Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You don’t try, Ryohei. You just sit around playing games like life’s a joke.” 

Arisu stands in the middle of the living room, fists clenched, jaw tight. His father’s voice is louder than usual, but it’s the words that land like punches. 

“I do try,” he mutters, but it’s drowned out. 

“You’re pathetic,” his father spits. “Eighteen and still a burden.” 

His mother sits at the dining table, eyes glued to the chipped edge of her cup. She doesn’t look up. She never does. 

“You know what?” Arisu says, voice cracking just a little. “Fine. Let’s see if I’m really that useless without you breathing down my neck every damn day.” 

He grabs his backpack from the couch, barely half-zipped. There’s only a change of clothes, some crumpled bills, and his phone charger inside. He’s not even wearing socks. 

“Ryohei—” his mother starts, voice thin. 

“Don’t,” he snaps, turning on his heel. “You don’t care. You never have.” 

The door slams behind him. No one follows.  

---

 “You what?” Karube nearly drops a glass. 

“I left,” Arisu says, tugging his hoodie sleeves down to his wrists. “Or I ran away. Whatever.” 

Chōta stares like Arisu just confessed to murder. “Where are you going to sleep?” 

“I’ll figure it out,” Arisu shrugs. “I’ve got some money. I’ll get a job. Plenty of people do it.” 

“Yeah, and plenty of people don’t survive it,” Karube mutters. 

They sit in silence for a while. Karube flicks a coaster across the counter. Chōta fiddles with his cross necklace. 

“I’m not asking for anything,” Arisu says. “I just wanted you guys to know.” 

Karube leans on the bar. “We could let you crash for a few nights, man.” 

“No,” Arisu says quickly. “I have to see if I can do it. Like really do it. Without them.” 

He doesn’t say it out loud, but there’s something hungry in his eyes—like if he can make it, then everything they said about him wasn’t true.  

---

Third period. Math. The numbers on the board blur like someone spilled water across his vision.

Arisu slumps over his desk, head nestled in the crook of his arm. His hoodie smells faintly of cheap soap and the sweat he hasn’t had the energy to wash out in days.  He’s not even pretending to take notes anymore. He’s not really even awake. 

“Psst.” 

A pencil taps the side of his arm. 

“Psssst.” 

He cracks open an eye. Chōta leans in, grinning like a man with tea. 

“You hear about the new guy?” 

“No,” Arisu mumbles, his voice muffled against his sleeve. “Don’t care.” 

“Rich as hell,” Chōta whispers, clearly ignoring him. “Transferred in last week. His family's, like, insanely loaded. The Chishiyas? Hospital owners. CEOs. Politicians. That kind of rich.” 

Arisu groans. “And?” 

Chōta raises his brows dramatically. “Apparently, if you become friends with him, he just gives you stuff. Like, designer clothes, Apple Watches, gift cards, new shoes.” 

Arisu rolls his eyes. “So what, he’s bribing people into friendship?” 

“Dude, you think rich kids know how to make friends like normal people?” Chōta shrugs. “Some guy in Class C got a free pair of AirPods just for walking with him to the cafeteria.” 

Arisu hums dismissively, but the words stick like gum to the side of his brain. He’s too proud to say it out loud, but a part of him is curious. Not about the freebies—okay, maybe a little—but mostly about why. Why someone with everything would need to buy company. 

The bell rings. Arisu sits up with a groan, joints cracking. His stomach growls. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday morning—just a bottled tea he nursed all night and the crusts of bread someone threw out behind the bakery. 

“Wanna skip lunch and nap in the club room?” Chōta asks. 

“Can’t,” Arisu says. “Gotta check job boards.” 

Chōta frowns. “You okay, man?” 

Arisu doesn’t answer. He just slings his bag over his shoulder and trudges off. 

 ---  

Job #1 – Flyer Boy

Arisu’s first gig is standing outside a bubble tea shop in a ridiculous bright yellow costume, handing out flyers with a forced smile.  He lasts four hours.  Not because he messes up, but because someone throws a drink at him and he throws a flyer back—directly at their face. The manager sees it. The words “anger management” and “public image” are used. He doesn’t even get paid for the day. 

Job #2 – Convenience Store

Technically, he quits this one himself.  He works the graveyard shift and is actually good at it—smiles at customers, counts change fast, restocks shelves efficiently. But on the third night, a guy tries to shoplift and the manager tells Arisu not to get involved.  Arisu glares at the manager and tackles the guy anyway. The thief cries. Arisu gets a pat on the back… then a termination notice two days later. “Too aggressive,” apparently. 

Job #3 – Pet Groomer’s Assistant

Arisu is visibly allergic to cats. He lies on the application. He sneezes on a Pomeranian. He’s gone before the end of the shift. 

Job #4 – Elderly Companion (Temp)

This one is… weird. He’s supposed to read books to an old man who keeps asking if Arisu has ever killed anyone. He responds by dramatically reciting crime novels in a serial killer voice. He is not asked to come back. 

Job #5 – Fast Food Crew

Surprisingly, this one goes well. Arisu's quick with orders, polite with customers, and even gives a crying kid an extra toy in their Happy Meal. Then the shift manager tries to touch his back and call him “pretty boy.” Arisu dumps a soda on his shoes. Gone again.

  --- 

By now, Arisu’s down to barely ¥1,000 in his wallet. He’s been skipping meals. He chews gum instead of eating. Sometimes he fills a water bottle with soy sauce and hot water to trick his stomach into thinking it’s soup. It’s pathetic.  But he doesn’t go back home. 

He sleeps behind the school gym now. Wakes up before the janitor gets there, sneaks into the locker room to wash his face, uses the hand dryer to warm his hands. His notes are a mess, and his uniform smells like mold some days, but he’s still in class. Still there.  Even if no one really sees him. 

 --- 

 The sun’s way too bright. Arisu squints against the glare, hoodie hood pulled halfway over his eyes as he chews on a piece of leftover bread like it’s a gourmet pastry. 

Chōta’s already halfway through his second juice box and buzzing with excitement. “Okay, okay, listen to this.”

 Karube rolls his eyes but doesn’t interrupt. 

“You know that Chishiya guy? Chishiya Shuntaro? On his mom’s side, he’s a literal musical prodigy. Like, actual genius. He can play—get this—every. Single. Instrument.”

Arisu makes a noncommittal grunt. “So? Rich people always have weird flex hobbies.” 

“No, but it’s not just that!” Chōta’s practically glowing now. “His dad’s family owns half the medical industry, and his mom is apparently this legendary classical musician from Europe. Like, internationally famous, but she went into hiding or whatever to protect him from the press.” 

“Yeah,” Karube says dryly. “Must be hard, being rich, talented, and emotionally fragile.” 

Arisu snorts into his bread. “What, is he a vampire too?” 

“Noooo,” Chōta whines. “He’s just… shy! That’s what people say. He doesn’t talk to anyone first, not because he’s stuck-up, but because he’s, like, scared or something. But the moment you’re in? You’re, like, in. People say he gives his friends stuff just because he likes having them around.” 

Arisu shifts. “Sounds sketchy.” 

“Sounds lonely,” Chōta corrects, crossing his arms. “Anyway. You remember that guy from the art club? The one who suddenly showed up with brand-new markers and a whole drawing tablet?” 

“No way,” Arisu says. 

“Gifted,” Karube confirms, leaning back on the railing. “I saw it.” 

Arisu blinks. “So the guy is bribing people.” 

“Dunno,” Karube shrugs. “Could just be his way of showing appreciation.” 

“Oh, oh!” Chōta perks up suddenly. “Karube! You said you had a weird moment with him, right? What happened?”

 Karube’s lips twitch like he regrets ever mentioning it. “Nothing serious. Just—he bumped into me near the vending machines, right? I said hey, asked if he needed help. And he just… stared at me. Like he’d never been spoken to before.” 

Chōta’s eyes widen.

“He looked terrified,” Karube adds. “Mumbled something like ‘sorry’ and bolted. Didn’t even get his drink.” 

Arisu frowns. “So he’s a socially anxious rich kid with a sugar friend complex?” 

“Basically,” Chōta grins. “But like, super hot, if you’re into pale mysterious guys with scary eyes.” 

Arisu flicks a crumb at him. “You’re so weird.” 

“You’re just mad he didn’t give you anything,” Chōta sings. 

Arisu scoffs and lays back against the rooftop bench. “I don’t need his pity.” 

He doesn’t say it out loud, but the whole thing sticks in his head. The money. The silence. The staring. The job post he saw last night. 

He pulls out his phone.  Still bookmarked.  Still there.  Still offering a ridiculous amount of money to “be someone’s friend.” 

He clicks on it again.  No name. 

Just: Looking for a companion for my son. Must be patient, trustworthy, and open-minded. Generous weekly pay. No experience required. 

Arisu doesn’t know why his stomach turns the way it does.

--- 

Saturdays usually mean sleeping behind the gym or stealing free samples at the grocery store.

But this one? Arisu’s wearing his cleanest hoodie, fingers fidgeting with the loose hem, and standing in front of a gate.  Not a door. A literal automated iron gate. With a keypad and security camera. 

He almost turns around. Almost. 

But then he remembers the number from the post. The one with six zeroes after it. Per week. 

His phone buzzes. Unknown number.

“You may come in now.” 

The gate slides open like a dramatic movie scene, and Arisu steps in like he’s about to commit a felony.  The house—no, mansion—looks like it fell out of a magazine. White walls, glass windows, minimalist everything. Arisu swears even the air smells expensive. There’s a koi pond. Inside. Why?? 

A woman greets him. Elegant, with a cold kind of beauty. Arisu recognizes her face. From old posters. Classical piano albums. Shuntaro Chishiya’s mother.  Shit. 

“This way,” she says gently. 

Arisu follows her into a sitting room where a tall man is already waiting—sharp suit, silver hair, unreadable face. That must be the father. The Chishiya. As in Chishiya Pharmaceuticals.  Double shit. 

He tries not to show his nerves as he sits down, hands clasped in his lap.  The mother speaks first.

“We’re… aware this may seem strange.” 

“No kidding,” Arisu blurts out. 

Silence. He wants to slap himself. They don’t. 

The father exhales like he’s used to awkwardness. “Our son… Shuntaro. He’s gifted. Independent. Obedient. He’s never asked for anything. Never complained.” 

“But lately,” the mother says, “he’s been distant. Quiet. He doesn’t eat with us. Doesn’t speak unless spoken to. And even then… it’s barely above a whisper.” 

Arisu doesn’t know what to say to that. He just stares at the absurdly perfect teacup on the table. 

“He refuses therapy,” the father continues. “Doesn’t trust strangers. Doesn’t like people. But he’s lonely. Even if he won’t admit it.” 

“We want to help,” the mother adds. “Even if it’s… unconventional.” 

“You want me to be his friend,” Arisu says flatly. 

“Yes,” the father nods. “You’ll be compensated handsomely. We ask that you spend time with him. Earn his trust. Just… be there.” 

“Why me?” Arisu finally asks. “There are a million perfect rich boys out there who’d jump for this.” 

“We tried,” the mother says. “He rejected every single one. You, however, applied without knowing who he was.” 

“Means your intentions weren’t corrupted by status,” the father finishes. “Probably just desperate.” 

“Wow. Thanks.” 

Silence again. 

Then the mother leans forward slightly. “So tell us, Ryohei Arisu. Why did you apply?” 

Arisu’s first instinct is to lie. Say the money. Say something impressive. Something noble. But he doesn’t. 

Instead, he shrugs and says, “I don’t know. Guess I wanted to feel useful to someone.” 

The room goes quiet. 

And then, to his complete surprise— The mother smiles. 

“You’re hired.” 

 ---  

Arisu isn’t used to silk sheets. He’s not used to any sheets, to be honest. 

The bed feels like a marshmallow ate a cloud and went to heaven. There's a literal chandelier in the bathroom. He has his own mini fridge. With labelled snacks. 

“This is criminal,” he mutters around a bite of expensive-sounding cheese. “I’m living someone else’s life.” 

They told him earlier—he’d be given a room on the third floor, full board, access to amenities, and absolutely no pressure.

“Just be nearby,” they said. “Be available if he wants company.” 

Easy. Right?  He’d said “yes” before they even finished. Because he’s got nowhere else to go. 

Now it’s past midnight, and he’s wandering around in socks and boxers, hoodie thrown over like some kind of goblin prince. The fridge downstairs is glorious. He’s just opened it and grabbed a suspiciously delicate slice of cake when— 

CLATTER. 

Arisu freezes. Looks up.  And there, standing ten feet away in the shadows of the kitchen hallway, is a creature

Short. Pale. Barefoot. Hair fluffy and messy like he rolled straight out of a science experiment. Wearing an oversized t-shirt with the words “NO” printed on it. 

And holding a fork. Like a weapon. 

They stare at each other. 

“…Uh,” Arisu starts, mid-cake bite.  The fork raises. 

“Who are you,” the creature hisses. “And why are you stealing my cake?” 

“I LIVE HERE NOW???” 

“You WHAT.” 

“You must be Shishiya—” 

“Chishiya. Don’t correct me if you don’t even know me.” 

“I wasn’t—I’m—” 

“You’re breaking and entering,” Chishiya says with clinical certainty, stepping forward like a horror movie final boss. “I will stab you.” 

“I’M YOUR PAID FRIEND!” 

Silence.  

“…Excuse me?” Chishiya blinks. 

Arisu, realizing this entire conversation has been happening while he’s still holding cake: “Look, your parents hired me to—be around you, or something. Because you’re, y’know—quiet. I didn’t know this was your cake. Please don’t murder me.” 

Chishiya squints. His fork lowers an inch. “…So you’re the guy.” 

“I guess???” 

Another long silence. 

Then Chishiya says, completely deadpan, “You have horrible taste in cake. That one’s for the dog.” 

Arisu immediately spits it out into a napkin. “WHY WOULD IT BE IN THE PEOPLE FRIDGE?!” 

Chishiya shrugs, puts the fork down, and opens a secret drawer. He pulls out a tiny, perfect tart and starts eating it in slow bites, still watching Arisu like he might try to climb the walls. 

“…You’re weird,” Arisu says finally. 

Chishiya tilts his head. “Says the half-naked guy eating dog cake at 1 AM who claims he was hired to be my emotional support human.” 

Arisu blinks. 

“…Touché.”

  ---   

The dining room is at least 70% window. Everything glows softly from the morning light, and the table is so long it might legally count as a hallway. 

Arisu sits near the middle, already overwhelmed. The silverware has like… five different forks. He picks the shortest one and hopes it’s not for shoe-eating. 

The mother sits elegantly at the head, sipping something definitely not just coffee. The father reads the paper like this is the 1800s. There’s a maid placing little dishes down—pastries, sliced fruit, tiny architectural pancakes.

Arisu hasn’t seen a single normal food item since he arrived. 

Then,

Thud. 

A chair is pulled.  And there he is. 

Chishiya Shuntaro. Wearing a muted grey hoodie with a tiny skull on the sleeve, hair still a bit chaotic, eyeing Arisu like he’s the fungus on his leftover yogurt. 

He sits directly across from him.  Arisu chokes on his juice. 

“Good morning, Shuntaro,” his mother says carefully. 

“Hm.” Chishiya picks up a croissant. Rips it in half like it owes him money. 

The father glances up. “You’re up early.” 

“Didn’t sleep,” Chishiya replies. 

Arisu, trying not to look like he witnessed a midnight fork duel: “…Yeah, me neither.” 

Chishiya looks at him.  Long. Slow. Stare. 

Then he speaks. To the room. But aimed like a sniper shot.

“Some people wander into private kitchens, eat food meant for the dog, and call it friendship.” 

Arisu gags on his fruit. 

The mother gasps—but it’s a soft, delighted gasp. The father actually lowers his paper. 

“You’re… talking,” the mother says gently, blinking. “And joking.” 

Chishiya shrugs, disinterested. “Might be sleep-deprivation.” 

“You haven’t spoken like that in weeks.” 

“Maybe he’s just annoying enough to override my system.” 

Arisu squints. “You’re literally sitting across from me like a haunted doll.” 

Chishiya smiles. SMILES. It’s sharp. It’s tiny. It’s a gremlin’s smile. But it’s real. 

The parents look like they might cry. 

“He’s funny,” Chishiya says offhandedly, tearing another piece of croissant. “I’ll keep him.” 

“Keep me? I’m not a pet!” 

“Tell that to the dog cake.” 

The maid makes a choked sound. 

The mother leans toward the father, whispering behind her hand, “I think it’s working.” 

Arisu, meanwhile, is having a quiet breakdown. This was supposed to be free food and emotional support. Not a cryptid adoption by the Addams Family.

Chapter Text

It’s a normal school day. Birds are chirping. Students are yawning. The vending machine ate someone’s money and there’s already mild violence in the hallway. 

Arisu stumbles into class late with half a toast and one functioning brain cell.   He drops into his seat beside Chota, panting. 

Chota eyes him. “Did you run?” 

“Train delay. Then I tripped. Then I died.” 

“Bro, you always die.” 

Before Arisu can reply, a weird silence falls over the room. 

Click.  Expensive shoes. Crisp uniform. Blank expression. 

Chishiya Shuntaro walks in like he owns the school.  Which he might, judging by his bank account. 

Heads turn. Girls whisper. Some guy from the soccer team actually swallows his gum.  And then— 

Chishiya walks straight to Arisu’s desk.  Stares down at him with that unnerving calm. 

Arisu blinks. “Uh.” 

Chishiya drops a boxed bento on the desk like a mic. “You forgot your lunch. Again. Useless.” 

And walks away.  Just like that.  No explanation. No warning. Like that’s normal.  The class explodes. 

“WAIT. WAIT. WAIT—” 

Chota literally grabs Arisu by the collar. “EXPLAIN RIGHT NOW.” 

“I—what??” 

“YOU TALKED TO HIM?? HE BROUGHT YOU LUNCH???” 

“HE CALLED YOU USELESS AND EVERYONE LET HIM??” someone else screams. 

Karube, from his seat in the back, actually leans forward. “Are you dating him or are you cursed?” 

Arisu, heat rising to his ears: “NEITHER???” 

Chishiya, who’s already seated at the far back like a dark fairy tale prince, raises a hand lazily. 

The teacher walks in. Sees him. Immediately says, “Oh. Chishiya-san. Welcome back.” 

Arisu’s mouth falls open. “He’s been skipping class for weeks.” 

The teacher just bows slightly and says, “We understand geniuses need rest.” 

Arisu: “WHAT KIND OF NEPOTISM MAGIC—” 

Chishiya turns his head just slightly.  Smirks. 

Arisu glares. Chishiya just mouths: “Useless.” 

Arisu throws a pencil at him. Misses. 

 ---  

It’s lunchtime. Finally. Arisu’s stomach is making actual death threats.

He’s wobbling down the hallway with Chota and Karube, their usual corner of the rooftop calling to them like a beacon of mediocre convenience store food and slightly expired juice boxes. 

“I got onigiri today,” Chota says, clutching his bag like treasure. 

Karube shrugs. “I made tamagoyaki. Not bad, actually. For once.” 

Arisu sighs, smiling faintly. “Man, I’ve been looking forward to this—” 

GRAB.  A cold, pale hand wraps around his wrist like the ghost of capitalism itself. 

Arisu yelps. “WHAT—” 

“You. With me.”

Chishiya, pristine and stone-faced, drags him backwards like a spoiled cat claiming a toy. 

“WHAT THE HELL, CHISHIYA—LET GO—” 

“You forgot your meds. Again.” 

“I DON’T EVEN TAKE ANY—!” 

Chota and Karube freeze like NPCs witnessing a boss battle they’re underleveled for.  Chishiya, not even acknowledging them, looks Arisu dead in the eye.

“You don’t get to skip meals with those two after skipping breakfast.”                    

“THE HELL KIND OF LOGIC IS THAT?!” 

“You looked at the vending machine like you wanted to marry it.” 

“That’s not illegal!” 

“I have standards for the people I financially support.” 

“YOU’RE NOT EVEN PAYING ME YET—” 

Chishiya scowls. “You want me to call my mom?” 

“PUT THE PHONE DOWN.” 

People are gathering. Phones are out.

One girl is whispering, “They’re fighting again, oh my God, this is better than drama club.” 

Another: “I heard Chishiya bought him a watch last week. Like a real one. That costs more than our tuition.”

Arisu is red in the face, halfway pushed against a vending machine. 

“You can’t claim me like a feral raccoon!” he yells. 

“I can if you keep acting like one.” 

“You’re not my boyfriend!” 

“Good, because you’re exhausting.” 

“Then STOP HARASSING ME IN FRONT OF MY FRIENDS—” 

Karube: “We should probably step in.” 

Chota: “No, no. This is emotional exfoliation.” 

Chishiya crosses his arms, expression cold. “Lunch. Now. Or I tell my mom you were sleeping in the library again.” 

Arisu chokes. “You little snake— fine! FINE. I’ll eat with you, you clingy tax goblin!” 

“You’re the parasite here.” 

“I WILL THROW YOU OFF THE ROOFTOP.” 

They storm off, both fuming, both heading in the exact same direction. Students part like the Red Sea.  The hallway echoes with someone muttering, “...I give it a week before they either kill each other or make out.”  

---  

It’s the middle of the day. The sun is a little too bright. Karube is complaining about the vending machine stealing his coins again, and Chota is reading the latest school gossip blog with the kind of intensity people reserve for war briefings. Arisu’s snacking on cheap bread and bracing for the inevitable. 

He sees him. White hair glowing like he just descended from a designer cloud. That usual infuriating deadpan face. That cursed air of expensive detachment.  He’s walking toward them. 

Arisu tenses, already gripping his snack like a weapon. “Here we go,” he mutters. 

Chota glances up. “He’s looking.” 

Karube sighs. “God, again?” 

Arisu rolls his shoulders. “Okay. Watch. He’s gonna say something condescending like ‘Still eating trash?’ or ‘Has poverty finally made you lose weight?’ or—” 

Chishiya stops.  Right in front of them.  But…  He doesn’t say anything. 

He stares.  At Karube.  Not for one second.  Not for two.  But for a solid, uncomfortable five seconds. 

Karube blinks. “...Can I help you?” 

Chishiya doesn’t respond.  Then he slowly, like he’s processing a crime scene, glances at Chota. Looks him up and down. Squints slightly.  Then… 

He turns around and walks away.  No smug remarks. No insults. Not even a “useless.”

