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The flowers on the bedside table have wilted.
Mao reaches for his phone, hand fumbling about in the dark to shut off his alarm in a half-asleep daze, and his fingers brush over a petal lying solitarily on the polished wood, hardened by age. He pinches it between his thumb and forefinger, holding it close to his eyes to take in its discolouration, a pallid yellow fading over the once-bright blush pink.
One deep sigh, closing his eyes for a quiet second, and then the bustle of the day begins.
He clicks the light switch on his way to the bathroom with a practised softness, making sure not to disturb the only other current occupant of his dormitory. The water from the tap is cold, usually enough to shock away any last remnants of sleep, but it hasn’t done the trick in quite a while. Still, Mao doesn’t dwell on it, hasn’t been dwelling on much, lately, when his mind is heavy and layered in a damp fog.
Just keep going, he’d decided, even when his brain feels disconnected from his body, his body feels disconnected from the rest of the world, and the rest of the world is a simple glass box that only he has awareness of.
It’s the mantra that takes him through his morning routine: brushing his teeth, throwing on some clothes (“We really need to get you a good sense of fashion for your university debut,” Arashi had told him while they hung out with some other former classmates the previous day), pinning up his bangs while he absently notes that his hair’s gotten longer. He could cut it, maybe he should cut it, but that would be another thing he’d have to let go of. The thought of cutting anything doesn’t particularly appeal to him these days, not even the time when Subaru had gotten a long red ribbon to stretch across the front of Trickstudio and made a big deal of cutting it to “officially mark a new point in our relationship”.
(“What’s with that look, Sally?” Subaru had teased, seeing the furious blush that had painted Mao’s cheeks, and he didn’t want to unpack how that made him feel.)
He continues: packing his bag for the day, sweeping his eyes over the calendar to make sure he has his schedule memorised, and tugging his shoes on, only to stop when his gaze catches on the sad-looking bouquet drooping in a vase next to his bed.
Here’s something he’ll have to let go of, whether he likes it or not.
Mao rips a fresh garbage bag from the roll in one of the cupboards and dumps the flowers into it. It’s been how long—two, two and a half weeks? Two and a half weeks since he turned his back on his school, two and a half weeks since Tori had gifted him the bouquet, on behalf of the entire student body.
Two and a half weeks he’s been drifting aimlessly from job to job, putting on a wan smile whilst his thoughts float elsewhere.
Today, too, will be much of the same. A commercial shooting, a radio show, and a trip to the mall to buy some textbooks and stationery. A busy day, by all accounts, but there’s a glaring omission in his calendar that trips him up every time he glances at it, expecting to see something there isn’t. Something he has outgrown, and that has outgrown him.
Out with the old, in with the new, as the saying goes.
He slings the garbage bag over his shoulder and leaves the room.
“—not like someone put a gun to your head and forced you into it!”
“I wasn’t complaining, Akehoshi. Just stating objective facts.”
Mao lifts his head up from his place at the table, blinking a few times to rid his eyes of an irritating dryness.
“I don’t know, Hidaka-kun. That sounded a lot like complaining to me.”
That’s Makoto’s voice, coming from the sofas they (Subaru) had recently bought with Trickstar’s money. When Mao cranes his neck back to look behind him, he sees Makoto curled up in the corner of one of them, his laptop long forgotten to play intermediary to their more volatile friends. And there’s Subaru and Hokuto, on the opposing sofa with their backs to him, though Subaru’s shoulders bob up and down in a manner suggesting that he’s swinging his legs to and fro.
Hokuto hmphs and leans back. Mao can’t see his expression, but he guesses it’s one of his usual indignant frowns. “I think saying that my mother’s gotten about ten times more annoying since I’ve had more time to devote myself to the troupe lately is an objective fact. It almost makes me regret joining. You should’ve seen her when she invited me to dinner yesterday.”
“I wish I could’ve seen it,” says Subaru in a faux-wistful voice.
Makoto opens his mouth to speak again, but his eyes land on Mao’s, and they soften behind his glasses.
