That’s just like you. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

But somehow, that’s one of the biggest compliments Mao could receive. Because it is him, it’s a choice he’s making, and he’s allowing himself that freedom.

He smiles, picks up the new photo sitting alongside the one of the Student Council of the previous year. There’s Mao himself in the centre, ruffling Shinobu’s hair who beams with pride. Tori’s hands are on his hips, a large presence despite his cute appearance, and Yuzuru is in the middle of a polite laugh.

Has he done well? Has he made everyone here enjoy their youths with a smile? Have people been growing under his leadership, watered and nurtured like seedlings under a shining sun?

But his thoughts aren’t being hidden well, as Tori cuts in with his usual snark.

“Hey, don’t go getting all sentimental now. Your job is far from done—you still have a few months left here.”

“Wasn’t dreaming of it,” Mao says, taking the now empty teacup from him and wiping it off. 

Tori sighs, but he stands up, stretching his arms above his head. Is it just Mao, or has Tori gotten a little taller now?

“Let’s go again,” his junior says, clearing his throat in a dramatic fashion. “And this time, I’ll make sure my speech is more than pretty good. I’ll be the best President there ever was, just you wait.”

“And I hope you will,” is his response, because it’s the truth, because the point of passing the role on is that each leader is better than the previous one. The accumulation of lessons and memories and experiences, all built up into ever stronger and larger foundations for the next centrepiece to stand on.

Next year, there might be yet another photograph standing on the President’s desk, smiles immortalised within the frame, memories held safe in the colours of the print.

viii.

It’s dusty in the storage room. When was the last time it had been cleaned?

Mao had allowed Subaru to hold onto the metal key for the afternoon after relentless begging and puppy-dog eyes, but he seems to have forgotten all about this in favour of digging through boxes of glitter and bells, decorations from previous lives.

“Woah, look at this!” he exclaims, and everyone looks up to see the lion prop from their live with Akatsuki back when they were second-years, held up in Subaru’s arms.

Makoto leans forward to have a better view. “I remember this! But it’s covered in dust now…it’s kinda lonely.” As if to prove his point, his observation is immediately followed up with a sneeze, and Hokuto hands him a tissue.

Mao turns back to the box he’s kneeling in front of. It’s filled with white paper, documents and applications to hold live shows. Some of the names he recognises—even from this year, but some are unfamiliar to him, having been sitting here for years.

Almost like a time capsule.

Hokuto claps his hands. “Come on, you two. We insisted that we should be here to help Isara clean this room out, and we’ll just be causing even more trouble if we mess around the whole ti—mmph!”

A pile of confetti is dumped onto his head from behind.

“Anzu!”

Subaru breaks out into peals of laughter at Hokuto’s dumbfounded expression, while Anzu gives him an apologetic smile and moves to pick up all the pieces of confetti she had dropped, placing them back neatly into the box as though they had always been there.

Everyone having fun, enjoying the last weeks of their school lives, it’s more than Mao could hope for. They’re energetic and taking part in various light-hearted antics, but beneath all of that, there’s an unspoken agreement not to speak of graduation, not yet. Not when the mere mention might send them into floods of tears. Nobody wants to be the person to test that.

He’s been gradually handing off his Student Council duties to Tori, the first sign, first realisation that this is really happening, that he’ll be thrust into an adult world of adult responsibilities and adult fears.

But he’s not alone. With the rest of his friends here, those fears can be overcome, and the dark tunnel ahead becomes just a little lighter, the end a little more visible.

So he scrunches up a scrap piece of paper and throws it at Hokuto.

“Isara.” His voice comes as a sigh, but there’s no real frustration in it. There’s a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips, and that’s all it takes.

It’s Makoto who starts, doubling over as his body trembles with uncontrollable laughter. Subaru quickly joins in, and then Anzu, and Mao, and Hokuto, and soon enough there’s nothing else to be heard in the dark storage room, other than the odd dust-induced cough or snort (nobody bothers to find out who that is).

Mao struggles to focus on the documents piled in front of him as his vision blurs. The words twist and dance on the paper, droplets of tears splash and ruin the ink, and he can’t separate his tangle of emotions from each other. The dam is broken.

The occasional sniff and sob join the mix, a wordless chorus—or more like a cacophony, but it’s still music to Mao’s ears. Because it sounds like home.

None of them know how long this goes on for, until their throats are raw and their cheeks are streaked with tears and their eyes are red, but they eventually find themselves sprawled on the floor, tangled emotions unravelled and laid bare, interconnected, intertwined. Exhausted but happy.