 Silence. 

Arisu: “...Okay what the hell was that?” 

Chota: “Did we just get scanned?” 

Karube, narrowing his eyes: “That guy’s shady. He was analyzing us.” 

Arisu still staring after Chishiya: “No, that—no, he’s never quiet. Not with me. Not with anyone. I think I just saw him glitch.” 

Chota deadpans, “Do you think he’s plotting our murders?” 

Karube: “Or figuring out how much our kidneys are worth.” 

Arisu, suddenly serious: “Okay but real talk—he’s up to something. I could see the math happening in his head.” 

And in the distance, unseen, Chishiya watches them from behind a pillar like a suspicious cat. 

He’s thinking.  Plotting. Calculating.  Not about Arisu, for once. But about his friends.  

--- 

That afternoon, they gather at the local park—aka the only free hangout spot that doesn’t smell like moldy noodles. Chota’s got his phone out, Karube’s lying on the grass looking at the sky like it personally offended him, and Arisu’s pacing like a raccoon on edge. 

“Okay,” Arisu says, biting into a soggy sandwich. “We need to talk about what happened earlier.” 

Chota nods seriously. “He looked at Karube like he was a science experiment.” 

Karube grunts. “I don’t even know him. I’ve helped him out before. Like, a bunch of times, actually. Picked up his notebook when it fell. Gave him my notes for chem once. He never even said thanks.” 

Arisu freezes. “Wait—how many times?” 

Karube shrugs. “Five? Maybe six? He’s always alone. I figured he was just awkward. Didn’t think much of it.” 

Chota gasps. “HE’S BEEN STUDYING YOU.” 

Arisu drops his sandwich. “Oh my god. Oh my god. You’re the prototype.” 

Chota leans in, whispering, “Maybe he thinks you’re competition.” 

Karube raises a brow. “Me? Compete for what? Arisu’s already his fake boyfriend or whatever.” 

“I’M NOT HIS FAKE—!” Arisu stops himself, face red. “We’re not—he just—ugh!” 

Chota holds up his phone. “Okay, theory time: He’s emotionally stunted, possibly a robot, only recognizes affection via acts of service, and now he’s glitching because he realized he might owe you a human response.” 

Karube: “Like gratitude?” 

Chota, nodding solemnly: “Or murder. Hard to say.” 

Arisu groans, flopping onto the grass. “Why is my life like this?” 

Buzz.  Arisu’s phone lights up. 

[CHISHIYA]: Come to the west wing library. Now. Bring me iced coffee. No sugar. No talking. I’m thinking. 

Arisu stares at the screen.  “...This little shit.” 

Karube peeks over. “What now?” 

Arisu shoves the phone in their faces. “He’s summoning me. Like a butler. Like I’m a magic lamp.” 

Chota cackles. “That is so on brand for him.” 

Karube deadpans, “You gonna go?” 

Arisu groans like he’s being led to the guillotine. “If I don’t, he’s gonna tell his mom I was playing mobile games during my ‘study hours’ again.” 

Chota: “You were though.” 

“THAT’S NOT THE POINT!”  

--- 

Arisu trudges through the Chishiya estate’s stupidly massive west wing, iced coffee in hand, grumbling the whole way. 

“‘Bring me coffee,’ he says. ‘No talking,’ he says. Who even lives like this? Is this what rich people do? Just boss around stray boys they pick off the street like they're Pokémon?” 

He reaches the door to the library—of course it’s got double oak doors taller than his future. He knocks.  No answer. He sighs and pushes the door open. 

Inside, it’s dead silent.  The library is dimly lit, the sunlight filtering through the giant windows in dramatic slants like the scene was directed by God himself. And right there—at the center table like he’s the final boss in a visual novel— 

Chishiya. Surrounded by papers. Blueprints. Sticky notes. A whiteboard. And—Arisu stares in horror—a corkboard with strings. Red strings. Taped photos. PHOTOS OF KARUBE AND CHOTA. 

Arisu freezes at the door, coffee halfway to spilling. 

“WHAT. THE ACTUAL. HELL.” 

Chishiya looks up like this is a normal Tuesday.  “You’re late.” 

“YOU’RE STALKING MY FRIENDS.” 

Chishiya raises a brow. “It’s called research.” 

“IT’S CALLED BEING A FELON.” 

Arisu rushes over and grabs one of the papers. It's a printed out screenshot of Karube’s high school basketball stats from 9th grade. 

“Why do you even have this?!” 

Chishiya sips the iced coffee like it’s a fine wine. “He’s interesting.” 

Arisu gapes. “He’s a guy who gives you notes.” 

“And has an 87% free throw success rate.” 

“OH MY GOD.” 

Chishiya leans back in his chair, as if he hasn’t just constructed a murder board of Arisu’s closest people.  “I need data. I need to know who you associate with. I need to calculate how tolerable they are.” 

“They’re not diseases, Chishiya!” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” 

Arisu groans and rubs his face. “This is actual madness. You’re building a conspiracy board about my friends. What’s next, retinal scans?” 

Chishiya hums. “Funny you should say that…” 

“NOPE—”

Arisu grabs the board and starts yanking down pictures. “I’m burning this. You’re grounded. I’m telling your mom.” 

Chishiya just watches calmly. “She already knows. She gave me the photo of Karube from the parent-teacher conference.” 

Arisu freezes. “...What?” 

Chishiya smirks. “You’re not the only one with connections, Arisu.” 

Arisu is slumped on a beanbag in the west wing library, watching Chishiya with the exhausted stare of a babysitter whose kid just built a nuclear reactor from Lego bricks. Again. 

“Okay,” Arisu says, waving a photo of Karube mid-dunk, “why the hell do you care so much about Karube’s basketball stats?” 

Chishiya doesn’t look up from his laptop. “His form is clean. Consistent arc. His shoulder rotation in his left-handed layup is precise. That’s rare for someone who plays that aggressively.” 

Arisu gapes. “Okay, first of all—how the hell do you know any of that? You don’t even talk in gym.” 

Chishiya shrugs. “I watch.” 

“YOU STALK.” 

“I observe.” 

“You’re basically a basketball groupie and he doesn’t even know your name.” 

Chishiya frowns faintly. “He should.” 

Arisu throws a pillow at him. “You’re unbelievable.” 

Chishiya easily dodges. “You’re the one who accepted money to be my emotional support companion.” 

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE SAD AND LONELY, NOT A KARUBE ENTHUSIAST.” 

Chishiya twirls a pen between his fingers. “I am sad and lonely. I’m also selective.” 

“Selective, my ass. You’ve got spreadsheets ranking people.” 

Chishiya clicks something on his screen. “Speaking of,” he says, glancing at a chart, “what’s Segawa’s deal?” 

Arisu groans and drops onto the floor like a corpse. “Why. Why do you want to know.” 

“He’s loud. Knows everything. Talks in code. Runs five Discord servers. Has a 99% gossip retrieval rate. He’s statistically suspicious.” 

“Suspicious?? He’s just gay and fast with information. It’s his natural state.” 

Chishiya hums. “Still. His range of emotional intelligence is high. It unnerves me.” 

Arisu snorts. “You mean you’re scared of someone who’d psychoanalyze you before you even said hello.” 

“I wouldn’t call it scared,” Chishiya mutters, but his eyes are shifty. “I’d call it... strategically cautious.” 

Arisu sits up. “You’re a coward.” 

“I’m a genius.” 

“You’re a cowardly genius who has a shrine of Karube’s game footage like it’s your bedtime story.” 

Chishiya doesn’t deny it. 

Arisu stares at him for a long moment. Then slowly, a grin spreads across his face. Evil. Dangerous. 

“No.” 

Chishiya tilts his head. “No what.” 

“I so can’t wait to tell Karube.” 

“Touch that phone and I hack your bank account.” 

He's already dialing.  Arisu smirks like a man with nuclear codes. 

Chishiya narrows his eyes. “Hang up.” 

Arisu dramatically places the phone to his ear. “Oh no, he’s picking up. What now, basketball simp?” 

Chishiya lunges across the room like a feral cat. Too late. 

“Yo, Arisu?” Karube’s voice crackles through the speaker. “You dead? You never call.” 

“Hi, Karube,” Arisu sings sweetly, dodging Chishiya’s grab with the finesse of someone who’s been bullied by a rich boy for weeks. “Quick question: did you know there’s a tiny white-haired goblin who’s OBSESSED with your left-handed layup?” 

“...What?” 

Chishiya freezes mid-leap. 

Arisu is cackling.  “Yeah, apparently it’s rare to see someone rotate their shoulder like that while still maintaining an 87% free throw—” 

“ARISU.” 

It’s the first time Chishiya raises his voice. His whole face goes red. Red. Like someone caught him singing show tunes in the shower. 

Arisu gasps. “Oh my god. Are you—are you blushing?” 

Chishiya clutches the nearest pillow like it’s a shield. “Hang. Up. Now.” 

“Karube, you still there?” Arisu asks, voice practically trembling from laughter. 

“Who the hell is blushing about my layup??” Karube demands. “Is this that tiny gremlin guy Chota mentioned?!” 

Chishiya grabs the phone and YEETS it across the room with enough strength to send it into another timeline. 

A long pause.  They stare at each other. 

Arisu breaks it.  “You’re so embarrassed, you just committed phone murder.” 

“I blacklisted you from the Wi-Fi.” 

“Joke’s on you. I use data.” 

Chishiya sinks onto the carpet, burying his face in his hands.

“Why are you like this.” 

“Because,” Arisu says smugly, “it’s the first time I’ve ever seen you lose composure. It’s beautiful. I’m gonna treasure this forever.” 

“I hate you.” 

“I know,” Arisu says, lying back and sighing contentedly. “I’m your best friend.” 

Chishiya groans and throws a pillow at him. Arisu doesn’t even flinch. Victorious.         

Chapter Text

Arisu sits across from Chishiya’s father in the private study, back straight despite the plush leather seat that keeps trying to eat him alive. The man’s presence is sharp—powerful. He looks like the kind of person who’s booked solid for the next five years and still finds time to dominate a chess match before breakfast.

He slides a crisp envelope across the desk.

“This is for the first three weeks,” he says, voice even but firm. “Your work has had... visible effects.”

Arisu glances down. Inside, there’s more cash than he’s ever seen in one place that wasn’t a drug deal in a movie. His heart stutters.

Chishiya’s dad continues, already tapping something into his phone. “I’ll be away on a business trip starting tomorrow. Overseas. Gone for three weeks. My wife will handle the payments weekly, and any additional requests.”

Arisu nods slowly, throat a bit dry. “Alright.”

The man looks up. “Don’t let him isolate again. He’s... difficult. Quiet. Stubborn. But he listens in his own way.”

“He listens?” Arisu repeats, skeptical.

“You’re still here, aren’t you?”

That shuts him up.

“He’s smarter than most people in the room,” the father says. “Which makes him lonelier than most people in the world. Just keep being annoying.”

Arisu blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Whatever you’re doing, it’s working. Keep doing it.”

And with that, the man stands, checks his watch, and leaves Arisu to sit there, staring down at an envelope stuffed with more than what four failed part-time jobs would've paid in months.

---

Arisu’s walking down the grand hallway, thumb idly flipping through his phone, when he sees it.

Two messages. Both from his parents.

[Mom:] Ryohei, are you alright? I heard from your school.

[Dad:] Come home. We’ll talk.

He stops walking. He stands there, in this massive mansion with free food, warm beds, and a feral cryptid of a roommate he’s being paid to hang out with.

He stares at those messages for a long, long moment. His thumb hovers over the block button. The silence echoes louder than Chishiya’s insults. He doesn’t block them. But he doesn’t reply, either.

 Instead, he slides the phone into his pocket and mutters to himself, “Let’s just see who cares longer.”

---

The Chishiyas' private car pulls up to a mansion that makes the Chishiya house look modest. Arisu stares out the tinted window, tugging at the expensive collar of the shirt that’s definitely not his.

“Do I really have to go in?” he asks, like a child about to get vaccinated.

Chishiya’s mother doesn’t even glance at him as she replies, “You’re his friend, aren’t you?”

Right. Friend.

He doesn’t have time to mentally spiral before the chauffeur opens the door and he’s stepping out onto marble. Marble. The entrance floor of this place is real marble. He almost trips just trying not to breathe wrong.

Inside, it’s even worse. Chandeliers, live orchestra, people glittering in silks and laughter that smells like money.

Arisu blends in like a cat in a fish tank.

-

Arisu’s been cornered for fifteen minutes now.

“I’m just saying,” the cousin slurs, two champagne flutes in, “he’s, like, not just a prodigy, you know?”

She leans in, far too close. Arisu’s holding his breath.

“Shuntaro’s, like, brilliant. Played seven instruments by the time he was nine. Did a solo in the Vienna Philharmonic at ten. And he’s sooo quiet, like, mysteeeeerious~.”

“I sit next to him at lunch,” Arisu says, deadpan. “He eats sandwiches and insults me.”

She giggles like he made a joke. He did not.

“You’re sooo funny,” she drawls. “I bet that’s why he likes you! You’re... unrefined. A little, like, scruffy but charming! Like a peasant in a period drama!”

Arisu has a brief mental flash of diving into a fountain to escape.

Then—suddenly, everything changes.

The orchestra quiets. The chatter dies. Every head in the room turns. Arisu follows their gaze—only to feel the entire atmosphere of the room shift.

There, walking onto the stage in slow, deliberate steps, is Chishiya Shuntaro. Clad in a perfectly tailored, all-white ensemble. His usually messy white-blonde hair is pulled into a low bun. Under the lights, he doesn’t even look human.

He looks like a ghost made out of ice and divinity.

Someone whispers, “He’s never looked this good before.”

He sits at the grand piano without a word. Rolls up his sleeves. Lifts his hands. And then—

Music.

It’s not the kind of performance you hear. It’s the kind you feel. Like wind against your ribs. Like light cracking through stained glass. The room is suspended in air, and all Arisu can do is stare, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

The cousin beside him gasps, clutching her heart like this is art and romance and God incarnate.

But Arisu just mutters under his breath, “…what the fuck.”

Because for once in his life, he forgot Chishiya wasn’t just a cryptid little weirdo.

He was something otherworldly.

The music begins—soft and sharp, fingers gliding with surgical precision. Each note from the piano is crystal. Cold. Clean. Devastating.

Around Arisu, people are holding their breath like they’re in church. Some are actually clasping their hands, their eyes a little glassy. Others whisper, almost afraid to be heard.

“His posture—see that? Perfect form.”

“I heard he refused Juilliard. Said he didn’t need it.”

“He’s better than his father was at this age.”

“Every movement is deliberate. Like he’s operating.”

Arisu’s not even aware he’s listening, not really. It’s just soaking into him, like fog through the bones. Beside him, the cousin has her hands pressed to her cheeks, whispering rapid-fire commentary like an unhinged sports announcer.

“I saw him rehearse once—only once—and I cried for like two hours. He’s like... not real. It’s like... he doesn’t even try, and it just erupts out of him, this genius—”

“‘Erupts’ is a weird word to use,” Arisu says flatly, still watching the stage.

“He never messes up,” she continues in a reverent hush. “Never! I bet even when he messes up, it’s still better than everyone else.”

“He messed up once in class. He walked into the wrong room,” Arisu mutters, eyes narrowing. “Said it was on purpose. It was not on purpose.”

She gasps dramatically. “You spoke to him during school?!”

Arisu exhales slowly. “I speak to him a lot. Unfortunately.”

On stage, Chishiya lifts his hands slightly, then brings them down in a dramatic crescendo. The room shudders. Arisu swears he sees someone tear up.

Even Arisu has to admit it: the guy’s ridiculously good. Not just technically—he’s... magnetic. And there’s something else, too. Something that feels a little off-kilter. Like Chishiya’s not playing for applause or validation. He’s playing for himself.

Like every note is a secret he’s never told.

When the piece ends, there's a beat of stunned silence before the room erupts. Standing ovation. Thunderous clapping. Some people are crying. One old woman clutches her pearls and sighs like she just got proposed to.

The cousin is already halfway into a meltdown. “He’s so haunting! He’s suffering, I can tell—”

“Can he suffer somewhere else?” Arisu mumbles, trying not to look like he’s also kind of breathless. Yeah. That was something else.

Then, as the applause continues and Chishiya bows once, his eyes glance through the crowd—and land on Arisu. Just for a second.

And Arisu—

Yeah, Arisu has a very bad feeling about this.

Chishiya barely steps off the stage before a small crowd of perfectly dressed relatives and pearl-draped aristocrats engulfs him. His mother beams beside him, her hand firm on his back like he’s a trophy just won at auction.

Arisu lingers by the hors d'oeuvres table, chewing a fancy canapé with a name he couldn’t pronounce even if he cared to try. He should’ve stayed hidden. He really should’ve.

“There you are!” Chishiya’s mother calls, voice sugary sweet. “Ryohei, come—meet some of the family.”

His stomach sinks like a stone. He plasters on a diplomatic smile and walks over, painfully aware of how out-of-place he looks in the rented suit. The fabric itches. So does the situation.

“This is Ryohei Arisu,” she announces. “Shuntaro’s... dear friend.”

That pause. That cursed, loaded pause.

“Oh?” one of the older women says, eyes narrowing with delighted cruelty. “Dear, you say? And how dear exactly?”

Arisu almost chokes.

“I’m just... around,” he mutters.

Chishiya says nothing. His expression is blank, but his shoulders go just a bit too still.

Another relative—some smirking cousin with too many rings and not enough tact—tilts her head. “You two make quite the pair. I can see why you’d want to keep him close, Shun.”

That does it. Arisu bristles, fists curling at his sides, but he holds back.

“Right,” he says flatly. “Because nothing says friendship like being interrogated by a porcelain army.”

A few people laugh—awkward, high-pitched, like glass about to crack.

Chishiya suddenly looks uncomfortable. His eyes dart everywhere but toward Arisu. His fingers tap a quiet, uneven rhythm on his glass.

“No comment?” Arisu mutters through clenched teeth. “Cat got your silver spoon?”

Chishiya exhales slowly. “Excuse us,” he says, tone calm but clipped. “We need air.”

He turns and walks off without waiting. Arisu follows, because what else can he do?

When they’re far enough from the velvet and whispers, Arisu hisses, “You gonna tell them I’m not your pet next time, or should I bark for effect?”

“I didn’t invite them,” Chishiya replies. “And I certainly didn’t ask for the interrogation.”

“But you didn’t stop it either.”

Chishiya doesn’t answer. His eyes drift somewhere distant, as if he's tuning out the entire world—including Arisu.

They step out onto a quiet balcony, cold marble underfoot, the clinking of glasses and muted piano behind them like some rich-people horror movie soundtrack. Arisu leans against the railing, tugging at his collar.

“You’d think,” he mutters, “that with all this money, they could afford a personality.”

Chishiya doesn’t respond. Just stands there, looking out into the glittering city like he’s waiting for it to explode.

“They all talk like they’re auditioning for a perfume ad,” Arisu adds. “And that cousin? She asked if I ‘do sports.’ What does that even mean? What kind of—”

“I know,” Chishiya says quietly, but with enough edge to shut him up.

Arisu glances at him. “You know?”

“They’re awful,” Chishiya says. “All of them.”

There’s something in his voice—low, flat, too empty.

Arisu frowns. He studies Chishiya for a second, then exhales sharply, arms crossed.

“You’re lucky, you know,” he says, voice sharper than he intends. “To be living in a place like this. To have... this life. So why do you look more miserable than I ever felt?”

Still nothing.

Chishiya’s hands are relaxed at his sides, but his face is hard to read—blank, like a screen on standby. It makes Arisu uneasy.

“I’m not trying to be a dick,” Arisu mutters. “But—this? This party? These people? You’re center stage. Everyone adores you. So why do you look like you’d rather jump off the balcony than be here?”

No reply.

Chishiya doesn’t even blink. His eyes are fixed on some point far beyond the skyline, like he’s not fully in his body.

Arisu shifts, unsure. His annoyance fades into something else—concern, maybe. Or guilt.

“…Hey,” he tries again, tone softer. “You okay?”

Still nothing.

“…Are you happy?”

That finally gets a reaction—but not the kind he wants.

Chishiya’s shoulders stiffen just slightly. His mouth twitches like he might say something, but he doesn’t. And that, more than anything, answers the question.

Arisu looks away, jaw tight.

The wind is colder up here.

He thinks about the envelope of money still tucked in his bag. About the rich father who hired him like some private therapist with sneakers. About the suit. The questions. The silence.

And this boy—this impossible, pale, aloof boy—who somehow makes Arisu feel like he’s the one falling short.

“Fine,” Arisu says, pretending to sound casual. “I’ll just consider this part of the job. Babysitting duty. Add it to the invoice.”

Still, he doesn’t leave. He just leans next to Chishiya, watching the skyline with him. Quiet now. Keeping watch. Just in case.

Chapter Text

Arisu wakes up to sunlight stabbing through silk curtains and the unnerving quiet of a mansion too big for two people. He groans, glancing at the clock.

Sunday. Late.

He drags himself out of bed, still half-dreaming of last night’s party, of violins and judgmental eyes, of Chishiya’s silence stretched thin like glass.

He pads into the hallway, barefoot on cold marble. No sign of Chishiya. The silence feels... off.

He passes one of the maids in the corridor.

“Hey, uh—sorry, good morning. Have you seen Chishiya?”

The maid blinks, then shakes her head politely. “No, sir. We haven’t seen Master Shuntaro leave today.”

Arisu frowns. That doesn’t make sense.

Chishiya’s not in the kitchen. Not in the living room. Not in the library. His phone shows no new messages. Something itches in Arisu’s gut.

He walks down the long hall to Chishiya’s room and knocks.

No answer.

“Hey,” he calls, “you alive in there or did the rich people eat you whole?”

Still nothing.

So he opens the door.

The room is cold. Too quiet. Books are lined up with obsessive precision. The piano sits untouched. Posters—basketball ones, strangely—hang like secrets no one was meant to notice.

And then Arisu sees it. The window. Wide open. Curtains billowing slightly in the breeze.

He steps closer, stares down.

“…You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Chishiya—pristine, carefully groomed, designer-draped Chishiya—snuck out a goddamn window? But why?

Arisu sends a message:

Where the hell did you go?

Then another:

Did you seriously window exit me like I’m your exhausted tutor?

No reply. He calls. Voicemail.