“Isara-kun!” he calls, and the others whip their heads around to look at him. Mao shrinks a little under their stares, which seem to ask how long he’d been sitting back there. Had they forgotten he was here? Makoto pats the space on the sofa beside him in an unspoken question, so Mao pushes himself out of his chair and goes to join them.
Subaru beams at him once he’s gotten comfortable, and turns back to banter with Hokuto, Makoto interjecting with his own thoughts at appropriate intervals. Mao draws a knee up to his chest, resting his chin on it as he watches the back and forth. They don’t ask him to speak, leaving their hands extended if he chooses to take them, but they don’t judge either way. He wishes he could say the same for himself, push down on the shame as it twists his gut and overrides any other conscious thought.
“—but I’m sure things will go back to normal soon enough, Hidaka-kun. Maybe it’s the novelty of being an adult for the first time. You know, like she’s feeling sentimental about your growth.”
“Huh.” Hokuto pauses in his mini tirade, eyebrows creasing in the centre of his face. He levels Makoto with a curious stare. “Do you feel like an adult yet? You’re turning nineteen soon, right?”
The question seems to catch him off guard, and Mao looks back down to the floor, awaiting his answer. It’s not often he’s reminded of his position in Trickstar: the youngest one, close to a full year behind Makoto. Two more weeks and the others would be his seniors.
Two and a half weeks since the passage of time stole his identity.
Mao’s grip tightens around his leg, almost petulantly, but Makoto answers before attention starts to fall on him again.
“Don’t remind me,” he groans. “But not exactly? I’m moving on to higher education unlike the two of you, so I guess I still feel like a child at times.”
At least Mao isn’t alone. There’s a hand he can hold onto, assure him that he’s real, guide him forwards when he loses faith in his own judgement.
“Must be nice,” Subaru muses. “All this adult stuff is already making my head spin.”
“Even though we basically have our own house together? I’d say that’s rather adult,” says Hokuto.
Subaru’s eyes widen, a sparkling blue impossible to look away from. “Wait. You’re right, Hokke! Maybe being an adult is fun after all.”
“Talk about a switch-up,” Hokuto mutters.
As infectious as Subaru’s smile often is, Mao can only manage a small one in response. It feels more like a grimace, stretched unnaturally across his cheeks as though painted on.
It’s odd, contradictory to the face he wears in front of everyone else: the uneasiness of growing up, the fear of losing his footing in the world of grown-ups that he had pretended to be a part of since he was young. You’re so mature for your age, his elementary teachers would say, and Mao now thinks of it as the neutral statement it was. But as a child it was enticing, the promise of being taken seriously, the lure of independence when it was in his own power to choose it. When he could fool himself into believing that it was a choice, not simply a direction thrust upon him due to circumstance.
Now there is no illusion of choice, no pretence. No sitting at the adults’ table while his legs are still too short to graze the floor. No propping himself up in front of his friends who’d already witnessed too much of the world’s cruelty, claiming to protect their innocence.
What else will be taken from him, before he even realises it?
Mao doesn’t notice he’s stopped walking until the shop assistant addresses him.
“Do you need any help, sir? Feel free to take a look at everything we have on offer and I’ll be happy to answer any questions.”
“Um.” Behind the assistant is a rack filled with bouquets of flowers, speckles of colour brightened by the afternoon sun. “I’m fine for now, thanks.”
Stepping forward, Mao drinks in the scent of the early spring, enclosed between the bouquets seeming to burst out of their wrappings on one side of the street and a row of cherry blossom trees on the other, petals landing over his head and shoulders like pink raindrops. He’s never been especially into flowers, even now, as his eyes start to fill, blurring the hues in front of him into an abstract watercolour. There’s the familiar itching of his nose, beneath the cover of his mask, and he turns away before he embarrasses himself in a sneezing fit.
But he doesn’t move.
Even though we basically have our own house together?
Mao’s gaze wanders to a sign in the corner, surrounded by bouquets of daffodils and tulips, in a myriad of shades. The perfect housewarming gift! it reads, in bold characters sure to catch the eye.
Housewarming—the thought feels silly. A child’s attempt at playing adult, like he’s wearing clothes a few sizes too large. But Trickstudio has always been a world of its own, hasn’t it? A secret hideout of sorts, a place where the norms of society cannot reach, where Mao and his friends can rest and watch the rest of the world pass by. A safe haven, a house in all but name. Everything that Ensemble Square isn’t.