Happy to be here, happy to have been here. In this room, where memories remain dormant but waiting to be uncovered like a tender hand wiping over a dusty childhood toy.

“We’ve…really not done anything, huh.” Makoto is the first to speak up, voice slightly hoarse, removing his glasses and swiping a hand over his eyes. Hokuto hands him another tissue. “Sorry, Isara-kun. We should at least get some of this sorted before the sun sets.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mao assures him. It’s not like he’d been expecting them all to help him with this work without getting sidetracked along the way. That’s just how Trickstar does things.

They stumble and take detours and stray away from the chosen path, but in the end, they’ll always meet up in the same place, under the rays of the sun.

There’s no rush.

The cleaning is done in relative peace. Subaru hums quietly while they sort through old and broken props, documents that aren’t needed anymore, costumes torn beyond repair.

Maybe Mao could bring some of these costumes back to the dormitory. It might be a nice surprise for his creative roommates, inspiration for the future where the base can be modelled even stronger into something to be proud of.

The people that made these outfits had been proud of them once, proud enough to wear them on stage for the whole world to see. It’d be a shame to toss them away and pretend that they’d never existed. To pretend that memories aren’t there, acting as though they don’t shape the people that exist in the present.

He sees Hokuto gingerly holding a mask in the corner, frozen for a moment before slipping it into his pocket.

“I know!” Subaru announces, poking his head out of a black sack that he had been rummaging around in. “If we’re not gonna get this all done today, why don’t we just have a sleepover here?”

“Like, here, at school?” Makoto blinks.

Subaru nods with such enthusiasm that Mao worries for a brief moment that his head might snap off. “Yeah! We won’t be able to do this after graduation, so we may as well make the most of it.”

There’s silence. He’d broken the unspoken rule, but there are no tears left to cry. 

And graduation isn’t something that can be ignored.

So Mao takes the lead, this time. “Good idea. Let’s put the boxes away for now, and we can get back to them tomorrow. I’ll order us some takeout.”

Energy returns to the group as they move storage items around, hungry and looking forward to a nice unhealthy meal.

As Mao lifts up a heavy box to set on the top shelf, something drifts to the floor. He bends down to pick it up, flicking dust off its surface.

“Ooh, look at this!” Subaru has come to join him, resting his chin on Mao’s shoulder. “I remember when this photo was taken—after our Tanabata performance during second year, right?”

Now that Mao is fully able to see what the image depicts, Subaru’s observation proves to be right. He’s standing in the middle, one hand patting Shinobu’s head and the other arm wrapped over Subaru’s shoulder. On one side, the members of Trickstar stand close together, arms around each other and grinning widely, with even Makoto wearing a slightly nervous smile, while Ryuseitai does much the same on the other side. 

An image over a year and a half old. The realisation surprises Mao, that it had been so long since he’d stood on that stage in front of the stars, so desperately hoping to become one of them someday. Wanting to be a deserving member of his unit, wanting to be valuable and worth something.

“You took some of those photos, right, Anzu-chan?” Makoto says, and he steps closer to get a better view. “It’s a shame we didn’t have this to put into our yearbook, but I don’t know if it can even get any bigger.”

Right, the yearbook. Mao has gone through it so many times, every pixel carved into his mind, memories of a time that he’ll never forget.

He found Trickstar here, the people that saved him and continue to save him, and he hopes that he has been able to do the same for them in return. 

He found Trickstar here, two years ago, eight seasons ago. They had slotted together like parts of a whole, and he doesn’t know where he’d be if it weren’t for them. It’s not something he cares to think about—what matters is that he’s here, right now, with friends that he wants to take with him into a distant future.

“I had so much fun that day…” Subaru says, a hint of wistfulness in his voice. “I was so excited with the wish I had made and everything.”

“Did it come true?” Hokuto asks.

Subaru’s face lights up. “Yep! Exactly to the letter!”

There’s some discussion of wishes. The others mention that theirs had also been granted, but nobody asks for the specifics. Wishes are private, kept close to one’s chest, personal and secret.

Makoto stands close to Mao, not taking his eyes off the picture. “Did your wish come true, Isara-kun?”

While Subaru opens the door of the storage room to let them out, the orange warmth of sunset filling the dark corners and crevices, Mao runs a finger over the photographed version of himself.

“Yeah. Yeah, it did.”

The window paints a reflection of a group of far-from-ordinary high school students, and through their transparent figures, the first buds of cherry blossom petals begin to bloom.

It’s bright.

I wish to make more memories with my friends.