No panic yet, just a low thrum of confusion and maybe—if he’s honest—worry. He grabs his jacket and makes a run for it, out of the mansion gates, into the weekend buzz of the city. The streets are loud. People swarm in one direction.

He taps someone on the shoulder, trying not to sound desperate. “Hey, what’s going on?”

The woman beams. “There’s a concert! That anonymous guitarist—he’s performing again. You know, the one who never shows his face? We haven’t seen him in months!”

Arisu blinks.

“…Anonymous guitarist?”

“Yeah! No one knows who he is. Total mystery. People say he’s rich. Or tragic. Or both.”

She hurries on, caught up in the wave.

Arisu stands still for a moment, brain ticking.

Could that be why Chishiya snuck out? But why wouldn’t he just say something? Why vanish without a word? More importantly—

Is he going to this concert... or is he performing in it?

Arisu pushes through the crowd, breath fogging in the late afternoon air. The line wraps around the block, but he doesn’t care. He spots a scalper and trades too much cash for a front-row ticket.

The venue is huge—lights blinding, energy rabid, the kind of noise that buzzes in your ribs. Arisu doesn’t know the band. Doesn’t know why he's here. Just that his instincts scream he might be.

He finds his seat just as the crowd erupts. The lights dim. Smoke crawls over the stage floor.

The frontman steps out first.

He’s tall, smug, with cheekbones that could cut glass and an effortless kind of danger. His hair is jet-black and choppy, styled to look accidental, and his piercings gleam under the strobes. His smile isn’t friendly—it's cocky, like he knows every person in the audience would burn just to touch his boot.

Then comes the bassist.

She struts to her place like the stage is hers—bright dyed hair slicked back, boots heavy, fishnet gloves and confidence in her shoulders. Her bass is black and red and gleaming.

Next, the drummer—composed, serious, with sharp eyes and a sleek black ponytail. She sits behind the kit like a queen on a throne, twirling her sticks once before resting them across her lap.

Arisu glances sideways, curiosity winning. “Hey, what’s the band called?”

The guy next to him—grinning, phone out—leans over. “DystoMira. That’s Suguru on vocals, Kuina on bass, and Rizuna on drums. Legends. You’ve never heard of them?”

Arisu blinks. “No. First time.”

“You’re in for it,” the guy says. “But you’re really here for the ghost guitarist, huh?”

Before Arisu can ask what that means, the crowd gasps—then roars.

Because someone walks onto the stage.

All in white.

Oversized hoodie pulled low over the head, sleeves half-covering gloved hands. A grey face mask hides the lower half of their face. The guitar slung across their back is just as stark—white, sleek, and polished to a mirror sheen.

The frontman—Suguru—grins like a devil granted a wish.

“Well, shit,” he says into the mic. “Guess the rumors were true. He’s back.”

He turns to the hooded figure. “We missed you, man. You gonna bless us or break us?”

The crowd laughs and whoops.

The guitarist doesn’t reply, only lifts his hand in a lazy wave. Arisu can’t see his eyes. Can’t hear his voice. But something about the way he moves, the careful way he handles the guitar, the slight tilt of his head—

It’s familiar. Too familiar.

Suguru saunters closer, voice low, teasing. “You never change. Still making us all chase after you.”

There’s something in the air now. Flirty. Electric.

The guitarist’s fingers flex slightly at that, but he doesn’t step back. He just plugs in the guitar and tests a note. It's clear, sharp, and effortlessly clean. The crowd loses their minds.

Arisu shifts in his seat.

He tries not to notice how Suguru watches the guitarist too long.

He tries not to imagine that hoodie being Chishiya’s.

He tries not to care.

But his heart is pounding.

He grips the edge of his seat.

No fucking way.

The crowd starts chanting before anything even happens—this isn’t just a concert, it’s an event. Phones are already up, capturing every twitch and glance.

Suguru steps forward again, one hand gripping the mic, the other tugging his shirt collar just low enough to tease. “Before we start,” he purrs, “I gotta say…”

He turns to the hooded guitarist, who’s busy adjusting a pedal.

“…you really know how to ghost a guy.”

The crowd howls. Arisu blinks.

“Didn’t even text me back, and then what? You sneak into rehearsal like a shy little alley cat?” Suguru leans in closer, voice dipping into a low, mocking croon. “But you’re still wearing white for me. I’m touched.”

The guitarist doesn’t react. Just adjusts a dial, slow and deliberate.

Kuina rolls her eyes from across the stage. “Jesus, again?” she says into her mic. “This isn’t your therapy session, Suguru.”

Rizuna taps a stick against her snare, deadpan. “Flirt later. Play now.”

The crowd laughs again, clearly used to this. There’s a rhythm to their chaos, a stage dynamic Arisu’s not part of.

Suguru grins wickedly but backs off. “Fine, fine. You’re no fun, girls.”

He turns toward the audience. “Alright, Tokyo, you ready for this shit?”

Roars of affirmation explode through the venue.

Arisu doesn’t cheer. He just stares. Because something isn’t adding up.

The way the guitarist hasn’t said a word. The way he keeps his head low, hiding under that hood even while everyone else basks in attention. The quiet restraint in his movements, like he’s trying not to be seen even when he’s literally on stage.

And now that Arisu is really looking—the build. The hands. The stillness.

“Wait…” he mutters aloud.

The lights dim again.

Suguru lifts a hand. “Let’s burn this place down.”

The first note hits.

It’s loud and clean and heartbreakingly beautiful. The kind of sound that cuts straight to the chest. Every eye is on the stage—except for Arisu’s. His are fixed on one person only.

The ghost in white.

The guitarist who doesn’t exist.

The one who might be Chishiya.

And Arisu is still trying to understand—why?

The lights drop. Silence pulses once. Twice.

Then—

BOOM.

The drums kick in first, a heart-thudding rhythm that vibrates through Arisu’s ribs. Rizuna is a machine—sharp, precise, no wasted motion, like she’s got lightning in her wrists. Then the bass slithers in, low and seductive, Kuina’s fingers dancing across the strings with casual confidence, smirking like she knows she’s killing it.

The guitar. That first scream of distortion tears through the air like it’s slicing the night open. It's clean but chaotic, like rain on metal. The notes climb higher, bend, twist, then drop into something mean and electric, and the crowd loses its mind.

Arisu’s breath catches.

Whoever’s playing that guitar isn’t just good. They’re terrifying. Controlled chaos. Every note is a sentence. Every riff is a declaration.

And even with the hoodie and mask, even hiding in plain sight—Arisu knows.

It’s him.

Chishiya.

White hoodie glowing under the stage lights. Fingers flying across the fretboard like he’s not even thinking, just feeling. Not a single misstep.

Suguru sings like the mic owes him money—powerful, gritty, magnetic—but every time he turns toward the guitarist, his voice softens like he's trying to coax something out of him.

Arisu watches, stunned. He doesn’t even realize he’s moved closer to the stage.

He’s never seen Chishiya like this. Never imagined him like this.

So loud. So alive.

The crowd chants the chorus like a battle cry. The lights swirl and flash. And all Arisu can do is stand there—completely wrecked.

Not just because the band is good.

But because he’s realizing he doesn’t know Chishiya at all.

And now he’s not sure if he ever really did.

The music crashes to an end with one final, spine-splitting riff, the crowd roaring. The band bows—well, most of them. The guitarist barely even moves. He only stands there, hoodie low, mask on, like the performance didn’t just blow half the crowd’s souls out their bodies.

Arisu blinks, heart still hammering in his chest. He turns to the guy next to him—a dyed-red mullet, piercings in places Arisu didn’t think could be pierced, clearly a seasoned concert goblin.

“Hey,” Arisu says, still breathless. “That was… what the hell was that?”

The guy laughs. “That? That was Apogee Fade. You’ve never heard of them?”

“No—like, I mean—what was that with the guitarist? And the singer? That flirting thing?? Was that... normal?”

“Oh, that,” the guy smirks. “Yeah, Niragi always does that. But tonight was extra flirty, huh?”

“Niragi?”

“The frontman. Suguru Niragi. Kind of a menace. People either worship him or wanna deck him.”

“Right,” Arisu mutters, stunned.

“And the guitarist?” the guy goes on, lowering his voice. “Nobody knows who he is. They call him NoFace online. He only plays sometimes. Always masked. But every time he shows up, the crowd goes feral. It’s like a surprise boss battle.”

Arisu’s ears ring. "NoFace?"

“Rumors say he’s loaded. Like, private mansion rich. But no one’s got a real name. Honestly? The mystery’s half the hype.”

Arisu stares back at the stage where Chishiya—NoFace—still stands, the spotlight barely grazing the side of his covered face.

And Suguru Niragi? He’s leaning close, whispering something in his ear, again.

Arisu watches Chishiya turn his head just slightly—just enough for a smirk to twitch under the mask.

Arisu’s jaw tightens.

Oh. Okay. So this is... what? A thing?

The crowd screams as the band announces their last song.

But Arisu’s no longer screaming.

He’s thinking. Hard.

And somewhere, very quietly, he’s fuming.

After a few more songs, the band heads offstage. The crowd roars, but Arisu doesn’t care. He’s already pushing past people, heading toward the side doors. He palms cash into the guard’s hand—enough to make him invisible—and slips into the backstage hallway.

The air back here hums with electricity and bass still vibrating in the walls. Then he sees him.

Chishiya. Hoodie half off. Mask in one hand. His back turned.

His hair is tied up in a sleek high bun, white-blonde strands catching the light like glass threads.

Arisu blurts it out before he can stop himself. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Chishiya freezes.

He turns slowly—too slowly. Their eyes lock. Chishiya doesn’t say a word.

Then Niragi rounds the corner, shirt half-unbuttoned, glitter smudged on his neck like bruises. He stops when he sees Arisu. Smirks.

“Ohhh,” Niragi says. “So this is why you didn’t come back for months? Got yourself a new boy?”

Arisu flinches. “That’s not what this is.”

Niragi steps closer. “Could’ve fooled me. Front row, mouth open, all heart eyes. You always had a type, Shuntaro.”

“I said you’re wrong,” Arisu snaps.

Kuina crosses her arms, appearing beside them like a shadow. “Do we have a problem?”

Ann watches from behind, quiet, calculating.

Arisu doesn’t back down. “Yeah, a pretty huge one. He disappears without a word, sneaks out a damn mansion window, and I find him playing a concert in disguise? I think that qualifies.”

Chishiya doesn’t respond. He just watches the floor like it has answers.

“I don’t know what your deal is with them,” Arisu says, voice rising, “but what are you even doing? Do your parents even know you’re here? Do they even approve of this?”

The air drops like a stone.

Chishiya’s gaze snaps up.

“Don’t,” he says flatly.

“No, really,” Arisu pushes. “Do they know their golden heir moonlights in a band and sneaks out of his glass tower to flirt with guys under stage lights?”

Chishiya steps forward. His voice is colder than Arisu’s ever heard. “You think I care what they approve of?”

“Clearly not,” Arisu fires back. “But you still live under their roof. You still play their game, like it’s easier than choosing something real.”

Chishiya’s jaw clenches. “And what—you're real?”

“At least I don’t pretend to be someone I’m not.”

The words land heavy. The silence that follows is unbearable.

Chishiya looks like he’s going to say something—something awful—but stops himself. He turns away instead, shoulders stiff.

Kuina moves to stand between them. “I think that’s enough.”

Arisu backs off, chest heaving, hands shaking.

Regret starts to crawl up his spine—but the damage is done.

And Chishiya doesn’t look back.

Arisu storms down the dim backstage corridor, fists still clenched. The neon exit sign glows at the end of the hallway, but before he can reach it, Kuina cuts him off.

She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t have to.

“You’re not leaving without explaining,” she says coolly, arms crossed.

Arisu exhales hard. “I’m no one. Just a guy who works for his family.”

Kuina steps closer. “A guy who chased him out of a mansion, bribed security, and threw punches with his voice like you’ve known him forever.”

He doesn’t respond.

She studies him. “So? Who are you really?”

Arisu hesitates. Then, quietly: “Ryohei Arisu. I work as a... private academic companion. Basically a glorified babysitter. His mom hired me.”

Kuina blinks. “You mean to tell me you’re the rich family’s house pet?”

“Not exactly,” Arisu mutters.

She tilts her head. “Then why’d you take the job? There’s a thousand others who’d kill for that kind of gig.”

He doesn’t answer. Not right away.

So she answers for him. “You’re running, too.”

Arisu’s eyes snap to hers.

“Yeah,” she says. “You talk like you know what’s good for him—like you’re here to rescue him or something. But you don’t even know what he’s escaping.”

“I never said I was trying to rescue him.”

“But you act like you’re entitled to him.”

He flinches.

Kuina doesn’t stop. “He didn’t need a parent. He didn’t need someone to ask him what his mom thinks. He needed someone who wouldn’t treat his life like a diagnosis.”

Arisu looks away.

She softens, just barely. “So tell me... were you actually trying to help? Or were you just trying to feel useful because your own family couldn’t give a damn?”

Silence.

In the background, Chishiya sits on a metal folding chair, still holding his guitar like a shield across his chest. Niragi leans against the wall across from him, arms crossed, jaw tight. He’s watching Chishiya, not saying a word—but the weight between them crackles like a fuse about to blow.

Kuina doesn’t look back. Her eyes stay locked on Arisu.

“Well?” she says.

And Arisu finally answers, voice hoarse:

“I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“Yeah,” she says. “That’s the problem. None of us ever mean to.”

Arisu’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

He glances at the screen. His stomach drops.

Mrs. Chishiya.

His breath catches. For a moment, he doesn’t move—just stares at the caller ID like it might disappear if he waits long enough.

But it doesn’t. So he answers.

“Hello?” he says, voice tight.

“Oh, Ryohei!” Her voice is as elegant and measured as ever, but laced with just enough edge to keep him upright. “Where are you two? You haven’t had lunch, have you? I had the kitchen prepare that broccolini thing he actually eats.”

Arisu swallows. “Lunch—right.”

She keeps going. “Is Shuntaro with you? I called his phone but it went straight to voicemail. What are you two up to?”

He looks across the room.

Chishiya sits slouched on a stool, tuning the strings of his white guitar. His hoodie’s off, the high bun still intact, silver strands of hair curling loose around his ears. His eyes are distant—blank, almost. There’s a wall behind them now, even though they’re in the same room.

Arisu opens his mouth. The truth balances on the edge of his tongue.

He could say it. Right now. “He snuck out through his bedroom window. I followed him to a literal rock concert. He’s the anonymous guitarist your high-society friends probably gossip about without knowing.”

But then Chishiya glances up, just for a second.

That hollow stare says more than words could. And Arisu understands something unspoken.

He lets the lie slide off his tongue so easily it scares him.

“He’s with me,” Arisu says calmly. “We’re just out. Took a walk, got a little lost downtown. He left his phone in the car, sorry.”

Mrs. Chishiya sighs on the other end, half relieved, half mildly inconvenienced. “Well, bring him home before dinner. And remind him he has a piano appointment tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Arisu says, without a crack in his voice.

He hangs up.

---

The walk back is chaos.

Even with the hoodie up and face mask on, it doesn’t matter—people recognize him. Whether it’s the cold-eyed heir of the Chishiya family or the faceless guitarist that half the city worships, he can’t shake either skin.

So Arisu thinks fast.

He tugs off his own jacket and throws it over Chishiya’s shoulders, hood up, head down, one arm around him like they’re just two close friends—or something else—blending into the crowd. Arisu ducks his own face low, guiding them through murmurs and half-turned stares.

He keeps moving until they finally catch a cab.

The silence inside is thick, like fogged glass.

Chishiya looks out the window, hair still in its elegant high bun, face bare now that the mask is gone. Arisu sits beside him, staring straight ahead. The taxi driver makes no comment, probably used to seeing things like this. Or maybe he knows exactly who’s in the backseat and values his job too much to speak.

By the time they reach the mansion gate, the sun has dipped low behind the trees.

Arisu steps out first. The air is cooler now.

Chishiya steps out after him, slow, quiet. He doesn’t look back.

Arisu can’t take it anymore. “Wait—”

Chishiya pauses.

Arisu bows his head before he even thinks. “I’m sorry,” he blurts. “About the concert. About lying. About asking things I had no right to—”

There’s a long pause.

Then Chishiya exhales through his nose. “God, you talk too much when you’re nervous.”

He walks past Arisu without stopping—but at the last second, he reaches out, grabs the collar of Arisu’s shirt, and drags him along like luggage.

“I’m hungry,” he mutters. “I want food. You’re coming too.”

Arisu stumbles after him, wide-eyed. “That’s it? You’re not mad?”

Chishiya doesn’t answer. His back is to him, the mansion’s doors yawning open in front of them.

He just says, “Tell them I want the broccolini thing.”

Like nothing happened.

But Arisu follows, heart thudding with something that feels a lot like confusion. Or maybe relief.

Or maybe both.

---

Dinner is served, but Chishiya doesn’t come down.

The long dining table feels even longer with just Arisu and Chishiya’s mother at it. She’s quiet for most of the meal, the clink of silverware and the hum of the chandelier above filling the void.

Then, softly, she speaks. “He used to love tofu curry,” she says, eyes still on her untouched plate. “When he was little, he’d insist on eating it every day. Wouldn’t even care if it burned his tongue.”

Arisu looks up. Her voice is gentle, but there’s something heavy in it—like a memory she’s turned over too many times in her hands.

“I don’t know when he changed,” she continues. “Maybe it was when his father and I started fighting about him. We both had different ideas of what he should become. But even when we stopped, something in him didn’t come back. It was like… something just snapped. And after that, he never smiled like he used to.”

She picks up her glass, sips from it slowly. “I don’t understand him anymore. I don’t think I ever did.”

Arisu folds his napkin carefully, then places it beside his plate.

“He’s still trying to understand himself, I think,” he says gently. “That takes time. And space. But… he’s not completely lost. You didn’t lose him.”

She doesn’t reply.

After a few more minutes, Arisu stands. “If it’s alright, I’ll take his dinner up to him. He probably just needs company.”

She nods, saying nothing, only offering the faintest of smiles.

---

Upstairs, Arisu knocks gently on the door.

A beat of silence.

Then the door clicks open, and Chishiya is already walking back toward his bed, a tablet in hand, the glowing screen showing a J-drama mid-episode. He’s sitting on the floor, leaning against the bedframe, hair down now, tied low and loose.

Arisu steps in, quietly closing the door behind him. “You didn’t eat,” he says, holding up the covered tray.

Chishiya doesn’t look up from his screen. “Didn’t feel like sitting through it.”

Arisu doesn’t press it. He sets the tray down, sits beside him, and slides one of the plates onto Chishiya’s lap.

They eat in silence at first, the flickering drama casting soft light against the room’s expensive shelves and untouched instruments.

Eventually, Arisu nudges him with his shoulder. “Is this the one where the doctor has amnesia but still saves everyone?”

Chishiya replies flatly, “No. This one’s about a prosecutor who moonlights as a ramen critic.”

“…That’s somehow worse.”

A breath of something close to a laugh escapes Chishiya’s nose.

They eat like that—quiet, not talking much, not needing to. Side by side on the floor, a forgotten world buzzing behind the walls.

And for a little while, it feels almost like peace.

--

The episode ends, fading into credits and soft music.

Chishiya doesn’t move. He keeps his gaze on the screen like it still has something to tell him.

Arisu, sitting beside him with his half-eaten plate in his lap, glances at him sideways. Then, softly:

“Are you happy?”

A pause.

Chishiya lowers the iPad to his lap. For a moment, it looks like he’s not going to answer.

Then, without looking at Arisu, he says quietly, “Not really.”

The silence that follows is longer this time. Heavy. Like the kind that comes after someone says something too honest.

Arisu stares at his plate, then nudges a piece of eggplant with his chopsticks. “What about… being onstage? With the band? You looked like you were really into it. Does that make you happy?”

Chishiya shrugs. “It’s loud. And a good distraction. But that’s all it is. A distraction.”

Something tugs in Arisu’s chest. He isn’t sure if it’s guilt or sympathy or something else entirely. His next words come out before he can stop them.

“Then I’ll make you a promise,” he says, straightening up.

Chishiya raises an eyebrow, finally turning to look at him. “A promise?”

“As your hired fake-friend,” Arisu says, hand pressed flat against his chest in exaggerated sincerity, “I solemnly swear I’ll find a way to make you actually happy.”

Chishiya scoffs, turning back to the screen. “That’s dumb.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“You’re projecting.”

Arisu makes a face. “I just said I’d try to make you happy. You could at least pretend to believe in me for like five seconds.”

Chishiya exhales sharply through his nose. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Arisu looks away.

He’s not sure why he said it either. He really shouldn’t care this much.

He was here for the paycheck. That was the whole point. A few months. Fake friendship. Easy cash.

So why the hell does it feel like something more now?

He stays quiet.

Chishiya presses play on the next episode. But even as the drama resumes, neither of them is watching.

Not really.

---

Arisu bolts upright in bed with the grace of a zombie hit by lightning. One glance at the clock and he lets out a guttural, dying-animal noise.

“Shitshitshit—!”

He scrambles to throw on his uniform pants—backwards—fixes it—nearly chokes himself with his necktie—then launches down the stairs like a man possessed. He grabs a piece of toast from the kitchen, ignores the horrified shriek of a maid as he nearly slips, and bolts out the door like a cartoon character late for a final exam.

He makes it to the campus gate, panting, toast half-chewed, tie dangling like a defeated ribbon.

And there—there of all people—is Chishiya.

Also late.

Equally out of breath.

Hair in a haphazard half-up, hoodie zipped halfway over his uniform shirt, expression halfway between “murderous” and “mildly inconvenienced.”

They stare at each other, blinking.

“…You’re late,” Arisu pants.

Chishiya squints at him. “No shit, Sherlock.”

They both run.

Cut to: them busting into the lecture hall, red-faced and gasping for air. The professor glances up over his glasses, unimpressed. Everyone turns.

“Nice of you both to join us,” the professor says flatly.

Arisu bows in apology so hard he nearly knocks his desk over. Chishiya just walks coolly to his seat like being thirty minutes late was a fashion statement.

They plop into their seats next to each other. A beat of silence.

“…What the hell are you doing here?” Arisu whispers.

Chishiya side-eyes him. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“You’re supposed to be rich and mysterious and allergic to school!”

“You’re supposed to be poor and irrelevant and allergic to effort.”

“Rude.”