The idea is too tempting to pass up. And Mao is aware that he hasn’t been at his most attentive recently, that hopefully this purchase could bring some colour back into him, refresh his senses and pull him along into the new era in a whirlwind of petals.
And above all, because he loves Trickstar. And he loves the home they have made for themselves, together. And Trickstudio is the result of all of this, the physical manifestation and the natural endpoint of this love.
Mao closes his hand around the bottom of the largest bouquet and picks it out of the rack.
The shop assistant regards him with a smile when he presents it at the checkout. But there’s still one more thing he wants—one more item that would complete this bouquet.
“Can I also get a single white rose with that?” Mao asks, with a hint of an apologetic tone for the trouble. He’s no expert, but he vaguely remembers his sister rambling to him about flowers once, as a preteen going through any possible interest to latch onto in search of an identity.
The assistant shuffles around in the back for a short while, leaving him to bounce between his feet until he returns. And when he does, Mao takes the rose with a thanks and places it delicately among the rest of the flowers, nestled between a pair of daffodils still yet to bloom.
He holds them close to him as he leaves, knowing he really shouldn’t, as his eyes start to itch too and he pulls a tissue from his pocket with his free hand to briefly lower his mask and wipe his nose. Straight to Trickstudio it is, where he can set the flowers in a vase and freshen himself up before the next item on his schedule. He still needs to drop by the university to pick up a student ID before the first day, but he hasn’t worked up the courage to do so yet. It could be intimidation, but more than that, Mao knows that the moment he steps onto campus as an official student is also the moment he has severed all ties to his old life. The school where his life bloomed into meaning, where he learnt how to love and be loved in return.
Nothing can match up to the familiarity of the Student Council room, another home even when the stress almost got the better of him. Nor will his mornings feel the same without the deft movements of his hands securing his tie around his neck. He’d already given it away: just as Eichi had passed down his legacy to Mao in that silky green fabric, so too did Mao imbue that same tie with his own desires before gifting it to his chosen successor. The tie now carries the weight of a history, leaving its previous owner untethered and alone, while a small piece of their soul remains within.
He hopes it’ll be looked after. If he no longer holds the power to ensure it himself, he can do nothing but hope.
He sighs, blinking away the blurriness in his vision—and almost bumps straight into someone.
Mao opens his mouth to apologise, but his mind shudders to a stop when he meets the other person’s eyes. He knows that face; older than he remembers and sitting upon an adult body, the boyish roundness now hardened out into mature edges.
“Isara?” the young man says, surprise evident in his voice. “Is that you?”
He does recognise him. And the realisation hits him, though it should’ve been common sense: Mao and his friends aren’t the only ones who have grown. Here stands one of his classmates from middle school, someone Mao can barely recall playing football with after school, who he’d eat lunch with on occasion. His family name was… Imai, wasn’t it?
“Yep, that’s me,” Mao responds, swallowing down a cough. “Imai, right? It’s been a while! How’s it going?”
His old classmate waves a hand dismissively, the other tucked into his pocket. He brushes off Mao’s question like it’s nothing. “Ah, I’m getting by. Busy prepping for university and all that. But enough about me,” he says, as though they’d been discussing his life for hours. “I bet you don’t have to worry about that kinda stuff, huh? Looks like someone became a famous idol in the three years since we graduated middle school.” Imai grins. “Who would’ve thought my dumb suggestion would seriously work out?”
That’s right. He had almost forgotten how all of this had started. The warm sun of an early autumn noon, Mao perched on the edge of his desk as he ate his lunch, bought from the cafeteria. His friends sat scattered around him, deep in discussion about whatever new scandal was coming out of the idol industry. Mao was only half paying attention to the conversation, not particularly interested in that sort of thing.
There wasn’t much he could say he took interest in. It was a complacent sort of life, one where he did what his teachers told him and not much more. One where he went with the flow, allowing the tide to drag him wherever it pleased, that if he hit a rock along the way, it’d be a problem to deal with in the moment. Don’t look forwards, don’t look back, and he’ll be as uncomplicated as they come.
So that when people needed him, he could turn into whatever they wanted. Living for himself was never an idea that had crossed his mind.
Even resigned to this mindset, Mao was snapped back into the conversation when his name was brought up.
“I don’t even wanna think about high school right now. Entrance exams are gonna be a nightmare,” one of his classmates had said. “I seriously doubt I’ll be accepted for my first choice.” It seemed the topic had pivoted, and Mao was reminded once more of the gruelling exam season coming up. Nothing he couldn’t handle, but the problem was choosing a school in the first place. He supposed he’d settle for whatever was closest to his house.
“Don’t say that!” Imai whined, slouching in his seat. “I’m sure it’ll all go well if we just study enough…” He paused, swivelling his head around the room until his gaze landed on Mao. “Hey, do you think you could help us study, Isara? You’re actually a good student who studies hard, unlike some of us. You won’t have any problems with entrance exams. Your grades are good enough that you could probably get into any high school you wanted.”
Mao rubbed the back of his neck with a hint of bashfulness. “Sure, I’d be happy to help. But don’t you think you’re overselling me a bit? There are plenty of people out there who are far more impressive than me.”
“Hah!” Imai barked out a laugh. “Humble as ever. But to be honest, you’re the kinda guy who can get any future you want. Like… I even think you’d make a good idol. We’ve all seen how you can dance!”
“Right?” Another one of the group sitting with them, a girl with a long ponytail, chimed in. “I see idols in magazines and on TV all the time, and you’d definitely fit in well with them.”
It was just a joke, a jest between classmates who made silly suggestions as young teenagers always did. And even at the time, Mao didn’t see it as much more than that. “Then I guess I’d have to join one of those specialised idol training schools and start working on my PR skills, huh?”
The rest of the lunch period had passed by smoothly, and the attention on Mao was soon all but forgotten. And he would’ve forgotten all about it, too, had Ritsu not shown up at Mao’s house that evening, complaining about all the exercise the idols-in-training at his prestigious new high school had to undertake as he draped his arms over Mao’s shoulders.
Yumenosaki. The school his best friend attended, one that was close enough to home—and, well, the idol stuff couldn’t hurt, right?
And now look where it had gotten him. Walking home from work in the midst of a listless daze, listening to a memory of the past gush about achievements he sometimes isn’t even sure he accomplished. It would all be much, much simpler if Mao had put his head down and continue along the path that had already been trodden countless times before, but he knows—always has known, that in the end, the simple path was never an option. His friends always tease him for always complicating matters for himself, and it’s not like he’s blind to that, either.
“Man,” Imai says, sighing in the middle of his rambles, “becoming an idol sounds so cool. The kind of life where everyone loves you, and you don’t have to worry about stuff like school… what a life it must be.”
Mao could laugh at that. How easy it is for the public to be so taken in by the facade of glamour that the television seems to portray. It’s not like he and his friends had struggled immensely to climb to the top, not like the entire world had witnessed the dangers of this lifestyle already: on screens plastered all over the country, a ghost of the past returning to haunt one of those most treasured to him. Had Mao’s old classmates seen the terror that had marred his idol-perfect face that day? Had they seen him trying to keep his trembling hands under control, to step up as a pillar to the person who needed him most?
“It’s definitely not as simple as it sounds,” he attempts instead, lightheartedly. “And I still had to attend school, you know? Every day. Plenty of nights, even.”
“Oh, that’s right! You were the Student Council President, weren’t you? Pretty much everything about Yumenosaki is public knowledge these days.” Imai’s eyes brighten, and he nudges Mao in the ribs. “See, I told you so. I said you could do anything you wanted, and you sure went and proved it.”
Were. It stings as much as Mao expects. He can’t blame this person, who would never understand the full depths of his commitment, the way he had given his entire being over to his school. He can’t tell if there’s anything left of him, or if he’s still trapped within those wide double-doors, left to roam the halls as a wandering spirit.
No. That’s far too morbid. And far too wrong. He never thought he possessed Eichi’s taste for the melodramatic, but did he still inherit it somewhere along the way?