Chapter Text

Arisu is jolted awake by a pillow slamming violently into his face.

He groans, muffled. “Wh—what—?!”

Another hit. “Wake up.”

He rips the pillow off, blinking up at Chishiya, who’s standing over him with zero shame, already dressed in the most unnecessary designer casuals at 9 a.m. on a Sunday.

“I was sleeping.”

“You were wasting daylight.” Chishiya tosses a pair of jeans onto Arisu’s stomach. “Get dressed. We’re going shopping.”

Arisu groans again, flopping back dramatically. “No. No we are not.”

Chishiya crosses his arms, tilting his head. “Yes we are. I’m in the mood to spend money. And I need someone to carry bags.”

“I’m not your assistant.”

“You’re my hired friend. It’s in the fine print.”

“There is no fine print.”

Chishiya’s already walking out of the room. “Be ready in ten. I want an iced mocha and moral support.”

Arisu mutters into his pillow. “He’s like if a cat and a rich brat had a baby...”

___

Chishiya walks ahead like he doesn’t notice the trail of attention behind him. People glance over their shoulders. Some slow their steps just to get a second look. Whispers ripple through the store as phones are discreetly raised for blurry photos. It doesn’t faze him—not even a flicker of acknowledgment in his expression.

Arisu, on the other hand, is suffering.

He’s juggling six bags already, his hoodie sliding off one shoulder as he tries to keep up with Chishiya’s short but fast-paced stride.

“You know, most people would try to be discreet,” Arisu says, exasperated, trying not to knock over a display of ridiculously expensive sneakers.

Chishiya doesn’t even glance back. “Most people aren’t me.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Arisu mutters, readjusting the handles cutting into his palms. “We’ve been to four stores. Four. How do you even wear this much crap? You don’t go anywhere.”

Chishiya finally turns, a pair of sunglasses in his hand. “These are cute. I’m getting them.”

“You already got three other pairs.”

“These are a different shape,” he says, like that justifies everything.

“You’re going to go blind from all the LED lights in here before you wear half of these.”

Chishiya slips the sunglasses on and smirks. “You’re very loud for someone being paid.”

Arisu stops walking, nearly dropping one of the bags. “Okay, see, I knew you were spoiled, but this is next-level. You’re not even trying to pretend otherwise.”

“I don’t need to pretend. I know what I want. I get it. That’s all.”

“That’s not how life works for most people.”

“But it’s how it works for me,” Chishiya replies flatly, stepping up to the cashier and handing over a black card like it’s nothing.

Arisu watches the total climb past what he made in a month. “You’re insane.”

“You’re dramatic,” Chishiya counters, signing the receipt.

The moment they step out of the store, another set of bags is shoved into Arisu’s arms.

“Seriously?” Arisu says, stumbling as he tries to balance everything.

Chishiya simply puts his sunglasses back on and starts walking down the street again. “I want bubble tea next.”

“Of course you do.”

—

The Starbucks line moves slowly, and Chishiya is already tapping his foot, arms crossed, sunglasses still on indoors like he owns the universe. He scans the overhead menu with a sharp, disapproving eye, like it’s personally offended him.

The barista at the register greets him with a cheerful “Hi! What can I get for you today?”

Chishiya doesn’t answer. He just tilts his head slightly. “Your matcha doesn’t taste right. You use the wrong powder.”

The barista blinks, caught off guard. “Uh—we use what corporate sends us, sir.”

“Well,” Chishiya says flatly, “corporate has terrible taste.”

Arisu steps forward before this spirals. “Hi. Sorry. He’ll have an iced matcha latte, oat milk, light ice, two pumps of vanilla. Please.”

The barista nods, clearly grateful. “Got it!”

Chishiya turns to Arisu with a look. “You forgot to say no foam.”

“Then say it nicer,” Arisu hisses under his breath. “You can’t talk to people like they’re defective machines just because they work retail.”

“I’m not talking to them like machines. Machines listen better.”

“Chishiya.”

Chishiya exhales through his nose, displeased but not arguing. He steps aside as Arisu orders his own drink, a basic iced coffee, nothing fancy—something that won’t cost a week's allowance.

They sit by the window while they wait. Chishiya is lounging like he’s on a throne, legs stretched out under the table, sunglasses still on. Arisu pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You’re gonna get banned from every coffee shop in the city.”

“They’d be lucky.”

“Do you even hear yourself?”

“I do. I sound correct.”

Arisu groans and sinks lower in his seat. “I deserve financial compensation for this friendship.”

“You already get paid.”

Arisu glares at him. “Not enough.”

While they wait, he props his elbow on the table, studying Chishiya like he’s some misbehaving cat that might learn how to sit on command if bribed enough.

“You know,” Arisu says slowly, “you could try being nice to people. Like, I don’t know, saying ‘please’ or not criticizing their existence?”

Chishiya lifts an eyebrow behind his sunglasses. “You want me to lie?”

“No, I want you to be civil.”

“That’s just refined lying.”

“Chishiya—”

Arisu straightens up and leans forward. “Okay. Practice. Let’s say you’re ordering a drink. What do you say?”

Chishiya shifts in his seat. “...You. Matcha. No foam.”

Arisu drags a hand down his face. “Wrong. That’s how you declare war. Try again.”

Chishiya exhales, dramatic. Then, in a stiff, robotic tone: “Hello. May I... please have an iced matcha latte. No foam. Thank you... very much.”

Arisu blinks. “Okay. You sounded like a hostage reading a ransom letter. But it’s a start.”

Chishiya squints at him. “You’re mocking me.”

“I’m proud of you, actually.”

Chishiya tilts his head. “You find this amusing?”

“I find everything about you amusing.”

Their names are called before Chishiya can shoot back something scathing. Arisu stands to grab the drinks, still grinning to himself, while Chishiya mutters under his breath, “Next time I’m ordering in Russian.”

“That’ll just scare them more.”

“Exactly.”

___

Chishiya sips his overpriced, custom-altered drink like it’s the most natural thing in the world to be walking bagless through the city while Arisu is dying under what feels like fifty kilograms of branded consumerism.

They walk past a train station entrance when Chishiya suddenly says, “Let’s ride the train.”

Arisu pauses, readjusts the strap digging into his shoulder. “...To where?”

Chishiya shrugs, sipping lazily. “Nowhere. I just want to.”

Arisu blinks. “What does that mean—how do you just ‘ride the train’? You don’t have a destination?”

“No. I just want to move.”

It’s weirdly impulsive. Weirdly free-spirited for someone so clinically composed most of the time. But something in Chishiya’s expression—it isn’t joy or mischief. It’s this subtle stillness. Like he’s trying not to remember something.

Arisu sighs. “Fine. Let me just—” He lifts all the bags higher. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s ride the train.”

On the platform, the silence between them hums just loud enough to hear.

Arisu glances at him. “You ever do this before?”

Chishiya doesn’t look away from the tracks. “No. My mother wouldn’t let me ride public transport as a kid. Said it was dirty.”

“And now you’re just... doing it?”

“I’m not a kid anymore. I can do what I want.”

Arisu watches him quietly. “Don’t you have friends to do this kind of stuff with?”

Chishiya shrugs, but slower this time. “Didn’t need them.”

Arisu studies his face. “You say that, but I think you did.”

There’s no answer for a while. The train arrives, all sound and light, and they step inside together. 

The train hums beneath them, rocking in a quiet rhythm. Chishiya stares out the window, arms crossed, drink in hand, while Arisu just breathes—finally off his feet, the weight of Chishiya’s shopping bags at his side.

They don’t talk. Not at first.

Arisu leans his head back against the window, eyes flicking toward Chishiya’s reflection. “You know… I have friends.”

Chishiya doesn’t respond, but Arisu keeps going anyway.

“Karube and Chōta. They’re stupid. Like—really stupid. But I trust them.” He pauses. “They’d hit me if they found out what I’m doing right now. Selling my time to some spoiled mystery celebrity.”

Chishiya’s eyebrow twitches. But still, he says nothing.

Arisu exhales, watching the stations pass by. “I don’t know what it’s like to be completely alone. But I do know what it feels like when no one gets you. I’m the eldest, so… everything falls on me. School, expectations, future. Even the stuff they don’t say out loud—it’s always there. Like if I mess up, the whole family does too.”

Chishiya shifts slightly, glancing sideways.

“I tried really hard,” Arisu continues, voice lower now. “But it didn’t matter. I still wasn’t what they wanted. So eventually I stopped trying.” He chuckles humorlessly. “Ran away. And now I’m here. Doing whatever this is.”

There’s a long pause.

Then, quietly, Chishiya says, “You’re lucky.”

Arisu turns his head. “Huh?”

“You have friends who’d hit you for doing something dumb.” Chishiya doesn’t look at him. “That must be nice.”

Arisu doesn’t smile, doesn’t joke. Just watches him.

“…What about you?” he asks gently.

Chishiya taps his finger against the plastic cup. “…I had people who said they liked me. But that was before they knew who I was. After that…” He trails off. “They just liked the brand.”

It hangs in the air for a moment—something fragile and honest. Then Chishiya shrugs, casual again. “It doesn’t matter.”

But it does. Arisu can tell.

“…Yeah,” he says quietly. “It does.”

They arrive back at the estate, and it’s alive with motion. Housekeepers moving quickly, staff shifting furniture, voices echoing lightly down the halls. It feels more like a hotel lobby than a home.

Arisu steps in after Chishiya, struggling with the weight of the shopping bags as someone politely offers to take them from him. He waves them off, too stunned by the bustle.

Chishiya doesn’t even blink. He walks forward like he owns the space—because he does—and people clear the way.

From across the entryway, a familiar voice calls out.

“There you are, Shuntarō.”

Chishiya slows. Arisu does too, instinctively straightening as Chishiya’s mother approaches, elegant as ever, clipboard in hand.

“You’ll need to get dressed after tea,” she says, eyes already scanning a schedule. “There’s a private cello performance scheduled for this evening. The Delacourt family is visiting from Paris, and they specifically asked to meet you.”

Chishiya barely reacts. “And?”

She blinks, just once. “And you’ll play. They’re a good connection. Their son is interested in transferring to one of our partner schools. It’s a good match.”

He stares at her, unimpressed. “You just want them to donate to your project.”

She offers him a cool smile. “I want them to see how remarkable you are.”

Then she’s gone, disappearing into the crowd of busy footsteps and murmuring voices.

Arisu watches her leave. Then looks at Chishiya.

“…You play the cello?”

Chishiya doesn’t answer. He just mutters, “I hate performing for strangers,” and walks off toward the stairs.

There’s a knock at Chishiya’s door before it opens gently—no need for permission in this house. One of the estate stylists steps in, arms full of garment bags and accessories.

“Time to get you ready, Shuntarō-sama,” they say with practiced calm.

Chishiya doesn’t protest, just sits back in the armchair by his window, one leg crossed lazily over the other, as the flurry of silent preparation begins. They’ve done this a hundred times before.

Arisu stands awkwardly near the bed, unsure if he should stay or excuse himself. But no one tells him to leave, and maybe—maybe he doesn’t want to.

The outfit they lay out is all white again. Crisp, ceremonial, elegant. Chishiya is dressed with the care of a porcelain doll—layers of white tucked and fastened, the jacket fitted and minimalist, the lines clean and sharp. Then come the accessories: gloves, a subtle pin over his heart, polished shoes.

Finally, another worker steps in with a case of combs and silver clips, carefully undoing Chishiya’s usual loose hair. His white-blond strands are brushed out until they shine, then slowly twisted and pinned into an elaborate style—almost regal. Something you’d see on a stage or in a portrait.

Arisu doesn’t mean to stare.

But he does.

Because Chishiya looks like he doesn’t belong to this world. Too beautiful. Too distant. Too... untouchable.

Chishiya catches the look, briefly.

“…What?”

Arisu blinks. “Nothing. You just—”

He swallows it.

“You look like one of those people in paintings. Like, the ones behind glass.”

Chishiya scoffs. “So I look dead.”

“No,” Arisu mutters, embarrassed. “I meant… never mind.”

They finish fixing him up—every button straight, every strand in place. The workers step away like artists finished with a masterpiece.

Arisu takes that as his cue to leave. He shifts awkwardly by the door, already halfway into turning when—

“You coming?”

Chishiya’s voice is offhand, like it costs him nothing. Like it doesn’t matter either way. But his eyes flick over, expectant.

Arisu pauses. “…You want me to watch?”

Chishiya doesn’t answer, just walks past him, already heading down the hall.

That’s a yes.

They walk together in silence, the sound of footsteps muffled by expensive carpeting. At the base of the stairs, Chishiya’s mother appears—graceful in designer heels and a pearl brooch, eyes appraising her son like a collector admiring fine china.

“There you are,” she sighs. “You look perfect, darling. Just like last time. That family’s going to fall in love with you—remember to bow properly after your piece. And don’t play too fast. Or too cold. And smile, even just a little—”

“I’m not smiling,” Chishiya mutters, deadpan.

“Oh, hush,” she swats the air. “You’re my beautiful boy. They’ll love you no matter what. Just look at you.”

She turns to Arisu, finally acknowledging him. “Doesn’t he look stunning?”

Caught off guard, Arisu nods before he can stop himself. “Yeah. He does.”

Chishiya stops.

He turns his head just slightly to look at Arisu—eyebrows drawn faintly, as if the compliment short-circuited his understanding of the situation.

His mother laughs, pleased. “See? Even your friend thinks so.”

But Arisu’s still watching Chishiya. Because for a second—just a second—he sees something flicker across his face.

Not smugness. Not pride.

Something almost vulnerable. Almost like he needed to hear it.

Later, the foreign family arrives—chauffeured cars, designer coats, accents dipped in old money and soft-spoken arrogance. The dining room glows under golden chandeliers, and servants sweep through like shadows with trays of silver and glass.

Arisu doesn’t sit with them. He had the option, but he declined, mumbling something about being tired. Instead, he leans quietly against the far wall of the room, half-hidden behind a sculpted pillar. From there, he watches.

He watches the way the family laughs politely, compliments the wine, and picks at food like it’s all theater. And he watches how their sons and daughters—flawless, well-postured, and probably trained since birth—keep staring.

At Chishiya.

Their eyes linger too long. They ask too many questions. One of the daughters brushes her fingers along her necklace and leans forward when Chishiya speaks. One of the sons laughs at something Chishiya didn’t even intend to be funny.

Arisu tries not to care.

He really does.

He picks at his nails. Looks at the ceiling. Counts the number of crystal drops on the chandelier. Anything to not look at Chishiya’s face when those rich kids smile at him like they want him wrapped in gold.

Then, without a word, Chishiya stands.

The conversations hush.

Arisu straightens instinctively.

Chishiya glides out of his chair with the same unbothered grace he always carries, but there’s something different in his shoulders—something sharp and tense like piano wire pulled taut. His mother nods, pleased, and gestures toward the open space beside the grand piano.

Chishiya walks out of the room.

When he returns, he’s carrying his cello. The light catches the instrument like polished amber, deep and gleaming. He sits on the platform prepared for him. Adjusts the bow.

Silence stretches.

Arisu holds his breath.

Then Chishiya plays.

Arisu leans against the cool frame of the door, arms crossed, as the first note spills from the cello. The room quiets instantly. Chishiya sits alone on the small stage, the spotlight casting a soft halo around him, white suit glowing like porcelain under the warm lights. He looks like something out of a dream.

But there’s nothing dreamy about the way he plays.

The bow glides, then bites. Each note carries weight, every pause deliberate. He plays like someone who’s trying to speak without words—like someone begging to be heard but too proud to ask out loud.

Arisu watches, heart tight in his chest, as Chishiya's eyes fall half-lidded. Not closed, but far away. Somewhere else entirely. The kind of far that no one in the room notices, except Arisu. Because the family smiles and nods, polite admiration on their faces. They only see talent. Perfection.

They don’t see the way Chishiya’s hands tremble slightly when the song shifts keys.

They don’t see the slight hitch in his breath.

But Arisu does.

He sees all of it.

And the thought returns.

How can a boy like that be so… lonely?

Because he is. Even now, surrounded by people. Applauded. Wanted. Praised. Chishiya looks lonelier than anyone Arisu’s ever met.

It’s like the applause doesn’t touch him. Like the praise ricochets off some invisible wall. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t bow. He just lowers his bow, lifts his chin slightly, and waits for it all to be over.

And Arisu’s never wanted to punch a room full of rich people more in his life.

The music ends. Everyone claps. Loudly. Arisu doesn’t.

He’s too busy staring.

Chishiya glances up, scanning the crowd—and for a flicker of a second, their eyes lock again.

Arisu doesn’t smile. He holds his gaze. And for once, Chishiya doesn’t look away.

Not right away, anyway.

Arisu sits quietly near the edge of the luxurious living room, perched on the arm of a velvet couch, feeling like an accidental guest in a dream that doesn’t belong to him. The chandelier overhead sparkles too bright, and the wine glasses clink with every polite laugh. He watches, awkward in his borrowed dress shirt, as the foreign family speaks animatedly with Chishiya’s parents.

Their accents are thick, their Japanese clumsy, and Arisu’s English isn’t much better—but he can follow just enough to understand that this is one of those business-drenched conversations. Words like “partnership,” “talent,” “future,” and “legacy” float around, tossed like currency.

Then he notices it—gestures.

They’re gesturing to him.

Subtle at first. A glance in his direction. A tilt of the hand. A few words exchanged between Chishiya’s mother and the guest wife, followed by the slight narrowing of eyes in his direction. Then the man—the foreigner in the navy suit with too-white teeth—asks a question. Arisu doesn’t catch it all, but he hears “the companion?” and “your son’s… friend?”

Chishiya’s mother gives a soft laugh. Her smile is poised, practiced.

Chishiya, sitting stiffly next to her, doesn’t even flinch.

Arisu swallows.

He suddenly feels like a pet being discussed behind glass. He doesn’t like the feeling. He doesn’t like how the smiles around the room don’t match the weight in the air. He doesn’t like how Chishiya sits with perfect posture, porcelain still, not offering a single glance toward him.

And maybe the worst part is that Arisu starts to wonder—

Is this all part of the show, too?

Was he meant to be seen?

A role to play. A narrative to sell. A part of the presentation.

But then—just when the silence starts to press too heavy against his chest—Chishiya turns his head.

Looks directly at him.

And says, clearly and simply, “He’s with me.”

The guests nod politely, trying to decipher what it means, but Arisu doesn’t care about them. He exhales and looks down, a tiny, confused smile tugging at his lips.

He still doesn’t know what any of this means.

They head upstairs, the noise from the fancy dinner fading behind them. As soon as they’re alone, Chishiya lets out a dramatic sigh.

“Ugh. I hate those kinds of nights,” he mutters, kicking off his shoes and pulling at the collar of his too-stiff shirt. “Everyone fake-smiling and acting like I’m some trained monkey.”

Arisu follows him into his room, watching as Chishiya grumbles and paces, yanking out the clips and pins from his hair one by one. The carefully styled layers start to fall loose, silver-blond strands spilling around his face and shoulders.

Arisu forgets whatever he was about to say.

And then—without even thinking—Chishiya strips off the jacket and shirt in one motion. It’s all automatic, like he’s done it a million times. He grabs a hoodie from the chair, tosses it over his head—

—and freezes when he realizes Arisu’s staring.

“…What?” Chishiya blinks, suddenly aware of the situation.

They lock eyes. Awkward silence. Arisu looks like he’s buffering.

Chishiya clears his throat, flops onto the bed dramatically, then side-eyes him.

“You wanna sneak out or what?” he says, casual as anything.

Arisu blinks. “Huh?”

Chishiya grins, like this is the most obvious thing in the world. “Come on. Let’s ditch this place for a bit. You said you’d make me happy, didn’t you?”

Arisu huffs a tiny laugh. “You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

“You’ll live.” Chishiya stands, already pulling his hood up. “Let’s go before someone starts asking where their golden child went.”

He tosses his hair up into a loose bun, the kind that somehow looks effortlessly perfect, and unlatches the tall window in his room like it’s the most normal thing ever.

Arisu stares. “Seriously?”

Chishiya’s already halfway out. “Come on.”

Arisu sighs and follows him out into the night again.

They end up on a nearly empty late train, the hum of the tracks beneath them. Chishiya takes the window seat and immediately starts talking—complaining, mostly—about the foreign family.

“They kept talking about me like I was a doll on display,” he mutters, cheek pressed to the cold glass. “Like I don’t understand a word of English. Which, by the way, I do. Fluently.”

Arisu nods along, trying to keep up, but also kind of distracted by how the passing city lights reflect in Chishiya’s eyes.

The train slows.

When they get off, Arisu looks around, blinking up at the glowing skyline.

The place they arrive at isn’t just expensive—it’s obscene. Like something out of a drama or some billionaire’s dream. The casino’s entrance is drenched in gold light, velvet ropes, tinted glass, and a long set of stairs that look like they were built to be climbed by royalty.

Arisu mutters under his breath, “Okay… where the hell are we.”

Chishiya doesn’t even glance at the security. He just walks right in like he owns the place.

Inside, it’s even worse. Glittering chandeliers. Marble floors. People in glittering gowns and expensive shoes. Every corner smells like money and power. There’s classical music playing softly in the background, but no one’s really listening. Arisu clutches his hoodie like it’s armor.

They pass a hidden hallway, and Chishiya pushes open a door that looks like it’s meant for staff. Inside—it’s a locker room?

“Why… do casinos have locker rooms?”

Chishiya doesn’t answer. He just goes straight to a locker, opens it with a key from his pocket, and starts changing.

Arisu nearly chokes. “WOAH—what are you doing?!”

“Relax.” Chishiya slides into loose, elegant black pants and a dark silk shirt with the top buttons undone. “I work here sometimes.”

“YOU WHAT?!”

Chishiya ignores the yelling. He steps into sleek boots, buttons the shirt lazily, and then smooths a hand through his hair before tugging the bun a little tighter.

He turns around, and with a snap, his whole expression changes. The blank, lazy look vanishes—and in its place, Chishiya smiles.

It’s dangerous.

Everyone in the lobby already wants to approach him.

He glides over to one of the card tables like he’s done it a thousand times, picks up a standard deck, and starts flipping the cards through his fingers with impossible ease.

Cards shuffle and ripple and dance between his hands. Arisu stares, stunned. This isn’t just playing cards.

This is art.

This is showmanship.

This is another side of Chishiya—and Arisu doesn’t even know where the real version of him starts or ends.

Arisu stands just off to the side of the velvet-rope table, holding his breath, arms stiff by his sides. The whole place smells like expensive perfume and ambition. People are watching — whispering, laughing, gawking — as Chishiya slides into the spotlight like he owns it.

Cards dance between his fingers, flickering in arcs and bridges, snapping crisply as he fans them out like feathers, then gathers them back with hypnotic ease.

Someone behind Arisu mutters, “Holy crap, that’s Chishiya.”

“No way. He hasn’t shown up here in months.”

“He only comes when he’s bored,” a guy in a silk shirt says knowingly. “They say he never loses. That he can count cards in his sleep.”

“Isn’t he, like… seventeen?”

“Seventeen and richer than everyone here combined.”

At the table, a man with slicked-back hair grins at Chishiya over his chips. “Back to school, Chishiya? Or are you just here to remind us we’re all amateurs?”

Chishiya hums, lazily riffling the deck one-handed. “Depends. Are you going to cry again if I beat you in three rounds?”

A ripple of laughter spreads around the table.

A woman in a red dress leans forward, watching him with a smirk. “You’ve gotten cockier. I kind of like it.”

Chishiya glances at her, unimpressed. “You said that last time too. Right before you folded everything.”

Someone else laughs loudly. “He’s brutal, man.”

Arisu opens his mouth, trying to say something—anything—but nothing comes out. He’s still processing the fact that Chishiya is here, in a casino, in a perfectly tailored outfit, casually roasting millionaires.

“Who’s the kid?” someone asks, nodding at Arisu.

Chishiya doesn’t even look. “My emotional support friend.”

Arisu sputters. “I am NOT—!”

“Shh,” Chishiya says coolly, cutting him off with a finger to his lips. “You’re ruining the image.”

Arisu glares at him. “What image?!”

A dealer leans over to Chishiya. “The usual buy-in?”

Chishiya nods, already placing chips on the table. “Make it double. I’m in a mood.”

The dealer smirks. “Trouble in paradise?”

Chishiya glances sideways at Arisu, then flips a card with a flick. “More like… entertainment just arrived.”

Arisu blinks. “Wait, am I the entertainment?!”

Someone claps from across the table. “Let him stay. The reactions are gold.”

Chishiya smiles slyly, dealing a perfect shuffle. “Exactly why I keep him around.”

Arisu is so stunned he forgets how to breathe for a second. He stomps closer to Chishiya, his voice climbing despite the very obvious fact that they are still in a fancy casino.

“Are you out of your mind?! What do you mean you work here? What kind of high schooler has a side gig in a casino?! What kind of illegal nonsense is this?! And don’t call me your emotional support friend in public!”

Chishiya doesn’t even flinch. He’s arranging his chips calmly, with the elegance of someone who’s done this way too many times.

“Arisu,” he says in a perfectly neutral tone, “your voice is getting that shrill tone again. You know, the one that sounds like my mom when she finds out I skipped cello practice.”

“I am not your mom!”

“You kinda sound like her though,” Chishiya hums. “All that worrying. So maternal.”

Arisu gapes at him. “Take this seriously!”

“I am taking it seriously,” Chishiya says, tossing a card so smoothly it spins on the felt like it’s on wires. “That’s why I’m here. These people are rich and dumb. It’s fun.”

Arisu groans and drags a hand down his face. “Oh my god. You’re actually insane.”

Chishiya tilts his head, almost mockingly. “Mom, you’re embarrassing me in front of my friends.”

“I’m gonna throttle you.”

“I thought moms weren’t allowed to threaten violence.”

“I’m not your—!”

The red-dress woman from before glances at Arisu and grins. “He’s feisty. You two a thing?”

Arisu throws up his hands. “Why does everyone keep asking that?!”

Chishiya leans back in his chair and smirks. “Because you keep following me around like a concerned housewife.”

“Because you do reckless things like sneaking out and suddenly gambling in a five-star casino!”

“Correction,” Chishiya says lazily. “I’m winning in a five-star casino.”

As if on cue, the dealer pushes a pile of chips toward Chishiya.

The table claps. Chishiya doesn’t even blink.

Arisu can only watch in horror as the boy lounges back in his chair like a smug cat, calmly sipping a fancy fruit soda some waiter brought him.

“…I need to lie down,” Arisu mutters.

“You can do that after I beat three more people and buy you dinner.”

“YOU’RE NOT BUYING ME—wait did you say dinner?”

Chishiya wins. Obviously. Arisu watches from the edge of the room, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. The crowd is already around Chishiya—young people, people their age, people who probably don’t even know what game he was playing but are obsessed with how good he looks doing it. They’re throwing compliments, numbers, full-on begging for attention.

Arisu’s jaw tightens. Some guy tries to lean a little too close to Chishiya and Arisu immediately steps forward. The guy backs off.

Chishiya doesn’t even flinch. Just smiles at whoever he needs to, thanks them, plays polite until they move on. He heads back to the locker room, peels out of his casino outfit like it’s nothing, and puts on something loose and quiet. Arisu’s still fuming.

“Why do you let them flirt with you like that?” 

Chishiya shrugs. “Didn’t notice.”

“You didn’t—?! One of them tried to grab your hand!”

“Mm. Which one?” he says, completely uninterested.

Arisu glares. “You’re unbelievable.”

Chishiya stretches, tosses his old clothes in a bag, and looks over his shoulder. “C’mon, Mom. You’re the one who wanted dinner.”

Arisu makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh. “You promised, remember?”

“I did,” Chishiya says, already walking. “I keep my promises.”

They leave the casino. The air outside is cooler, quieter. Arisu’s still annoyed, mostly at himself for caring too much, but Chishiya glances at him and smirks like he knows. He finds a place to eat. Buys Arisu dinner like it’s no big deal. Like he didn’t just walk out of a casino leaving ten hearts shattered behind him.

___

It’s school again, and Arisu’s barely made it to the gates before he hears people talking.

“Did you see what Chishiya gave her?”

“Like—actual designer.”

“I heard it was a limited drop. Custom, too.”

Arisu groans. Of course. Chishiya casually gifting someone something worth more than rent again. He doesn’t even look for him—he already knows Chishiya’s probably lounging somewhere, completely unbothered, probably sipping some overpriced imported drink like it’s water.

Meanwhile, Arisu’s hanging out with Karube and Chota on the steps outside the gym. Karube’s hyped, talking fast, spinning a basketball between his fingers.

“Next game’s Friday,” Karube says, “and this team? They play dirty. So I’m gonna have to go full beast mode.”

“You always say that,” Chota laughs.

“Yeah, and it’s always true,” Karube grins.

Arisu tries to focus. He really does. But his brain immediately flashes to Chishiya. Specifically, Chishiya stalking Karube during his matches a little too much.

Arisu shakes his head. “...He’s gonna want to come.”

“Huh?” Karube looks at him.

“Nothing.”

 Mental note: don’t tell Chishiya about the game. Then drag him last minute.

_____

“No.”

“Chishiya—”

“No.”

“You're coming—”

“No.”

“Oh my god—”

Arisu has his fingers hooked into the back of Chishiya’s collar as the latter digs his heels into the tile like he’s being sent to war. Chota is walking ahead of them, eating a protein bar like this is the best comedy he’s seen all week.

“I don’t do sports events,” Chishiya huffs. “They’re loud. Sweaty. Full of people who scream unnecessarily. I don’t even know this Karube guy.”

“Yes, you do,” Arisu snaps. “You literally have a limited edition signed jersey under your bed.”

“...Speculation.”

“You made me watch his highlight reels on YouTube for two hours last weekend!” 

Chota turns around, grinning. “He did. He even paused every five seconds to be like ‘He has excellent court vision.’”

Chishiya glares daggers at him.

“Besides,” Chota adds, “you’re not getting out of this. Karube’s gonna love having us there.”

“And if you don’t come, I’m confiscating your tablet.”

You’re evil.”

“Yup,” Arisu smiles. “Now walk, your majesty.”

Arisu finally lets go of Chishiya’s collar as they reach the gym. Chishiya adjusts his jacket with all the grace of someone being forced to attend a public execution.

“Karube better dunk on someone.”

“He will.”

Chishiya doesn’t admit it, but his eyes are already locked on the court.

At first, Chishiya sits stiff, arms folded, eyes half-lidded like he’s not impressed by the whole thing. He scoffs at the crowd’s cheering, side-eyes the mascot, and acts like Karube dunking isn’t the coolest thing he’s ever seen.

But then the game gets tighter. Karube starts pulling crazy moves—spinning past defenders, sinking three-pointers, shouting to his teammates. The energy in the gym crackles.

Chishiya leans forward without realizing it. His hood slides off. His hands are gripping the edge of the bleacher.

“You’re watching,” Arisu says, nudging him.

“No, I’m analyzing,” Chishiya mutters.

“Sure,” Chota says, grinning. “Analyzing how in love you are.”

Chishiya rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

Then Karube steals the ball and sprints down the court. The crowd rises. Chishiya rises too—without thinking—watching with his full chest.

The dunk happens. The gym explodes.

And Chishiya claps. Like, full-on claps.

People nearby notice. A few classmates start whispering. One girl giggles and whispers something to her friend. A couple of guys point and start to walk over, recognizing him.

Arisu notices too—and his eyes narrow dangerously.

“Back off,” Arisu says before they even get close. one glare and they backtrack like they were never coming over.

Chishiya raises a brow. “Territorial?”

“You want fun or attention?” 

“Fun.”

“Good. Then enjoy it.”

And for once… Chishiya does. 

He cheers when Karube scores again. He groans when the other team fouls. He yells “idiot” when Karube misses a free throw, but he’s smiling when he says it. Arisu can’t help but watch him, thinking how rare this version of him is—unguarded, actually enjoying something without acting too cool about it.

“You’re not so bad when you act like a human.”

“I’m going to trip you on the stairs later,” Chishiya replies, eyes still on the court. But he doesn’t stop smiling.

The second the whistle blows and Karube sinks the last shot, Arisu’s already moving.

“CHOTA—LET’S GO!!” he grabs Chishiya’s hand without warning and bolts toward the court.

Chota’s cackling behind them, jogging to catch up. “Oh, we’re doing this?? We’re doing this!!”

Karube’s surrounded by teammates, sweaty and beaming, throwing high-fives like candy. Arisu doesn’t even wait. He dives into him like a missile.

“YOU FREAKING LEGEND!”

Karube almost topples over. “Whoa—!” He catches Arisu with one arm, then Chota slams into the pile too.

Then—he sees.

“Wait… is that—?”

Arisu already knows who he means. Chishiya's standing a few feet away, shoulders tight, arms crossed like he's trying to turn invisible.

“Chishiya?” Karube says, surprised but smiling. “Damn. Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

Chishiya visibly shifts, like he wants to disappear into the floor. Takes a step back.

Arisu immediately turns and grabs him again. “Nope. You’re not escaping. Come here.”

“Arisu,” Chishiya grits out, trying to resist. “Don’t.”

“Too bad,”

Karube raises an eyebrow. “This is… unexpected.”

Chishiya gets pulled right into the group, tense as hell, but he doesn’t push away. He stands there awkwardly while Arisu’s half-wrapped around him.

Arisu doesn’t care. He knows how hard it is for Chishiya to even be here. Knows how hard it is to be seen, to open up, to let people in even just a little.

So he just holds on.

“You’re part of this now,” Arisu mutters under his breath, chin on Chishiya’s shoulder.

“…unfortunately.”

They’re halfway down the stairs from the gym when Karube shouts, “We’re getting food, right? I’m starving. Victory feast!”

“Yes!!” Chota pumps a fist. “Let’s go all out—yakitori, ramen, bubble tea—”

Arisu turns to Chishiya, already grinning. “You coming? You said you’d pay if Karube won.”

But Chishiya’s staring down at his phone. The brightness lights up his face, but it doesn’t make him look happy.

“…I can’t.”

Arisu blinks. “What?”

Chishiya shoves his phone back into his pocket, avoiding eye contact. “My father texted. I have stuff to do.”

“Again?” Arisu frowns. “Every time?”

Chishiya doesn’t answer. He keeps walking, a little faster now like he’s trying to leave before anyone can say anything else.

And Arisu’s had enough.

He pulls out his phone and scrolls fast.

“Wait—what are you doing?” Chishiya finally stops. “Arisu. Don’t—”

Too late.

Arisu hits the call button and holds the phone to his ear. “If he’s not allowed to eat dinner with his friends after coming to school and supporting someone else for once, then I’m saying something.”

“Arisu—” Chishiya’s voice has an edge to it now. Not angry, but off. Scared, maybe. His face is pale.

Chota and Karube glance at each other, both suddenly quiet.

The phone rings once. Twice.

Chishiya looks like he’s gonna bolt. His fists are clenched so tight his knuckles are white.

“Are you actually insane?! Hang up!”

But Arisu turns away, holding the phone to his ear. “Hello? Hi, yes, this is Arisu Ryohei, sir. Chishiya’s friend. Yeah, he said he had to go to something tonight, but… actually? He doesn’t.”

Chishiya grabs at Arisu’s arm. “Stop it. Seriously.”

Arisu swats him off. “No. You never come out with us, and Karube just won and you’re gonna miss it for what? Some weird dinner where no one talks and everyone’s pretending?”

“…Arisu,” Chishiya hisses, looking panicked now. “Hang. Up.”

Arisu glances back at him. Quietly, he says, “Just this once. Can’t you just… stay?”

On the other end of the line, Chishiya’s father says something low and calm. Arisu listens.

Then: “He’ll be home later. Thank you, sir.”

He hangs up.

Chishiya is frozen.

“…He said okay?” 

“Yeah.” Arisu tucks his phone away. “You’re coming with us.”

Chishiya stares at him like he just rearranged the stars.

Karube slaps Chishiya on the back. “Let’s go, kid. You’re stuck with us tonight.”

____

He sets the phone down slowly.

Across from him, his wife sips her tea, watching him. “Was that the boy? Arisu?”

He nods once. “He said Shuntaro won’t be home tonight.”

She raises a brow. “Is that so?” A small smile pulls at her lips. “Good. Let him have a night.”

He doesn’t answer.

She notices. “You’re thinking again.”

He leans back, fingers steepled under his chin. “I’m starting to wonder if we’ve made a mistake with that one.”

“Arisu?”

He nods. “He’s… unpredictable. Bold. He speaks to me like we’re equals.”

“That’s because he’s not afraid of you.” She sets her cup down. “And look at the result. Shuntaro actually leaves the house now. He speaks more. He laughs.”

He doesn’t respond.

She leans forward slightly. “He has someone. A real someone. Don’t ruin it.”

“…He’s not going to stay forever,” he says quietly. “Eventually he’ll grow tired of this. Of Shuntaro. This… arrangement. Hired companionship doesn’t last.”

“So?” she says. “You’re going to pull the plug before it even breaks?”

“We could lessen the pay. Slowly. See how long he lasts.”

She narrows her eyes. “And what happens when he walks away because you treated him like a disposable tool instead of the one person our son trusts?”

He looks at her. She’s not smiling anymore.

“Shuntaro is happy,” she says. “Why can’t that be enough for once?”

He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Maybe we should just get him a therapist…”

Reika narrows her eyes at him. “And what would people think of him? He’d think he was mentally ill.”

“Maybe he is—”

“No.”

“Reika—”

“No,” she says again, sharper this time. “He is not depressed, or broken, or whatever else you're trying to make him. He’s just… lonely. He is perfect. He just needs a friend.”

He snaps, louder than he meant to. “He barely talks! He never tells us anything! He never smiles—”

“He does now.”

“Now,” he echoes bitterly. “What about when Arisu leaves? Huh? When he gets bored, or moves on? What happens to him then?”

Reika doesn’t answer right away. She looks down at her tea, then back up. “Then we don’t let him go back to being alone. That’s our job. But right now... right now, he has someone. Let him have that.”

____

 Arisu half-pokes at his food, pretending to listen while Chishiya talks to Karube and Chota—like actually talks. Not just those short, sharp replies he usually throws at people. Arisu watches them for a bit, surprised at how natural it looks. Chishiya laughing at something dumb Chota said. Karube nudging him like they’ve been friends for years.

It’s weird. In a good way.

Arisu pulls out his phone under the table and starts typing a few notes. He’s been saving up, finally got a little cushion of cash. Not much, but maybe enough. He starts scrolling through listings. Apartments, rooms, anything decent but cheap.

He’s been staying with the Chishiyas too long. It’s supposed to be temporary. He knows that. Feels it every time Mr. Chishiya looks at him like he’s overstayed. Every time dinner gets real quiet.

He can’t stay forever.

Chishiya glances over, catches him mid-scroll. “What are you looking at?”

Arisu jerks a little, too fast. “Nothing. Just checking... weather.”

Chishiya gives him that look like he totally doesn’t believe him but shrugs anyway.

After dinner, it’s Chishiya who says, “Let’s take the train again.”

So they do. The air’s cooler now. Quieter. The lights of the train flicker against the windows as they ride. It’s just the two of them again, pressed into a corner seat.

Arisu leans his head back and looks over. “Did you have fun?”

Chishiya doesn’t answer right away. He stares out the window, face unreadable. For a second Arisu thinks maybe he shouldn’t’ve asked. Maybe it was too much.

Then Chishiya turns slightly, and there’s the smallest smile. “Yeah.”

Arisu smiles too, but it’s tight. Because he knows he can’t keep doing this forever. Even if he really, really wants to.

Arisu changes in record time—hoodie, shorts, done. Chishiya had texted him a minute ago:

come watch netflix or i’ll start without u :)

He’s not even surprised anymore. So he jogs down the hall and slips into Chishiya’s room without knocking, flopping straight onto the beanbag next to the bed.

Chishiya’s already queued something up, some weird docuseries Arisu only half-understands but always ends up sucked into. Arisu doesn’t even get a chance to settle before a notebook gets dropped in his lap.

“Do my math,” Chishiya says flatly.

Arisu stares at it. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“You’re literally smarter than me.”

“I’m also tired,” Chishiya says, stretching like a cat and grabbing the remote. “And you owe me. I let you drag me to Karube’s game.”

Arisu groans but opens the notebook anyway. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” Chishiya says, smug, already pressing play. “You love me.”

Arisu doesn’t respond. Mostly because it might be true.

He glances up while pretending to focus on quadratic equations. Chishiya’s already curled under his blanket, eyes half on the screen, half on Arisu. He’s got that look like he’s quietly happy and doesn’t want anyone to know.

Arisu sighs. “Fine. But I’m not showing my work.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Chishiya mutters, and nudges his knee against Arisu’s under the blanket. 

After a while, somewhere between episode 3 and 4, Chishiya knocks out—head tilted, mouth barely open, breathing soft and even. Arisu glances over and smiles a little. He quietly grabs the remote and turns off the TV, the room falling into a soft kind of quiet.

He tucks the blanket a little closer around Chishiya’s shoulders, like it makes a difference, then slips out the door without waking him.

Downstairs, he grabs his backpack and digs out the envelope with his paycheck. Not a ton, but it’s something. He checks the time. Still enough daylight left.

The apartment district he’s heading to isn’t far—just a train ride and a short walk. He’s already bookmarked a few listings. He just needs to see them in person.

When he gets there, a woman in her thirties greets him with a polite smile and a clipboard. "You must be Ryohei Arisu?"

"Yeah, sorry I couldn’t come earlier. I had work this morning," he says, slightly breathless from the stairs.

She nods. “That’s totally fine. You’re doing all this alone?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Just… trying to get things sorted.”

She gives him a sympathetic look but doesn’t pry. “Well, let’s start with the first one—it’s a studio, good light, comes with basic furniture.”

As they walk, Arisu listens, nods, asks a few quiet questions. But the whole time, in the back of his mind, all he can think about is that warm little room upstairs—Chishiya half-asleep, curled in his blanket, Netflix still paused.

He doesn’t know how long he’s got before everything changes. But he figures... at least he can be ready.

Arisu’s in line with a microwave bento and a canned coffee. He’s tired, not just physically, but the kind of tired that weighs in his chest. He’s already seen three apartments today—none of them felt right, but he told the last agent he’d think about it. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it. It’s probably Chishiya, maybe Karube. He’ll text them later.

“Ryohei?”

His whole body goes stiff. He doesn’t even have to look up to recognize the voice. He knows it too well.

He turns slowly, already feeling that familiar pull in his stomach.

Hajime’s standing just a few feet away, in uniform, school bag slung over one shoulder. Same haircut. Same expression he always wears when he's trying not to be mad. Or maybe trying not to look disappointed.

“…What are you doing here?” Hajime asks, brows furrowed. “You’ve been gone for, like, what, three weeks?”

Arisu doesn’t answer. He focuses on tapping the touchscreen at the self-checkout.

“Do Mom and Dad even know where you are?” Hajime asks again. “You haven’t messaged. You haven’t come home. You’re just—what, hiding?”

“I’m not hiding,” Arisu mutters.

Hajime raises an eyebrow. “So what is this then? Running away?”

Arisu sighs and bags his food. “I’m not going home, Hajime.”

“They’re worried about you.”

“No. Mom’s worried. Dad probably hasn’t even noticed.”

Hajime’s jaw clenches. “That’s not true.”

Arisu finally looks at him. “Isn’t it?”

“He asks about you every day.”

“He asks if I’m going to stop embarrassing him,” Arisu says, voice flat. “That’s not the same.”

“He wants to talk.”

“I don’t.”

“You can’t just cut him off forever.”

“I can actually,” Arisu says, grabbing his food and heading for the door. Hajime follows.

“Just talk to him,” Hajime says. “Make up. You’re his son.”

“I was his son when I did everything right. Now I’m just a disappointment.”

“Stop saying that—”

“Then stop acting like everything’s fine,” Arisu snaps. “He doesn’t care what I want, Hajime. He never has. He wants a version of me that doesn’t exist.”

Hajime doesn’t say anything.

They stand outside the store. Arisu’s breath fogs slightly in the cold.

“I’m not going back,” Arisu says. “I’m figuring it out.”

“With who? That guy you’re staying with?”

“Yeah,” Arisu says without hesitation. “Chishiya.”

Hajime scoffs. “That weird guy from the academy?”

“He’s the only one who actually listens.”

“Seriously?”

“I’m not doing this,” Arisu mutters. “Tell Mom I’m fine. Tell Dad I said nothing.”

“You’re not even gonna try?”