And when half of his heart lies in a building that no longer has need of him, and the other half is kept safe within the warm hands of the people he loves, he wonders what the beating under his skin can really be.
Mao’s thoughts are interrupted by a sneeze. And another one. There’s no way he’ll be comfortable in Trickstudio with these flowers around at this time of year, but if the others will love them, he’ll put on his best smile and pretend that he loves them too.
He lets out a self-conscious laugh. “You guys always put too much faith in me. But thanks, seriously. Anyway, I should get going,” he says, holding the bouquet up in explanation. “These little guys need water before I end up wasting my money on dead leaves. Still gotta stay frugal, right?”
“Ah. Right.” Imai seems surprised at that last admission. Perhaps just meeting a former classmate-turned-idol in the flesh today has brought him back to reality, shown him that the life of an idol really might not be all that he thinks. There’s some slight guilt at the back of Mao’s brain that he is the cause of this newfound disillusionment, when idols should be always presenting the ideal to strive for. But he can’t linger on it for too long—he has far too many other worries to consciously try not to think about. “Well, I’ll see you around, Isara. Take care of yourself.”
He raises a hand in goodbye, and starts to jog off past Mao, who begins the trek back to that unassuming building on an unassuming street, where the other half of his heart awaits.
Subaru hasn’t stopped staring at the flowers since he arrived.
“They’re perfect,” he says, for about the fourth time this afternoon. Then he turns to Mao. “They really brighten this place up! You know what, maybe we should all take turns buying flowers for our little hideout, so that it’ll be constantly changing. I’ll even get the most massive bouquet I can find! Or, or maybe we could buy as many as we can carry and put them all around the room!”
“I think that last part would cost us far too much money, Akehoshi-kun,” Makoto says, and he smiles at Mao. “And, ah, Isara-kun, I wouldn’t wanna irritate your allergies too much.“
Mao shrugs, feeling a genuine smile play on his lips for the first time in a while. Sitting here with his friends, talking about trivial ways of decorating their building, their shared building, really is the simplest type of joy. “Don’t worry about me, Makoto. If it makes all of you happy I can deal with some of the sniffles.”
Cupping his chin in his hands, he watches Subaru pull out his phone to take a picture of the flowers at every possible angle. If any of his middle school classmates were here now, he’s sure they’d consider this scene the exact ideal of being an idol, a kind of unbroken happiness that persists from the moment one steps onto the stage for the first time. He might have even thought the same way, once before.
He tries his best—he had tried his best, to make that the kind of life his friends could have. As long as he was there, he’d ensure that nothing would stain them, while his own clothes would muddy with the secrets and the sacrifices. But they’re older, more wise to the ways of the world than he’d hoped, and fully able to see his protection as what it was: a flimsy cover, hiding an even more shameful desperation.
Mao thinks that’s all in the past, that they’re all on equal footing now. At least, that’s what he tells himself every day, when he walks in on Subaru deep in his own mind in the midst of practice, when he spots Makoto and Hokuto on movie posters all around the city, surrounded by crowds of fans excited for just a glimpse of their faces on the big screen. When he himself would stand at the front of a hall filled with students looking up to him, reciting a speech he had painstakingly rehearsed in the darkness of the Student Council Office in the deepest hours of the night.
That was before graduation, before he was gifted those flowers that lived and died in his room as a reminder of the flow of time, and a similar reminder that his role in this three-year long drama was over. And he had tried to take care of those flowers as best he could, he really did, but his hands were inexperienced and his vision was shrouded in a thin layer of mist. And before he knew it, there were petals on the bedside table, and drifting to the floor, and looking nothing at all like the ones sitting proudly in the vase before him now.
He won’t let these ones be taken from him so quickly; he’s not the only one looking after them this time.
Maybe he’s never been that good at protection. But he’ll always try, even if—especially if—that protection is his one purpose in life.
Mao’s job doesn’t start for at least an hour, but he knew he was going to wear holes in the carpet of his dorm if he stayed in there any longer. Waking up at the crack of dawn each morning is a hard habit to break, even with the encouragement of his friends to laze around and rest after graduation.