“Not anymore.” Arisu looks away. “I already did.”

He walks off without saying anything else. Hajime doesn’t follow.

___

Chishiya wakes with a sharp inhale, like surfacing from underwater.

His room is dim—the only light coming from the hallway under the door. The blanket’s halfway off him, and his limbs feel heavy with that strange fog that comes after an unexpected nap. He blinks slowly, adjusting. The TV is off. Arisu is gone. His notebook is open on the desk, homework finished in Arisu’s handwriting, neat but a little crooked, like he was tired when he did it.

Chishiya frowns faintly, but not because he’s upset. He just... wasn’t expecting to fall asleep.

He pulls the blanket off completely and gets to his feet, shuffling out of the room. The house is mostly quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator. He pads down to the kitchen, the tile cold under his feet, and pours himself a glass of water. It’s not even late, but the silence feels heavy. Like the house is holding its breath.

On his way back upstairs, something catches his eye.

The living room light is still on.

He pauses.

His mother is sitting on the couch, back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap. She isn’t reading. She isn’t watching anything. She’s just sitting there—smiling softly to herself. It isn’t the smile she wears around guests or the polite one she gives at family dinners. This one is... strange.

Too still.
 Too pleasant.
 Too happy.

Chishiya hesitates at the bottom of the stairs. He tries to keep walking. Quiet steps, maybe she won’t—

“Shuntaro.”

He stops.

Her voice is gentle, almost singsong. “Come here for a second.”

He turns. Her eyes are on him now, expectant. There’s a strange light in them. Something too warm to feel real.

Chishiya approaches slowly, like the air itself is too thick.

She pats the seat beside her. “Sit.”

He does. More out of habit than choice.

She looks at him—really looks at him—and there’s that same smile. “You’ve been doing better lately. Happier. Livelier.”

Chishiya doesn’t respond. He knows she doesn’t want an answer.

“You and Ryohei have grown close, haven’t you?”

A slight pause.

“He’s a good boy,” she continues. “Very sweet. A little messy, maybe, but—he balances you.”

Chishiya says nothing. He doesn’t like where this is going.

“But…” she trails off, like she’s hesitating. Not really. She just wants to dramatize the moment. “You know... affection and friendship are sweet at your age. But I’ve been thinking. Planning, even.”

She leans forward, hands clasped.

“I think I’ve found someone perfect for you.”

His stomach dips. “What?”

She beams now. “A proper match. Someone with an excellent background. From a respected family. Smart. Polite. Your father and I have been talking to them for months.”

Chishiya blinks. He doesn't speak. Doesn’t breathe.

“You don’t have to decide anything yet,” she adds, voice syrupy. “But I think, given your history, it’s time you focus on someone… stable. Someone real.”

He swallows, slow and silent. There’s something crawling under his skin.

“And Ryohei?” he asks, voice quieter than it should be.

Her smile thins. “He’s been very kind. But he’s not... suitable. You know that, don’t you?”

He stares at her. The silence is louder now. His grip on the glass tightens.

She pats his knee gently, as if she’s done him a favor.

“You’ll see. This will be good for you.”

Chishiya nods.

But his chest feels hollow.

She adjusts the cushion beside her, smoothing it like this is just another casual conversation—like they’re discussing dinner plans.

“There are two families we’ve spoken with,” she says lightly. “Both very promising.”

Chishiya doesn’t respond. The silence stretches, and she fills it easily.

“One is the Kinoshita girl. Her father works in government. Very bright, gentle, accomplished in piano. The other—” her tone shifts slightly, a tinge of delicacy entering her voice, “—is the Nakahara boy. Also bright. From a clean, stable household. His parents were very… understanding when we discussed it.”

Her eyes flick to Chishiya’s face. Measuring.

“We’re flexible, of course. Whatever you prefer. I’m not unreasonable, Shuntaro.”

He doesn't blink. His grip on the glass stays still, but his jaw has locked into place.

“I know you’ve been… experimenting,” she continues, a subtle smile on her lips like she’s talking about hair dye or piercings. “And that boy—Arisu—is… nice enough. But let’s not confuse gratitude with something deeper.”

Her voice lowers slightly. Still soft, but there’s something firmer under it now. Something meant to correct.

“He’s temporary. That’s all this is. Temporary. You’re young. These feelings are fleeting. People like him—they come and go.”

Chishiya stares at the floor.

His heart isn’t beating faster, but it feels like something cold has been poured straight down his spine. She knows. She’s known for a while. But that’s not what makes his stomach twist.

It’s the way she says it like it’s a phase. Like it’s immature. Like it’s a problem he’s not smart enough to understand he has.

“And besides,” she says, brushing invisible lint off her skirt, “he’s going to leave eventually. He has his own life, doesn’t he? You can’t expect him to stay forever.”

Chishiya doesn’t respond.

She places a hand on his shoulder. Not harshly. But not gently either.

“You need something stable, sweetheart. You deserve someone who fits.”

Chapter Text

Arisu knocks on the door again. It's the fourth time this morning.

“Chishiya.”

No answer.

He presses his ear to the door. Nothing. No rustling, no annoyed sigh, no “go away” in that flat, dry voice Chishiya usually throws at him when he's being "too much."

Suspicious.

“Hey, it’s already past ten. You didn’t even come down for breakfast.”

Still nothing.

Arisu exhales hard, hand dropping to his side. He considers just opening the door—Chishiya rarely locks it anyway—but something about the silence makes him hesitate.

He knocks again, softer this time. “Okay, listen. I’ll bring you somewhere. Somewhere I know you’ll like.”

Still no sound. Arisu shifts his weight. “Not a café. Not the train either. Better.”

Pause.

Then a muffled voice. “…Where?”

Arisu almost laughs out of relief. “It’s a surprise.”

He doesn’t have a place in mind. That’s the lie. But the truth was, Chishiya hasn’t come out of his room since last night. And that’s not normal. Not for someone who’s been slowly — painfully — learning how to exist around people again. Not after smiling yesterday.

He’ll figure out the destination later. Right now, he just needs Chishiya to open the damn door.

“…Is it crowded?” he asks, voice muffled by wood.

“No.”

“Loud?”

“No.”

“Do I have to talk to people?”

Arisu shifts. “…Define ‘talk.’”

A pause.

“I knew it,”

“No, no, listen, it’s not like that,” Arisu rushes. “You don’t have to talk to anyone. Just me. That’s it.”

Another pause

“Where are we going?”

Arisu lies again. Instantly. “You’ll see.”

A beat of silence.

“You don’t know, do you?”

Arisu scoffs. “I do! I have options.”

Chishiya sounds suspiciously dry. “Plural?”

“Yes, plural. Multiple. Many. An abundance of places you would totally like.”

“Name one.”

Arisu’s brain flails. “That bookstore with the cats.”

“…That closed last month.”

“Oh. Right.” 

Shit.

He hears Chishiya sigh from the other side. Long. Tired. But also, not fully annoyed.

“Give me ten minutes.”

Arisu straightens, blinking. “Wait, really?”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

He hears movement. Footsteps. The rustle of sheets.

Chishiya steps out of his room, hoodie half-zipped and hair a sleepy mess. He blinks at Arisu like the sunlight in the hallway is telling him to die.

Arisu nearly beams. “You’re alive.”

“Barely.”

His hair is sticking out in five different directions, and Arisu clicks his tongue. “Come here.”

“No.”

“Come here.”

Chishiya narrows his eyes but walks over anyway. Arisu gently pushes his bangs back and starts trying to smooth the chaotic strands. “Do you have a hair tie?”

Chishiya sighs, reaches into his hoodie pocket, and tosses one to him without a word.

“Thanks,” Arisu says, already moving behind him. He gathers Chishiya’s hair with practiced fingers and ties it into a clean, slightly loose ponytail. It’s not perfect, but it suits him.

Chishiya doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, unusually still.

When Arisu finishes, he gives the ponytail a tiny pat. “There. You look like someone who won’t bite my head off in public.”

Chishiya shrugs. “False advertising.”

But Arisu sees the corner of his mouth twitching, like he’s trying not to smile.

“C’mon,” Arisu says, nudging his shoulder. “Let’s go before you change your mind.”

They head out together.

They’ve barely made it two blocks from the train station when Chishiya starts slowing down, his eyes narrowing at the thickening crowd ahead.

Arisu notices. “It’s not that bad—”

“There are people,” Chishiya mutters, sounding deeply offended.

“You’re also people.”

“I’m the exception.”

As they walk closer, Chishiya casually reaches out and tugs the back of Arisu’s hoodie, holding on like a child would to avoid getting lost in a supermarket. Arisu doesn’t say anything—he just hides a small smile and keeps walking.

A moment later, Chishiya starts interrogating him. “Where are we going, really?”

“I told you.”

“No, you didn’t. You said, ‘You’ll probably like it.’ That’s what kidnappers say before they demand ransom.”

Arisu glances back. “You think I kidnapped you?”

Chishiya shrugs. “I’m not ruling it out.”

Arisu sighs. “Look, I know you already do a lot of things. Med student, cello, piano, your dad’s expectations, your mom’s matchmaking madness…”

“Wow,” Chishiya says dryly. “Please, go on.”

“But how many of those things do you actually enjoy?”

Chishiya doesn’t answer right away. His fingers twitch lightly at the hem of Arisu’s hoodie.

“Exactly,” Arisu says. “Which is why we’re gonna look for the real thing. Something that actually makes you happy.”

Chishiya stares at him for a beat longer than necessary. Then he mutters, “This better not involve yoga.”

“No promises.”

They end up at the museum. It's a weekday, late morning, so it's not too busy. A few bored students on field trips and tired-looking tourists with maps folded into impossible shapes.

Chishiya slows down at the entrance, clearly suspicious. “You brought me to a building full of dead people's drawings?”

Arisu shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “Maybe. Or maybe I brought you to a place where people stare at things in silence and no one expects you to say anything clever. Sound familiar?”

Chishiya narrows his eyes. But he follows.

The first few rooms are old stuff—portraits of rich men and still lifes with fruit that looks like it died centuries ago. Arisu keeps an eye on him, lowkey. Chishiya doesn't react much or look bored either, though. Almost like he’s studying.

Then they hit the modern wing. Big canvases, weird color splashes, sculptures that look like mistakes.

One painting stops Chishiya. It’s just black and white. Sharp strokes. Jagged. Violent. No explanation next to it. Only a name and a year.

Arisu watches him.

He doesn't say anything. But he sees the way Chishiya’s eyes follow the strokes. The way he shifts a little closer. Like he's trying to figure something out.

Arisu leans in. “You like it?”

“It’s ugly.”

“But you’re still looking at it.”

Silence.

“It’s not boring.”

Arisu smirks a little to himself. File that away for later.

They keep walking. More colors. More strange, loud, silent pieces.

When they sit down on a bench in front of some giant chaotic canvas, Arisu nudges his arm.

“If I brought you to a place where you could make something like this… would you hate me?”

Chishiya side-eyes him. “Depends. Would I have to talk to people?”

“No. You’d get your own table. Your own brushes. Quiet.”

Chishiya doesn’t answer.

But he doesn’t say no.

They leave the museum and walk a couple blocks. Chishiya starts getting suspicious again when they turn into a quiet backstreet.

“You said we were just looking,” he says, tugging lightly on Arisu’s hoodie again.

“We are,” Arisu replies. “Looking. Experiencing. Whatever.”

The art studio is small, tucked between a laundromat and a ramen place that smells like burnt miso. The sign outside is crooked. The window is smudged with paint. Perfect.

Inside, it’s quiet. Soft music playing from a speaker in the corner. There are only three people there—two older ladies painting flowers, and a bored guy at the desk sketching something on a tablet.

Arisu goes up to the counter like he’s done this before. He probably has. The guy barely glances up before sliding two passes across the table.

“I told him you were new,” Arisu murmurs to Chishiya. “He won’t say anything.”

Chishiya looks around. There are canvases stacked in corners. Acrylic stains on the floor. Jars of brushes soaking in cloudy water. It’s messy. But… still.

“You seriously want me to draw something.”

“No,” Arisu says. “I want you to try. And if you hate it, we go get taiyaki.”

“…The red bean kind?”

“Of course.”

Chishiya stares at him for a beat longer, then finally sighs and walks toward the free table in the back.

He picks the seat closest to the wall.

Arisu gets the supplies—blank canvas, a small box of acrylics, three brushes. He lays it all out in front of Chishiya like a bribe.

Chishiya stares at the blank canvas.

“What am I supposed to paint?” 

“Whatever the hell you want,” Arisu says, kicking back in the seat next to him.

Chishiya doesn’t move.

Arisu watches him, but doesn’t say anything else. 

Then slowly, Chishiya reaches for the brush. The small one. He dips it in black. Doesn’t even test it. He makes a single, sharp stroke down the left side of the canvas.

Then another. And another.

His jaw tightens. His grip shifts. His eyes focus in that quiet, calculating way they do when he’s thinking hard and trying not to show it.

Arisu leans back.

He doesn’t say anything.

But inside, he’s grinning.

Got him.

Arisu doesn’t say a word. He watches, leaning quietly against the back wall, arms crossed loosely.

It’s strange—almost disturbing—how meticulous Chishiya is. He’s not painting like someone just messing around for the first time. He’s painting like he’s been holding something in for too long, and now that it’s coming out, it won’t stop until it’s all there. Until the whole damn thing is cracked open.

Those eyes… Arisu counts at least fifteen. All shaped just a little differently—some warped into ovals, others harshly angled like diamonds, almost jagged. None of them blink. None of them look away. Every single one is focused on that small, humanoid figure near the bottom right corner. It’s barely bigger than a handprint, but somehow it feels like the most important part of the whole canvas.

Then comes the red.

Chishiya doesn’t hesitate when he dips the brush. Doesn’t slow down when he drags the paint across the figure’s face. A blunt rectangle—harsh and clean. Tape? A blindfold? A gag? Arisu can’t tell. All he knows is that it makes his throat feel tight.

Then Chishiya adds a line.

Just one. Red, sharp, almost surgical. Wrapped around the figure’s neck like a leash, a noose, a tether—and then he drags it out, connecting it to every single eye. A web of pressure. Control. Attention. Judgment.

Arisu feels cold watching it. Like he shouldn’t be here. Like he just saw something private—something too raw to be art.

But Chishiya’s not done.

He switches colors. Grey and red. He starts filling in the background—not neatly, but in frantic, chaotic streaks that almost vibrate against the canvas. And then he moves to white. To grey again. Smaller strokes now, finer, deliberate. Shards. Reflections. Broken pieces of something glass-like, scattering through the mess of it all.

Arisu doesn’t ask what it means.

He already knows better than that.

Instead, he waits until Chishiya finally drops the brush and exhales. It’s a quiet, shaky sound—barely audible—but Arisu hears it.

He steps closer. Looks at the painting one more time.

“…You’re gonna pretend that’s abstract, right?” he murmurs, trying to smile. “So I don’t get worried?”

Chishiya doesn’t answer.

He wipes his fingers on a towel, not even glancing up.

But for just a moment, Arisu sees something in the reflection of the paintwater jar.

A face. Still holding too much.

And all Arisu can think is:

God, I hope I didn’t bring him here just to tear something open.

He opens his mouth to say it—Hey, it’s okay if you want to stop. You don’t have to keep going, but before the words can slip out, Chishiya cuts him off without even looking.

“Can I have another canvas?”

Arisu blinks. The question knocks something out of him. “…Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He moves quickly, grabs another, sets it up next to the first one, still rattled by how calmly Chishiya asked. Like he didn’t just put his entire nervous system on display with the first painting.

Chishiya doesn’t start right away. He just stares at the new canvas, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. Then—

A grey dot.

Dead center.

Tiny. Precise. Like a seed. Like a nucleus.

Arisu watches in silence as Chishiya adds to it. The grey stays where it is, but around it, the colors begin to change. First a fading ring of black. Then white. Soft and circular—like a ripple, or a memory bleeding out.

And then the brightness comes.

Chishiya reaches for all the vivid paints—yellow, turquoise, magenta, orange, every color that’s louder than the last. His strokes are fast but not careless. They move outward from the center in uneven swirls, overlapping like light flares, with no clear pattern or symmetry. 

It’s not clean or logical at all.

It’s messy and impulsive and... joyful?

Arisu stares, not blinking.

Chishiya dips his brush in watered-down white next. He starts dotting it everywhere. Soft circles that echo the original grey dot, but they’re gentler now, more fluid, like stars mid-bloom or bubbles rising in light. Some are clustered, others drift apart. None of them feel like they’re being watched.

They feel free.

And for a second, Arisu can’t believe it’s the same guy who painted those blood-red strings and that voiceless figure. It’s like watching someone breathe again after forgetting how.

Arisu steps a little closer.

Chishiya ends it with a red dot—right in the center of the original grey.

It’s so small it could be missed.

But Arisu doesn’t miss it. He’s been watching the whole time, completely still, his hands in his pockets like he’s trying not to hold his breath.

The grey was still. The colors were motion.

But the red—it cuts. A dot, but it makes the whole thing hum like it suddenly matters more. Like a target, or a wound, or a heart. Depending on how you look at it.

Chishiya finally turns to him. His voice is maddeningly casual. “What do you think?”

Arisu blinks. “I think…”

He steps closer, eyes flicking between the two paintings, the first, all sharp edges and suffocating silence. The second, louder, looser, like a pulse finding its rhythm again.

“I think you just tore yourself in half and painted both sides.”

Chishiya raises an eyebrow, but Arisu doesn’t give him time to deflect.

“I think this,” he nods toward the second canvas, “feels like something real.”

A beat.

“And the red dot?” Chishiya asks, neutral. Testing.

Arisu shrugs, a little softer. “I think it’s the part you didn’t want to admit matters.”

Their eyes meet. Chishiya doesn’t say anything for a long time.

Then, finally, he turns back to the canvas.

“…It’s the part that bleeds if someone touches it.”

Arisu doesn’t know what to say to that. So he doesn’t.

A mop squeaks against the tile somewhere behind them. Arisu doesn’t think much of it until a voice cuts through the air, sudden and too close.

“It’s nice.”

Arisu flinches. So does Chishiya.

They both whip around to see a worker standing a few feet back, clutching the mop awkwardly like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He’s maybe twenty, maybe younger, with shaggy hair pulled into a loose ponytail and a nametag that’s too faded to read. His expression is that of a guy who just walked into the wrong room mid-conversation.

“Sorry,” the worker says quickly, wincing. “I meant—uh—the painting. I mean, both of them. Just. You know.”

Arisu blinks. 

The worker shifts his grip on the mop, staring at the canvases with his head tilted. “I’m not, like, an art critic or anything, but… these two kind of feel the same. Not the same same. Just…” He squints, thinking. “Like they’re both about being alone.”

Chishiya doesn’t move, but Arisu feels the tension in the air shift—like the strings inside Chishiya just pulled tight.

The worker keeps going, slower now. Hesitant. “That first one—the one with all the eyes? It’s creepy, but not in a horror way. It feels like... like being watched all the time but still being invisible. Like there’s a mouth there but nothing comes out.”

He looks to the second canvas, more uncertain now. “And this one… it’s brighter, but it still feels kind of empty in the middle. Like someone’s trying really hard to make something out of nothing. Like... they don’t know what to feel, so they just throw it all out there and hope it means something to someone.”

He laughs nervously. “Sorry. That probably sounds dumb. I just—clean in here a lot. So I see a lot of paintings. This one kind of... stuck.”

Arisu finally speaks, voice soft. “No. It doesn’t sound dumb.”

Chishiya still hasn’t said a word.

The worker nods like he’s trying to pretend that didn’t just get weirdly emotional. “Anyway. They’re good. Just thought I’d say that.” Then he turns and mops his way to the next aisle.

Arisu turns to check on Chishiya.

He doesn’t need to ask. Chishiya’s eyes are pink at the edges, wet but not falling. His jaw is set. He looks like he’s trying very hard to stay together and failing.

Then, wordlessly, Chishiya reaches over and grabs Arisu’s hand. He pulls him toward the exit without a word.

Arisu doesn’t hold on. He can’t.

It’s not because he doesn’t want to—God, he wants to—but his fingers twitch uselessly at his sides, afraid that if he squeezes back, if he shows too much, it’ll all disappear. Like pressure might break whatever strange, fragile thing this is.

So he lets Chishiya lead him out.

They stop just outside, under the gray stretch of sky. Chishiya doesn’t say anything right away. He lifts a hand, wipes his eyes with the back of his knuckle like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t matter, but Arisu saw. He saw it all.

Then Chishiya exhales. “Where to next?”

Arisu looks at him for a second. Thinks. Then shrugs.

“…You want ice cream?”

It comes out weird. Something small and harmless. Something easy to say instead of everything else.

Chishiya pauses. Blinks. Then, “Only if they have that disgusting artificial strawberry flavor.”

And just like that, his chest unclenches a little. He doesn’t laugh, but he smiles. Yeah, they’re gonna be okay. Probably. Maybe. For now.

Arisu watches him swipe another spoonful like a damn thief.

“That’s mine,” he mutters, nudging his own cup a little closer protectively. Chishiya just raises an eyebrow, deadpan, and helps himself again.

“I’m sharing,” he says flatly, like he’s doing Arisu a favor.

Arisu glares at him, but it’s useless. He lets it go.

For a few minutes, it’s quiet. People pass by. Somewhere in the distance, a street performer starts playing a violin. Arisu chews his spoon.

“So…do you like making art?”

Chishiya shrugs. “Not really. It’s not—” he waves the spoon vaguely, “—my thing. It's just something that happened.”

“Spontaneous..”

Chishiya nods, licking his own ice cream slowly, like this is the most boring conversation of his life. 

Arisu leans back in his seat, restless.

He has a next stop in mind. Thought of it earlier—somewhere he thinks Chishiya might like, even if he won’t admit it. But now he’s not so sure. Maybe it’ll be too much. He doesn’t want to push.

Still, Chishiya glances over, catching the shift in his silence like it’s a language only he speaks.

“What?” he says, tone already bored. “You got another one of your little field trips planned?”

Arisu groans. “You’re such a pain.”

Chishiya smiles. “And yet you keep feeding me.” He steals another bite.

Arisu doesn’t stop him.

The next destination is a botanical garden hidden around a department store.

Arisu doesn’t say anything at first—just leads Chishiya through a shopping complex, elevators that ding too cheerfully, then through a quiet maintenance door at the end of a corridor.

Chishiya gives him a look halfway between suspicion and mild irritation. “If you’re about to murder me, I’d rather not die near mall music.”

Arisu snorts. “Shut up and walk.”

When they step through the final door, the city noise falls away like a dropped coat. Warm golden light spills over green, overgrown walls. A winding path of brick curls around blooming flowers, tall grasses, and little wooden benches. Vines cling to trellises. In the center is a narrow pond, water lilies drifting lazily.

It's quiet. Not many people. The few that are there speak in low voices or not at all.

Chishiya blinks.

Arisu rubs the back of his neck. “I thought... I dunno. You liked the silence at the museum. And you don’t like crowds. So... this.”

Chishiya says nothing for a moment. Then he walks forward without a word, hands in his coat pockets. Arisu follows behind, watching.

There’s a moment where Chishiya stops at a bench near the pond. Sits.

Arisu lingers nearby, chewing the inside of his cheek. “I can leave you alone for a bit. If you want.”

“This is better.”

The garden path winds like a lazy river, the kind that doesn’t rush but carries you somewhere whether you realize it or not. Arisu walks just a little ahead of Chishiya, because if he walks beside him, he’ll get nervous and forget what the hell he’s doing. He’s not screwing this up.

Around the bend, tucked behind a cluster of hydrangeas, is a small clearing. It’s quiet, sun-drenched, and lined with gravel. In the middle, a low wooden platform and—

“Is that… a fucking archery range?” Chishiya says flatly.

Arisu tries not to beam. “Technically, it’s a beginners’ archery corner. They let you try it if you pay for the gear and don’t shoot anyone.”

Chishiya blinks once. “You’re going to give me a bow and arrows.”

“Yes.”

“While I’m in a volatile emotional state.”

“I’m betting on your self-control. And maybe also the foam tips.”

Chishiya squints. “You want me to shoot stuff?”

“I want to know if hitting a target really hard makes you feel better,” Arisu says. “You looked like you wanted to kill something earlier.”

Chishiya pauses.

“...You might be on to something.”

By the time they’re both geared up, Arisu’s regretting not stretching first. The bowstring is stiff and his stance is terrible, but Chishiya—

Chishiya, of course, is a menace. Silent, focused, narrowed eyes and precise pulls. The first arrow thunks dead center.

Arisu whistles. “What the hell. How are you good at this?”

“I imagine your face on the target,” Chishiya says, nocking another arrow.

“You say that like it’s a joke,” Arisu mutters, and lines up his own shot. It veers hard left and nearly hits the post.

“Pathetic,” Chishiya says, in the most affectionate tone Arisu has ever heard him use.

But Chishiya’s breathing is steadier. His shoulders less drawn. And when he pulls back for another shot, he doesn’t even flinch at the tension in the string, like he’s used to holding things that tight.

Arisu watches him instead of shooting.

This is better than hitting a bullseye.

He’s pretty sure this was the right place.

Arisu is too distracted.

He’s holding an arrow, fingers curled clumsily around the shaft, but his eyes aren’t anywhere near his own target. Instead, they’re on Chishiya, who, after a short pause, pushes his hair back with one hand, elastic between his teeth. His fingers twist his hair up lazily, and he ties it into a loose bun like he’s done it a hundred times without thinking. A few strands fall into his face anyway.

And then, like nothing happened—like he didn’t just kick Arisu’s brain out the window—he lifts the bow again, posture perfect, breath calm.

He lets the arrow fly. Another dead center.

Arisu jumps slightly at the thunk.

Chishiya lowers his arms and glances at him sidelong. “You gonna actually shoot, or just stand there gawking?”

“I wasn’t gawking,” Arisu lies, ears turning red. “I was just… admiring your form.”

“Oh?” Chishiya arches an eyebrow. “My archery form, or...?”

Arisu glares at his target and raises his bow. “Shut up.”

He releases.

It hits the very outer edge of the circle. Barely.

Chishiya hums, smug. “You’re improving. One mental breakdown away from greatness.”

Arisu flips him off without looking.

He grips the bow tighter when he feels Chishiya step behind him.

“Your elbow’s too high,” Chishiya murmurs, way too close. “And your grip’s tense. You’re gonna overcompensate.”

“I’m not tense,” Arisu says, way too quickly, which really just proves the opposite.

Chishiya’s hand slips over his, casually adjusting his fingers, and Arisu immediately forgets what a bow is.

“This part—” Chishiya taps the back of Arisu’s wrist, “—should stay loose. Relax, Arisu.”

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m not shaking.”

“You’re vibrating like a washing machine on its deathbed.”

Arisu exhales, trying to focus, but Chishiya’s other hand comes up and rests lightly on his shoulder to adjust his stance, and that’s it. His brain bluescreens.

“I—” Arisu starts, but his voice breaks. He clears it and tries again. “I don’t think this is helping.”

Chishiya leans in slightly. “It’s not supposed to help. It’s supposed to make you better.”

Arisu turns his head just enough to glance at him. Big mistake. Chishiya’s face is right there—unbothered, focused, too close.

“Okay, now breathe in,” Chishiya instructs, all business, oblivious or evil. “Pull back—steady—”

Arisu fumbles the shot. The arrow clatters to the floor lamely.

Chishiya blinks. “Huh.”

“I’m never recovering from this,” Arisu mutters, face burning.

Chishiya smirks. “That was tragic.”

“You’re tragic.”

“You’re the one who nearly shot your foot.”

Arisu groans and covers his face. “I need a reset button.”

Chishiya pats his head. “Come on. We’ll reset you with bubble tea or something.”

Arisu draws the bow again, this time without Chishiya touching him—thank god—though he swears he can still feel the ghost of his hands on his back. He inhales slowly. Shoulders down. Elbow not tragic. Grip loose, not like he's about to strangle the bow to death.

"Okay," he whispers, half to himself.

Chishiya stands beside him now, arms crossed, just watching with that look on his face. Arisu doesn’t look at him. Can’t. He focuses on the target.

He exhales. Releases.

The arrow flies.

It lands just shy of the bullseye, so close it’s practically flirting with it.

Arisu blinks. Then grins.

“Holy shit.”

Chishiya raises an eyebrow. “Not bad.”

“Not bad? That was amazing.”

Chishiya shrugs. “Beginner’s luck.”

“Excuse me, I was trained by a cruel yet effective teacher.”

“Trained?” Chishiya echoes. “I adjusted your hand once.”

“Yeah. Traumatizing. I’ll never be the same.”

Chishiya walks toward the target, giving it a quick glance before pulling the arrow out. “You’re irritating when you’re proud.”

Arisu jogs up behind him, practically bouncing. “I’m always irritating. That’s not new.”

“You just like being good at things.”

“No,” Arisu says with a smirk. “I like being good at things you care about.”

That makes Chishiya pause.

They both nock arrows at the same time.

"Don't copy me," he says flatly, side-eyeing Arisu like he's committed a personal crime.

"I'm not copying you, I'm just… being influenced by your aura," Arisu replies, straightening his back in a dramatic stance.

"My aura is telling you to shut up."

"Too late. Already spiritually connected."

Chishiya sighs through his nose like he's regretting every decision that led him here. They both raise their bows.

"On three?" Arisu suggests.

"No. That’s stupid."

"Okay. On 'go' then."

"No."

"Then when do we—"

Chishiya fires. Arisu jumps in surprise and lets his go a second later in panic. His arrow veers left and thunks into the wood frame of the target.

Chishiya's arrow hits dead center.

"Did you just fake me out?!"

"I said no."

"You mentally said 'go' and then went!"

"I never mentally agreed to your idiocy."

Arisu glares. "This is betrayal. This is treason. I demand a rematch."

Chishiya casually plucks another arrow and hands it to him. “Try not to cry this time.”

“Oh, I will cry. I’ll cry when I beat you.”

“You’re already crying.”

“I hate you.”

“You say that with so much hope in your voice.”

Arisu barely manages to catch his breath before Chishiya grabs his wrist and starts dragging him toward the department store like a man possessed.

“Slow down,” Arisu pants, stumbling a bit behind him. “I can’t feel my legs.”

“Good,” Chishiya replies, without even looking back. “You don’t need them if I’m doing the walking.”

“That’s not how legs work—”

“If you don’t hurry up, I will make you carry me.”

Arisu blinks. “That makes even less sense—”

“You’re taller. You have to suffer.”

“I’m barely taller!”

“Exactly. Equality must be restored.”

“Through my back problems?!”

Chishiya tugs harder. “Think of it this way—if you pass out, I’ll just eat without you.”

“You’re the worst person I’ve ever met.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

They finally make it into the department store. Arisu almost collapses onto the nearest bench, dramatically wheezing. Chishiya ignores him completely and marches straight toward the food court like a predator spotting prey.

Arisu watches him go, then groans and drags himself after. “If he picks sushi again, I’m flipping a table.”

They eat.

Chishiya, as usual, completely ignores the looks. The people who double-take when they recognize him, the ones who whisper behind their drinks and try to sneak photos. Arisu hears it faintly—his name, Chishiya’s name, questions like “Are they dating?” or “Isn’t that the guy from—” But he forces himself to stay focused on his tray. He’s not about to let background noise ruin today.

Especially not when Chishiya is being… like this.

“This is undercooked,” Chishiya mutters, poking at his udon like it offended him.

“It’s literally boiling.”

“It’s suffering.”

“You’re suffering.”

“I paid for it. I can insult it.”

“Correction: you paid for everything,” Arisu says, side-eyeing the frankly outrageous receipt peeking out of Chishiya’s sleeve. “Which, again, I didn’t ask you to do.”

Chishiya sips his drink like a spoiled heir on vacation. “And yet I did it anyway. So generous.”

Arisu narrows his eyes. “So annoying.”

Chishiya leans across the table with a smirk. “What was that? I couldn’t hear you over how pretty I am.”

Arisu flicks a napkin at his face.

Chishiya doesn’t even flinch. He plucks it off with grace and drops it back onto Arisu’s tray like he’s returning an insult.

“Honestly,” Arisu sighs, biting into his croquette, “you’re lucky you’re paying.”

“I know.” Chishiya takes one of Arisu’s side dishes like it’s his divine right. “Also, I’m taking this. Emotional tax.”

“Hey! You can’t just call it that and take my food—!”

“Watch me.”

So Arisu does the only logical thing—he steals a piece of his tempura back. Then two more.

Chishiya glares. Arisu glares harder.

They resume eating like nothing happened, trading barbs with bites and complaints with stolen sips of each other’s drinks.

And even with the whispering and the glances, even with the tension from earlier still hiding in their ribs, it’s—easy.

Ridiculous.

Kind of perfect.

Chishiya stabs at his food again with a thoughtful frown. “You know what this reminds me of?” he says, still chewing.

Arisu doesn’t look up. “If you say prison food, I swear—”

“No,” Chishiya says, a little too lightly. “My aunt’s wedding rehearsal dinner. The food was just as bland, but with more gold and guilt-tripping.”

That makes Arisu look up. “...Why does that sound like a threat?”

“It kind of was.” Chishiya takes a slow sip of his drink. “Her third wedding. She married a pharmaceutical executive because, quote, ‘he has the bones of a CEO.’ I didn’t know that was a thing.”

Arisu blinks. “What does that even mean?”

“No one knows. We’ve all been pretending it makes sense for years.” Chishiya pauses. “Except Uncle Dai, who brought a forensic chart to the actual wedding to disprove it. Got disinvited halfway through the cake.”

Arisu stares. “...What is your family.”

Chishiya shrugs. “Wealthy. Deranged. Possibly running a shadow government. I haven’t confirmed the last one yet, but give it time.”

“You talk about them like they’re villains.”

“They are,” Chishiya says with zero hesitation. “One of my cousins cried because her yacht was ‘too minimalist.’ Another tried to sue a bakery for spelling her name wrong on a cake.”

“What was her name?”

“Rio. They wrote it Leo. She cried on the marble floor of a Gucci store for two hours.”

Arisu snorts, nearly choking on his drink. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.” Chishiya leans back with the casual flair of someone who’s survived four family lawsuits and a winter in Monaco. “I only go to family events now to mentally log quotes for a memoir I’ll never write.”

“I literally can’t relate to anything you just said.”

Chishiya raises a brow. “You’ve never been to a cousin’s engagement party that ended with a broken antique chandelier and three insurance claims?”

“No.”

“Huh.” He says it like how tragic. “You missed out.”

“I went to a karaoke birthday once where my cousin tripped over a speaker and cried because she thought it meant she’d never be a singer.”

“Touching.” Chishiya nods solemnly. “We all mourn our childhood dreams differently.”

Arisu bursts into laughter, trying not to choke again on rice. “You’re awful.”

“Thank you. I take pride in it.”

Chishiya picks at the last of his food, the humor slipping from his face like a page turning too fast. He doesn’t say anything at first. He sort of stares past Arisu, through the window and into nothing.

Then he says, voice flatter than usual, “My grandmother’s the reason I hate family gatherings.”

Arisu slows, his chopsticks hovering midair. “The same one who made your mom do, like, etiquette training for twenty years?”

Chishiya huffs a joyless laugh. “Longer. Since she could walk, probably.”

He pushes his tray away. “She’s obsessed with control. My mom can’t even cut her hair without being lectured about ‘proper presentation.’ She used to get emails with bullet-point lists on how to smile at galas. Not exaggerating.”

Arisu's brows furrow. “That’s—”

“Horrible?” Chishiya finishes. “Yeah. She’s all about appearances. The name. The status. The legacy. She doesn’t even like me, honestly. I’m just a means to an end. Another pawn in her perfect chessboard family.”

“Then why do you still go to those things?”

Chishiya pauses. He looks down at his napkin, suddenly crumpling it in his hand. “Because my mom still goes.”

There’s a sharpness under his voice now. Something dry and bitter, like the last echo of something that used to be louder. “She still picks out dresses that won’t offend anyone. Still makes excuses. ‘She’s just trying to help, Shuntaro.’ No, she’s not. She just doesn’t want her own mother to call her a failure again.”

Arisu opens his mouth, but Chishiya cuts in. “She nags her until she’s exhausted. Then calls it ‘motherly advice.’ I’ve seen her cry after phone calls she pretended were fine. My whole life I’ve watched her bend over backwards to please someone who treats her like a checklist.”

His jaw clenches. “So no. I don’t like my grandmother. And I don’t want her around. Ever.”

Arisu stays quiet for a beat.

“Your mom sounds like she’s trying really hard.”

“She shouldn’t have to.” Chishiya’s voice cracks a little. “Not for someone who doesn’t even see her as a person.”

Arisu nods. He doesn’t say anything else. He just gently nudges the last of the dessert toward Chishiya’s side of the tray.

Chishiya doesn’t comment on it. But he does eat it.

As they head out into the cooling air, Arisu pulls his sleeves over his hands, glancing sideways at Chishiya. He’s quiet for a while, like he’s chewing glass behind his teeth.

“I’d honestly rather die than let that woman near my life again.”

Arisu blinks. “Your grandma?”

Chishiya lets out a bitter laugh. “She’d control everything. Who I’m with. What I eat. What time I sleep. Whether I can breathe properly without making her look bad. I’d just become—” He waves his hand vaguely, “—some curated extension of the family name.”

Arisu doesn’t know what to say to that. Because how do you even fight back against that kind of power? Not when it’s family. Not when it’s tradition wrapped in silk and shame.

“She doesn’t care who I actually am,” Chishiya mutters. “She only cares about image. Clean lines, no dents, no rumors. If she finds out I’m with you, she’ll—”

He cuts himself off.

Arisu’s throat goes dry. His hands ball up in his sleeves. But he manages, softly, “She’s not here. She doesn’t get to choose anymore.”

Chishiya glances at him. 

They walk the rest of the way in silence, but Arisu keeps close, their shadows stretched alongside them.

And when they reach the place, a quiet maker space tucked above a small bookstore, tools and parts glowing like a secret lab, Arisu just gestures up the stairs and says, “You don’t have to draw anymore. Maybe you’ll like building instead.”

Chishiya raises an eyebrow when they step inside. The space is warm, humming softly with the whir of machines and the faint scent of metal, wood, and something vaguely citrusy. Shelves lined with gears, soldering irons, model parts, wires, screwdrivers, and a 3D printer whirring in the corner.

“What is this? A goblin cave?”

Arisu grins. “A workshop. For humans. Who make things.”

Chishiya squints at the bins of parts. “That’s debatable.”

But then—he drifts. Picks up a strip of LED lights, a gear assembly, a small motor kit. He runs a hand over the laser cutter like it’s some kind of wild animal he’s just met.

Arisu watches from behind, arms crossed, trying not to look smug.

Chishiya glances over his shoulder. “How the hell does this thing not melt through the table?”

“That one?” Arisu walks over. “It’s focused. Super fine point. Doesn’t cut unless you program it to. See—” He flicks open the software. “You can make tiny patterns. Or puzzle pieces. Or—I don’t know. Jewelry?”

Chishiya leans in closer, fascinated despite himself. “It can do that?”

He picks up one of the test scraps—a small acrylic square etched with fractal spirals—and flips it between his fingers. “I didn’t think I’d care, but this is actually kind of…” He trails off.

“Cool?”

“I was going to say tolerable.”

But then he turns toward the worktable like he’s ready to dissect something. “How does this hinge work? What do you use that for? Can this one spin? Wait, what happens if you combine these two?”

And Arisu—heart dumb, face stupid—just follows along, answering as best he can. Watching as Chishiya, the guy who was convinced nothing could hold his attention for more than ten minutes, spends nearly an hour poking through drawers, testing tools, sketching quick blueprints on a post-it just to see if the angle’s right.

He looks like someone solving a mystery. Or maybe building the answer from scratch.

And Arisu is the idiot in the corner who can’t stop smiling.

It starts with a motor. Chishiya picks it out like he’s chosen a weapon, points at a bag of tiny gears, and announces, “We’re making something that moves.”

Arisu blinks. “Moves… how?”

“I don’t know. It just has to move. Make it do something impressive.” He’s already grabbing wires and a screwdriver, muttering, “If this ends up looking stupid, it’s your fault.”

They agree—loosely—on building a sort of kinetic sculpture. Something that spins or shifts with light. Or maybe just something that looks cool and unnecessarily complicated.

Chishiya wants to do everything. Drills, gluing, soldering. He tries to snap the acrylic rods together, but they won’t click right. He jams two pieces at an awkward angle, muttering curses under his breath.

“Do you want help?” Arisu asks gently.

“No.”

“…Okay.”

A minute later, Chishiya shoves the whole thing toward him with a huff. “Fine. But only because you’ve got bigger hands. They’re useful. For once.”

Arisu doesn’t even respond to that. He’s too focused threading the wires through the base plate and aligning the gear stack without breaking the frame.

Chishiya leans over him anyway, arms crossed, supervising. “That’s crooked.”

“You’re crooked,” Arisu mumbles, tightening a bolt.

Chishiya smirks. “You think I haven’t heard that one before? Try harder.”

But he’s close now. His shoulder brushes Arisu’s as he tilts his head to examine the wiring, eyes sharp. “This could actually work.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am,” he replies flatly.

Arisu sighs but doesn’t stop working.

They finish wiring the motor, attach the gear system to the frame, and slot in the light-sensitive sensor that makes the top part spin when it detects a shadow.

When they finally flip the switch, and the whole thing jerks once before whirring to life—smooth, spinning, responding to their hands moving over the light—Chishiya stares, wide-eyed, and quietly goes: “Huh.”

Arisu can’t help but look at him.

Chishiya notices. “What?”

“Nothing,” Arisu says, still smiling. “Just glad your highness is pleased.”

Chishiya kicks his ankle. “Shut up.”

But he doesn’t stop watching it spin.

Arisu doesn’t expect Chishiya to still be holding his hand.

Even after they pack up, even after Arisu awkwardly thanks the staff and half-bows out of habit, even as they step back into the city noise—Chishiya doesn’t let go.

He’s not even looking at him. Keeps tugging him forward like he’s already decided the next place is somewhere ahead and Arisu better keep up.

“We going home?” Arisu asks, half-joking, half-hopeful.

“Nope. Next place.”

And that’s that.

Arisu’s heart is... not cooperating. His brain isn’t, either. He can’t stop noticing how tight the grip is, how Chishiya’s thumb occasionally shifts like he’s making sure Arisu’s still there. It makes his steps uneven. Makes his head spin.

He clears his throat. “You know, I had something in mind.”

Chishiya side-eyes him. “Is it annoying?”

“Extremely.”

“Perfect.”

They walk a few blocks and Arisu tries not to feel too proud of himself when they stop in front of the escape room building.

“Surprise.”

Chishiya lifts a brow. “Really.”

“Yep. Five stars. Timed puzzles. A little horror. Maybe a fake corpse or two.”

Chishiya stares at the sign like it’s beneath him. “You’re trying to make me suffer.”

Arisu shrugs. “You’ve been impossible all day. It’s what you deserve.”

Chishiya lets go of his hand—finally—and crosses his arms. “You know I could solve this in ten minutes, right?”

Arisu laughs, not quite believing him. “Sure. I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Chishiya tilts his head. There’s a glint in his eyes now, something far too smug.

“Watch closely, then. “I’m about to humiliate you in record time.”

And Arisu realizes too late—

Oh no.

He might have made a mistake.

Chapter Text

The hydrangeas are late to bloom.

Azami Chishiya does not say this aloud. She never voices displeasure unless she means to wound. Instead, she sits beneath the awning of the summer veranda, porcelain teacup resting like an afterthought in her hand, while her gardeners prune and tend with silent reverence. Her robe is pale grey silk—light enough for the sun to pass through, but expensive enough to whisper status. Her hair is pinned up in a coiled crown, lacquered pins gleaming in the morning light. Nothing is out of place. It never is.

The tea is lukewarm now. She does not move to replace it.

Birdsong carries from the trees in slow, fragmented melody. The only interruption is the soft snip of garden shears, and the sweep of bristle brooms along the stepping stones.

Heels.

Miharu appears at the end of the stone path, slightly flushed from the run, clutching her tablet with both hands like it might burn her. She stops a few steps from the edge of the veranda, bows deeply, and says nothing.

Azami does not lift her head. She only raises one hand—slender fingers extended, pale against the lacquered wood of the tea tray.

Miharu understands.

She walks forward in small, respectful steps and places the tablet in her mistress’s palm. Then she steps back again.