Simple enough to say, not simple in the slightest to actually carry out. It’s that same daze that takes over any ounce of common sense, his feet dragging him wherever they want to go while he can’t find it in him to protest. It’s why he finds himself now pacing laps around the dormitory building, listening to nothing but the spring breeze and birdsong in the early morning.
But there are footsteps getting closer, a door sliding shut, and a voice that cuts through the peace.
“—and I know I’ll be in for it if we can’t find those financial records. I thought Isara-senpai had cleaned the room fully before leaving, but it still doesn’t make these documents any easier to find.”
That’s his name. Mao spins on his heel just in time to see two of his juniors walking through the gate, a sense of urgency carrying their steps.
Shinobu’s visible eye narrows. “I mean, we could just ask—“
“Nope.” Tori’s tone is firm. “I’ve only been at this for a couple of weeks now—I’m not gonna immediately run crying to Isara-senpai about every little prob…” His eyes find Mao’s, and his voice trails off. “…lem. Ugh. Speak of the devil.”
“Way to speak about your predecessor,” Mao calls, and heads over to greet them, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Want me to take that tie back?”
It’s all in jest, the kind of banter that he has settled into with Tori over the past couple of years. But even Tori must notice that there’s something up, as his nose scrunches in concern.
“That’s Eichi-sama’s tie. And what are you doing, wandering around the grounds at this time of morning? Pretending you’re walking to school again?” Shinobu nudges him in the side and he stops, though not without an annoyed glance his way. “Ah, whatever. Since you were eavesdropping anyway, I may as well ask you if you know where last year’s records of our live budget went. Our investors have asked for it. You know how it is.”
He’s gotten taller, and so has Shinobu. Mao doesn’t need to turn his head down quite so far to look them in the eyes, and the ties settled against their white shirts are a ripe green. He averts his gaze, the wound still too fresh, too new. He could’ve kept his tie as a souvenir of the time he’d spent within the grand gates of his school, could’ve ensured that this fragment of his soul was safe with him. But it’s not just his , it’s Eichi’s too, and a part of him thinks that Tori would do a better job taking care of it than he ever would. At least it wouldn’t be sitting in a wardrobe, gathering dust until the green is overtaken by a layer of murky grey.
It’s all to keep their legacy fresh, his soul clean, and the tie useful.
“Yeah,” Mao says, choosing instead to fiddle with the straps of his bag, “I think I remember keeping those documents at the very back of the library, where all the archives are stored. You’ll need to use the key I gave you to get in—those documents are pretty precious.”
Tori shrugs his bag off his shoulder and sifts around in it for a few seconds, before producing a key attached to a thin red lanyard. “This one? You gave me a lot of keys before you left. You really should have labelled them at some point.”
Mao folds his arms. Really, the cheek on this guy… “Hey, I think I had much more pressing matters to attend to before writing out a bunch of sticky labels for keys.” He sighs, and he knows what the next words out of his mouth will be before he even knows he’ll say them. “But if it bothers you that much, hand all the keys over to me when you get back after school and I’ll do it for you. I guess being more organised isn’t a bad thing.”
This brings both of his juniors to a freeze, gaping up at him. When Tori eventually speaks, it’s with an odd sense of awe. “Wow, things really are that bad, huh?” Another nudge to the side, and he scowls.
“Isara-dono, you don’t need to inconvenience yourself that much for our sake,” Shinobu says, swooping in to take over. He hesitates for a moment, a moment too long, and Mao prepares himself for the question he’s sure he’ll ask. “But are you sure you’re all right? You’ve looked a little down lately. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know!”
Is there anything he can do? Would he understand what Mao himself isn’t fully cognisant of? A gaping emptiness, and an exhaustion he can’t shake, when having more free time should instead reinvigorate him. It’s all contradictory, all wrong and off-balance, like someone has twisted the world upside-down. Or, more accurately, like Mao is the one dangling from the skies.
But he looks into Shinobu’s eye, gleaming and golden, and the curious tilt of Tori’s head, an irritated pout still resting on his features. And for just a moment, if he can ignore the green ties and taller stances, he can pretend that he’s rewound time a year.
“Nah,” he says, “I’m all good. Come on, I’ll walk you guys to school—I have some time to kill right now.”
He strides out of the gate, turning his head back to watch them exchange a quick glance with each other before hurrying to catch up.
His legs take him through the familiar winding streets, lined with cherry blossom trees, petals scattered over the ground. There are people all around them wearing school uniforms, Mao sticking out amongst them, only in his casual jacket and trousers. He could pretend he’s carrying his schoolbag over his shoulder, pretend he’s wearing the sky-blue blazer that had become such a comforting sign of all the work he had done, and all that he had yet to do.
“Oh, by the way, Isara-dono,” Shinobu pipes up, matching the speed of his steps with Mao’s, “I was listening to the radio show you were on the other day. You sounded so grown-up and cool!”
“Really?” In truth, he doesn’t remember much of that job. He’d let his mouth do all the speaking while his mind floated elsewhere, away from his control. “I’m glad to hear that. I definitely don’t feel too adult-like, these days.”
“I had always thought you were very grown-up,” Shinobu says, a contemplative hint to his tone. “You always knew what to do, always looked so mature… but you still liked having fun whenever we spent time together. I greatly looked up to it, and it’s still an ideal I strive to reach, even now.”
The admission stuns Mao into silence. “You… do?” are the only words that make it out of him. Sure, Shinobu had never made it any secret that he viewed Mao as a role-model, but to hear that he specifically views him as a goal to reach, the ideal person to grow into…
He should be happy about this. He should be proud. And he is , but a new fear settles in his gut, that maybe he’s simply leading his juniors astray. Tricking them into believing he’s someone much more than he really is. Convincing them to make the same mistakes he had, only to leave them with that same emptiness currently residing within him, threatening to dull his senses and poison his mind.
“Of course.” Shinobu beams, and even Tori is listening to his passionate words with interest. “I think… I think you’re like a place to come home to, Isara-dono. You’ve always been there for me, comforting me when I was upset and protecting me, and I saw you do the same thing for many others. Plenty of my classmates have spoken highly of your compassion, and none of them have ever feared coming to you with their problems. From what I’ve seen, that is what made you a very well-liked Student Council President. And that definitely also extends to your idol work!”
Tori rubs the back of his neck in a resigned fashion. “Maybe not quite with all the dramatics, but I get the point. I saw how you and Eichi-sama were effective in different ways, and I guess it also made me reevaluate how I take charge now that it’s my turn.” His eyes harden, a newfound determination settling in. “I’m not gonna lose to you, Isara-senpai, even if you do have the people’s love on your side for now.”
The people’s love. That’s right. It’s what he had prided himself on this whole time, the ability to walk alongside the people in his life instead of running forward, impossible to catch a glimpse of. He has Subaru, and Hokuto, and even Makoto for that, the faraway stars lighting his way ahead, encouraging him to reach them one day. You’re one of us, they whisper, so hurry to where you belong. They shine their natural starlight on him, and he responds with the flicker of his flashlight, imbued with some of their own love and generosity for someone like him.
And Mao waits. Waits for the rest of his peers to catch up, the rest of them who hadn’t been blessed with a spot in the night sky, and then they rise together.
He’ll one day believe he can share that constellation with those he loves most, he’s sure. But for now, he can take solace in the fact that he isn’t alone, that the dreamers who watch an ordinary boy like him can be comforted by his mere presence, a symbolic hand reaching out to offer them along on their own journeys.
There’s Shinobu standing tall on one side, a far cry from the fearful lone ninja he’d encountered being pushed around in the Student Council room for the first time. There’s Tori on the other, arrogance falling away like the shedding of skin to leave behind a person determined to leave his own unique mark on the world. And Mao supposes that they aren’t so different in ways like these.
“I won’t lose either,” he says, more to himself than the others. “I won’t… lose all that I’ve worked for, and all of the memories I’ve made.”
There’s still far too much I have yet to see.
Tori doesn’t respond, only allows their words to settle in the air while Mao raises his head higher, the fog in his vision clearing just a little. The students at his sides guard him, protecting him from the greyness that seeks to dull his world.
The school gates approach in the distance. And for the first time, Mao lets his friends go without fear. Because he knows that in the end, they’ll always find their way back to each other, no matter how many seasons may pass.
Mao wakes to the glow of dawn streaming in through the uncovered windows, and finds himself tangled in a mess of limbs. There’s Makoto in front of him, glasses askew on his face as his arms drape around Mao’s back. Fluffy hair tickles the nape of his neck—that’s Subaru behind him, holding him close to his chest. And over Makoto’s shoulder, almost laying on top of him, is Hokuto with a leg dangling off the sofa they’re all squashed together on.
He takes in this silence, the fuzziness of a slow spring morning, and closes his eyes once more, memories of the previous night flitting through his mind. He’d finally gone to collect his student ID from his university with Makoto, and he spent much of the journey back staring at his picture on the glossy card.
It wasn’t even a question, then, that they would return to Trickstudio, as though some kind of force compelled them to be there. But it wasn’t a force: it was their own desire, a wish to share the beginning of a new milestone in their lives. So they’d met with the others and talked about new decor for their little building and ordered takeout, and barely realised it when they sat beside each other on that small couch with no space between them and fell asleep as the night went dark.
“Isara-kun?” It’s a quiet voice. Mao opens his eyes again to see Makoto, smiling sleepily as he takes off his glasses and rubs at his eyes. “I had a feeling you were awake. Good morning.”
“Morning,” Mao responds, and has to hold in a giggle when Hokuto’s arms suddenly tighten around Makoto, startling him. “First day, huh? You can get some more sleep if you want—it’s five o’clock.”
“No,” says Makoto, “I think I want to savour this a little longer.”
Mao doesn’t need to ask what he means; it’s what he had been intending to do all along.
“Are you nervous?” he asks in a hushed tone.
Makoto pauses to consider. His contemplative expression is cute, Mao thinks, with his bright green eyes narrowing just a touch, lips pursing together in a frown.
“A little, I think. At first I wondered if I made the right choice—you know I’ve never had the best grades around. But… as far as I know myself, this is true to who I am. And to be honest, I am excited. And that matters more.”
Of course. Makoto doesn’t have courage in his name for nothing. It’s an aspect of him Mao has always admired, along with Hokuto’s relentless tenacity, Subaru’s passion that could fill a room. If he could take all these parts of the people he loves and make them a part of himself, there’d be no need for struggle.
But they let him share these traits, until he can mould and sculpt them into something unique to him. Something that people will recognise when they meet him, the feeling of stepping into an old friend’s house for the first time in years and breathing in that familiar scent.
There are more flowers on the table. Each of them had bought a bouquet to join Mao’s, vibrant and blooming.
Yes, the road to becoming an idol hadn’t been easy at all. It’s nothing like the lifestyle projected in the media, that acquaintances from his past would admire and yearn for. But when he gets to live scenes like this, watching the morning light dance on the flowers’ petals, held in the arms of the people he feels safest with, he can’t imagine any other path for himself. Even when the natural partings of life become almost too much to bear, he’ll always have somewhere to come back to.
“And I’m sure you’ll have a great time, too,” Makoto adds. “You’re well-loved wherever you go, whether it’s at school, in public, or… with us.”
“You flatter me too much,” Mao replies, and drops his voice to a whisper when he feels Subaru begin to stir behind him. “But I only have the strength to do all this in the first place because you guys were there. It’s you who made me who I am.”
Makoto’s smile softens. “I wouldn’t say that’s entirely true. We’ve helped each other, but in the end, you made all your decisions yourself. You’re not anyone else—you’re Isara Mao. And you’re the only person who can say that.”
Mao sighs, contentedly, and leans back further in Subaru’s embrace, in Trickstar’s little pocket of the world. As long as that world keeps spinning, there will always be a place with his name in it, where he can continue to experience sunrises like this one, stand on stages that grow ever bigger with time, and lie with the people he had found in the midst of his old listless days.
Putting all of that into perspective, he’s not so afraid of moving away from seasons past anymore. Not when there’s so much to look forward to in the unknown future. The flowers will eventually wilt and die, but they will buy new ones. University will come and go, but he’ll look resolutely ahead with his newfound maturity and walk to new heights.
Spring comes to meet him, and he lets it take him onward.