Azami waits until the screen lights up.

It’s a photo.

Taken from some passerby’s social media account—judging by the grain, the angle, the casual gall of it. A public train platform. Bright signs. Crowds. Low-resolution mundanity. But front and center:

Shuntarō.

Azami’s lips press together slightly. Not a frown. Something quieter.

Her grandson is standing beside a boy. Dark haired. Laughing. His head is tilted toward Shuntarō like he’s said something funny. The boy is holding two cups of ice cream. Shuntarō is reaching to steal one.

Azami slides to the next photo.

They’re walking side by side now. Shuntarō has a paper cup in his hand. The other boy has grabbed the sleeve of his jacket, dragging him toward some store. Shuntarō is letting him.

A third photo. Both of them inside. One of those tacky prefab “build-your-own” spaces. A pile of scrap parts and wooden tools between them. Shuntarō is halfway through assembling something complicated. The other boy is watching, close enough to touch.

Azami taps the screen again.

There is a caption this time. Some local gossip page.

“Department heir Shuntarō Chishiya spotted again with the same boy—mystery friend or something more?”

A rustle behind her. Miharu shifting anxiously.

Azami sets the tablet down beside her teacup. The faintest sound.

“You were saying?”

Miharu swallows. She folds her hands in front of her, then unfolds them again.

“There’s… been a report. Um. From the house staff in Tokyo.”

Azami says nothing.

Miharu continues, haltingly. “It seems… that your daughter, Madam Reika, may have—hired him. The boy. To keep Master Shuntarō company while she and her husband are working.”

Azami does not look at her.

“She used one of the private foundations. Quietly. But the transaction came up in the last round of reconciliation reports from the family office. A transfer labeled ‘Companionship Services.’”

Azami lifts her teacup.

Takes one slow sip.

Puts it down again.

Then she looks out at her garden, at the pale-blue buds that still have not opened, and speaks.

“Have the hydrangeas turned this late before?”

Miharu falters. “I—I don’t believe so, Madam.”

“Hm.”

Azami folds her hands in her lap. The breeze picks up slightly. The faint scent of lemon balm and clipped roots drifts in from the garden.

“When she returns,” Azami says at last, “tell my daughter I’d like a word. Preferably before I decide who among my family still values their inheritance.”

“Yes, Madam.” Miharu bows again.

Azami does not move.

She looks down at the photo on the tablet once more. The boy. That messy-haired, bright-eyed thing with no pedigree. No poise. No presence.

Her grandson is laughing.

Azami narrows her eyes, but still says nothing.

The hydrangeas will bloom late this year. But they will bloom.

And she will decide what stays and what must be cut away.

____

Arisu yawned so hard his eyes watered, then blinked blearily at his toast. He barely tasted the bite he just took, chewing like a robot as he watched one of the house staff carry three trays of polished cutlery in the wrong direction.

“Uh… that’s not the dining room,” he mumbled through his mouthful, but the woman was already gone.

Across the room, Chishiya’s mother—Reika—was awake. Very awake. Dressed in a crisp navy blazer that somehow looked both effortless and aggressive, she stood at the center of the commotion like a conductor managing a very anxious orchestra.

“No, that needs to be ironed again. If the linen creases, we’ll all look cheap,” she was saying. “And someone make sure the koi pond is actually koi-ing—God, do I have to do everything myself?”

Arisu blinked at her. Then at the steaming pot of fancy tea someone had just brought out. Then at the way all the workers had the same stiff, terrified posture of soldiers under threat.

“Is, uh…” He leaned over to the nearest staff member passing by. “Is there, like, a royal inspection happening or something?”

The man gave him a haunted look and disappeared into the next room.

Chishiya finally came downstairs ten minutes later, hoodie sleeves too long, hair still a bit sleep-flattened in the back. He looked like a sulking cat that had been gently kicked out of bed.

He paused on the stairs halfway down, gaze flicking across the chaos.

“What,” he said flatly, “is this.”

Arisu shrugged and stabbed another piece of fruit.

“Dunno. Your mom’s been yelling at people since I got here. I think she made the chef cry. Pretty sure the koi are in trouble too.”

Chishiya squinted.

Arisu pointed his fork toward the kitchen. “She’s stress-cleaning the whole house like the emperor’s coming for lunch. You’re not secretly royalty, right?”

Chishiya came all the way down now, slower. He watched his mother direct two men to rearrange an entire floral arrangement for the third time.

His expression turned unreadable.

“She only gets like this when—” he started, then stopped. His eyes narrowed just slightly.

“...When what?” Arisu asked around a bite of melon.

Chishiya didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he looked toward the large hallway mirror as if expecting someone else to walk in behind him. 

“Someone’s coming.”

Chishiya caught up to his mother near the kitchen entrance, sidestepping a maid who nearly dropped a tray of porcelain cups.

"Hey. What’s going on?"

Reika didn’t even blink. She was too busy adjusting a flower vase like it owed her money.

"Mother’s visiting," she said, too evenly.

Silence.

Arisu, still half-chewing a strawberry from the dining table, froze. He looked at Chishiya. Then at Reika. Then back at Chishiya.

Chishiya stared at his mother like she had just announced a nuclear drill.

"She can't just—drop by unannounced." His voice tightened. "You said she’d never come here. You promised.”

Reika looked up at him finally, expression pinched but calm in that terrifying CEO way.

“She saw a post.”

Chishiya's jaw flexed. "What kind of post."

“She saw the boy,” she said, tilting her head toward Arisu like he was an ingredient. “You and him. Online. She called me directly. Said she wanted to speak in person.”

Chishiya looked like something between electrocuted and ready to explode.

“That’s insane,” he said, loud enough for a few workers to flinch. “She has no right to show up here like some surveillance drone with pearls. I’m not some puppet she gets to reprogram when she’s in a mood.”

Reika didn’t respond. She simply turned to one of the nearby staff.

“Get Shuntarō ready. Make sure his hair is styled properly. No hoodie. She hates those.”

Chishiya stared at her like she’d just slapped him in front of the entire house.

Then, with a forced, bitter smile, “Great. Perfect. Guess I’ll go be presentable for my surveillance appointment.”

With that, he turned and walked out.

Arisu blinked and scrambled after him, nearly knocking his chair over.

“Wait—Chishiya, hey—wait for me!”

Arisu waited in Chishiya’s room, sitting on the edge of the bed, picking lint off his hoodie and trying not to feel like a houseplant someone forgot to water. Somewhere in the hall, he heard footsteps and voices—people moving like clockwork. 

One of the maids had quietly knocked minutes ago and told Chishiya to shower. “She prefers a cleaner look,” the poor woman had murmured like she expected to be slapped.

Meanwhile, in the bathroom—

Chishiya dragged the towel over his damp hair with more force than necessary, like it was the towel’s fault he was related to this entire family. The moment he opened the bathroom door, two stylists were already inside. One adjusted the collar of the shirt he didn’t remember agreeing to wear, while another gently tried to coax a brush through his hair.

He stood there in complete silence at first. Then, “I can tie my own shoelaces, thanks.”

“Your grandmother prefers a clean finish at the cuffs—” one of them started.

“Did she send you a PowerPoint for that, or was it in the family propaganda manual?”

They exchanged nervous glances, but kept at their work.

Another reached to fix a stray lock of his hair. Chishiya stepped back. “Touch me again and I will personally rewrite your employment contract.”

The stylist froze like she’d been slapped by the word "contract" alone.

Chishiya rolled his eyes. “God. Do any of you have a spine? Or did she buy those too?”

He left them standing in the steam-clouded bathroom, storming back into his room still adjusting his sleeves like he was preparing for battle, not brunch.

Arisu looked up when he entered. "...You good?"

Chishiya flopped onto the bed beside him with a groan and stared at the ceiling.

“You look like you’re about to be sacrificed to a very expensive cult.”

“Not ‘about to,’” Chishiya muttered. “Already was. Now I’m just waiting for the ceremony.”

The knock was soft—too polite to be a maid’s.

Chishiya groaned into the pillow but didn’t move. Arisu sat up straighter just as the door cracked open.

Reika stepped inside, her expression carefully composed, but the way she wrung her hands betrayed her nerves. She closed the door behind her and crossed the room in calm, measured steps.

Chishiya didn’t look at her.

She sat at the edge of the bed and reached toward him. “Sit up,” she said gently.

He sighed but obeyed, dragging himself upright like it physically hurt him to comply. She reached up and lightly fixed the strands of his hair that the stylists had missed. Her hands were practiced, but there was something reverent in the way she tucked the stray pieces behind his ears.

“You’re handsome. You always are, Shuntarō.”

He didn’t answer, but the stiffness in his shoulders eased slightly.

Reika placed her hands on his arms. “She’s just coming for lunch. It’s not forever.”

“Yeah, but she makes it feel like it is,” Chishiya muttered.

She gave a weak smile. “Still. Please behave. I’m asking you, not her. For my sake.”

He didn’t nod, but he didn’t argue either.

Then she turned to Arisu, who had been doing his best to look like part of the furniture. Her gaze was kind but pointed.

“You too,” she said, voice still soft. “Whatever happens, just… please show some respect.”

Arisu blinked. “Yes, ma’am.”

Reika smiled at him like she was grateful. Then she stood, smoothed the front of her blouse, and left as quietly as she came.

The door shut behind her.

Chishiya finally muttered, “I hate it when she does that.”

Arisu tilted his head. “Touches your hair?”

“No,” he said. “Reminds me I love her.”

___

Azami didn’t step out of the car so much as descend from it, like the car should’ve been grateful it got to carry her.

She barely looked at the mansion before she started. “The gate was left open. It looks sloppy.”

Reika nodded right away, hands clasped like she was trying to hold herself together. “I’ll speak to the staff.”

Azami’s eyes slid over the hedges, the windows, the floor. “And the shutters. They’re dusty.”

“I’ll have them cleaned again.”

Arisu wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be standing there or if he should’ve hidden behind the nearest wall.

Chishiya stood beside him, arms crossed, expression flat. Arisu could feel the annoyance rolling off of him like heat.

Then Azami’s eyes landed on them. First on Chishiya, narrowing slightly. Then on Arisu. She smiled.

 He had no idea why, but he suddenly felt like a bug under a microscope.

Azami’s eyes land on Chishiya again like she’s inspecting a prize she once owned. She steps closer, and before anyone can say anything, her fingers are already threading through his hair.

“So soft,” she says like she’s talking to herself. “You’ve always had the perfect texture. You’re wasting it. This is wasted on you.”

Chishiya doesn’t say anything. But Arisu sees the way his jaw tightens.

“You should be seen,” Azami continues, her hand still in Chishiya’s hair like he’s not even a person. “With your face, you should be the one speaking on behalf of our name. PR trained. On screens. You’d shine.”

Reika shifts beside her. “Mother, Shuntarō’s already very busy—”

“He’s always busy,” Azami cuts in, her tone sharper than the breeze. “But no one knows him. No one recognizes his name when it matters. That’s not how you lead a legacy.”

“He has enough to deal with. He has his cello, his piano, he’s studying for med school—”

“Excuses,” Azami snaps. She drops her hand from Chishiya’s hair like she’s bored now. “It’s not about what he wants. It’s about what’s required. You’ve spoiled him.”

Arisu doesn’t even realize he’s gripping the hem of his shirt until his fingers ache.

Reika hesitates. She always hesitates around her.

“I’ll schedule something,” she finally says. “I’ll look into agencies.”

Chishiya lets out a small laugh that has no humor in it.

Azami doesn’t even glance at him. She’s already moved on, picking at invisible lint on her sleeve like she hasn’t just steamrolled everyone in the room.

Arisu keeps watching Chishiya. His posture’s still perfect, but he’s so stiff it looks like if anyone poked him, he’d snap in half. And Arisu knows—he knows—Chishiya doesn’t want any of this. He doesn’t want cameras, or fame, or being some polished poster boy for a family he clearly resents.

And yet he’s standing there like he has no choice.

Arisu wants to say something. Do something. But all he can do is shut up.

Brunch is brutal.

The table’s long and way too white. The napkins are folded like they’re auditioning for a magazine shoot, and the silverware reflects light in a way that hurts. Arisu honestly considers faking a stomachache, but the way Chishiya’s already sitting down—shoulders tight, lips pressed thin—kills that idea fast.

He’s not gonna leave him alone in this.

There are workers everywhere. No one really talks to them, but they hover. Refilling water, clearing crumbs that don’t even exist yet. Like even their breathing needs supervision.

Azami sits at the head of the table like she’s part of the architecture. Upright, unmoving, with eyes that miss nothing. Her smile is painted on, but her gaze is piercing. When she looks at Arisu, it sharpens.

She knows.

Somehow, she knows everything. His secret. His shame. Why he ran away from his perfect home, his perfect track, to be nothing but a freeloader friend in someone else’s world.

And she’s not even pretending not to know.

“Ryouhei,” she says sweetly, the name rolling off her tongue like sugar dipped in acid.

He lifts his head slowly. “Yes?”

Her eyes never leave him. “Your father’s still at the Ministry, isn’t he? Or has he finally retired?”

“Still there,” Arisu says, throat dry.

“And your mother… she teaches at Keio, I recall? International Relations?”

Arisu nods, because that’s true. She’s not saying anything wrong. But it was loud. In front of Chishiya.

Azami picks up her fork but doesn’t eat. “It’s always a curious thing when a child of such capable people… chooses to disappear.”

Arisu’s spine stiffens. His fingers curl under the table.

“He didn’t disappear,” Chishiya says without looking up. “He’s right here.”

Azami smiles, like she expected that. “Of course. I meant academically, professionally… socially. But I’m sure he has his reasons.”

“I do,” Arisu says, even though he doesn’t owe her anything.

“I’m sure,” she says again, like he’s a puppy trying to bark.

Reika tries to save it. “Mother, would you like more tea?”

But Azami waves her off with one finger. “No, no. This is more refreshing than tea.”

She takes a bite of melon like she’s doing the world a favor.

Arisu wants to walk out. Desperately. Like a coward.

Azami fixes her grey hair casually, like she’s not slicing through the air with every word. Her gold ring glints.

“You used to be some kind of prodigy as well, no?” she says, stirring her tea slowly, almost theatrically. “Before you became… disposable.”

The table goes too still. Even the sound of a fork tapping porcelain stops.

Arisu blinks. That word hits harder than it should. Disposable.

He lifts his eyes and tries to smile, but it wobbles at the edges. “That’s not… really true.”

Azami hums lightly, unconvinced. “No?”

“I just changed directions,” he says. His voice is even, calm. “I’m still… studying. Independently. I just didn’t want to be boxed into something predetermined.”

“Oh,” she says, amused. “That’s what they’re calling it these days. ‘Independent study.’”

He nods like it’s true. Like it’s not code for ‘burned out and vanished.’ Like he didn’t just collapse under the pressure one day and never really stood up again.

He can feel Chishiya’s eyes flick toward him—just once—but he doesn’t look back.

“I actually submitted a few papers recently,” Arisu says, fully committing to the lie now, “on neuro-linguistics and cognition. I might audit at Todai next semester.”

Azami raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained. “Oh, is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting,” she says, and it’s clear she doesn’t believe a word. But she doesn’t push. Because she doesn’t need to. She’s already planted the dagger and twisted it just enough.

Arisu smiles again, but it’s just his teeth. He reaches for his water and drinks like it’ll wash the shame down faster.

He’s not even sure who he’s trying to protect. Himself, or Chishiya.

Maybe both.

Azami hums. That same cold, delicate sound that means she’s not done.

Her eyes slide from Arisu back to Chishiya, who hasn’t touched his food. His fork’s been resting on the edge of his plate like he’s one wrong breath from stabbing it into the table.

“And you,” she starts, with the tone of someone preparing to list a dissertation.

Chishiya doesn’t look up. “Here we go.”

Azami pretends not to hear him.

“You should cut your hair,” she says first. “Not all of it, but something sharper. More refined. You’re too pretty. It makes people underestimate you.”

“I like when they underestimate me.”

She ignores that too.

“And sit up straight. Don’t slouch. You have presence, but you hide it like some frightened child. You’re not a stray, Shuntarō.”

Reika glances at her son like she wants to say something in his defense, but her lips stay pressed shut.

“And your shoes,” Azami adds, looking under the table like she’s checking for some criminal offense. “I saw the soles. Worn. You don’t think people notice, but they do.”

“I walk.”

“Well, you shouldn’t walk like a commoner.”

He exhales hard through his nose.

Azami leans forward, placing her fingers delicately near her wine glass like she’s posing for a photo. “You could do something important, if you just stopped pushing everyone away. If you listened.”

“I’m literally listening right now.”

“Don’t be smug. It’s ugly on you.”

Chishiya flinches the tiniest bit at that. a twitch of his jaw.

“You should be in politics. Something people respect. This… wandering around with that school. That boy,” she gestures vaguely toward Arisu like he’s a stain on the rug, “that’s not a future. That’s indulgence. You’re too intelligent to waste.”

Chishiya lifts his eyes, sharp and flat. “Is that what you did? Something respectable?”

Azami’s smile thins slightly. “Don’t be foolish. You think your power comes from rebellion, but it doesn’t. It comes from control.”

Chishiya’s silent now. His hands are tight around the utensils.

Azami dabs the corner of her mouth with a napkin like she’s royalty, even though she’s barely eaten anything. Then she sets it down with a soft little thwap that feels louder than it is.

“I’ll be staying a bit longer,” she says, casual as anything. Like she’s commenting on the weather. “A week, perhaps two.”

The room freezes.

Reika straightens too fast. “Mother—”

Azami lifts a hand, graceful and bored. “Don’t start, Reika.”

“You have work. Engagements. You said—”

“I’ve rescheduled.”

“But—”

“I said don’t start.”

It’s not a raised voice. But it cuts like one.

Reika goes quiet. Her hands curl in her lap, fingers tightening like she wants to scream into a pillow but can’t.

Chishiya still hasn’t moved. His fork is poised mid-air over a slice of melon, like if he finishes it he’ll teleport out of this brunch from hell.

Arisu stares at his plate, willing it to open a hole and swallow him. This was supposed to be a short visit. Formal hellos, polite tension, maybe some light trauma. Not a full-blown occupation.

Azami glances around like she owns the place—which she might, honestly. “It’s good for the staff. They get complacent otherwise.”

Reika looks like she’s chewing glass. “Of course, Mother.”

Arisu glances at Chishiya—who meets his eyes for half a second, just long enough for Arisu to see the fire underneath.

This is going to be hell.

___

Arisu’s doing his best to stay invisible.

He’s somewhere off to the side, near the lighting rig but not too close, arms crossed like a bodyguard with no actual function. One of the makeup artists had offered to “powder his nose” earlier and he’d nearly died on the spot.

But now the shoot’s started and—honestly?

He’s not okay.

Because Chishiya is… he’s not just photogenic. He’s cinematic. Lethal. The kind of hot that feels like it should be illegal. The kind of hot that makes Arisu rethink the laws of nature. And this isn’t even the flirty, lazy Chishiya Arisu’s used to. No. This is cold, weaponized Chishiya. Professional Chishiya. Neckline just a little too low, lips slightly parted, jaw sharp enough to cut a mirror.

Arisu swallows and tries not to combust.

The photographer calls out for him to angle his shoulder more, and Chishiya just shifts—fluid and perfect, like he’s done this a hundred times before. His eyes flick toward Arisu for a split second. Not long enough for anyone else to notice. Just long enough to make Arisu’s brain short-circuit.

God, this is torture.

Arisu accidentally meets eyes with one of the assistants, who smirks at him like, yeah, we all see it.

He immediately pretends to check something on his phone.

He’s not gonna survive this shoot. No one warned him Chishiya with a stylist and a spotlight was a full-on event.

Chishiya doesn’t even wait for the door to close behind them before he explodes.

“This is so fucking stupid,” he says, ripping the velvet jacket off his shoulders like it personally offended him. “Like, great, I’m pretty. Is that what she wants? A family mascot? A doll? Should I bark on command too?”

Arisu blinks as Chishiya tosses the jacket onto the couch and starts pulling at the button on his collar like it’s choking him to death. He’s pacing, half-dressed, hair a little tousled from the fan they had blowing at him like he was in a shampoo commercial.

And Arisu’s trying. Really trying. To keep his eyes where they’re supposed to be.

But. He fails.

Hard.

Because the white shirt is unbuttoned halfway now, and Chishiya’s skin is glowing in that annoying, I-don’t-even-try way, and he’s talking with his hands, and Arisu cannot look away. It’s tragic. He’s weak.

“What?” Chishiya snaps, mid-rant, catching the stare. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Arisu panics. “You have glitter,” he blurts. “On your face. Still.”

Chishiya squints. Touches his cheek. “Ugh. Gross.” He walks over to the mirror to check, muttering, “They said it’d wash off. Liars.”

Arisu exhales slowly, like that’ll bring oxygen back to his brain. He wipes his hands on his jeans like that’ll fix the sweat on his palms.

Chishiya throws him a sideways glance. “You’re such a weirdo,” he mutters, but he’s smirking now. “Standing there like a kicked puppy.”

“I’m not—” Arisu starts, but Chishiya cuts him off.

“You are.” He grabs a bottle of water and flops onto the couch. “But fine. Whatever. Thanks for not ditching.”

Arisu shrugs, trying to seem casual. “I mean… you’d probably murder me if I did.”

“Correct,” Chishiya says, sipping his water. “And I’d make it look like an accident.”

Arisu doesn’t get to reply to that, because one of the assistants knocks lightly on the door and pokes their head in. “Chishiya-san? They’re ready for you in Room B. Just a short interview. Shouldn’t take long.”

Chishiya groans like she told him he had to go wrestle a bear. “God. What now?”

Arisu raises an eyebrow. “Interview?”

“They want ‘behind-the-scenes commentary.’” Chishiya does air quotes so aggressively it looks like it personally pains him. “Like I have anything to say other than, ‘I hate this and I’m only here because my grandmother is the devil in Chanel.’”

The assistant chuckles nervously, clearly unsure if that was a joke.

It was not.

Still, Chishiya gets up, dragging himself toward the door like it’s the end of the world. “You coming?” he asks Arisu, without looking back.

Arisu startles. “Me?”

“No, the other emotionally wrecked guy hiding in the corner of the greenroom,” Chishiya deadpans. “Yes, you.”

So Arisu follows. Because what else is he going to do?

Room B is set up like a pretend living room—fancy rug, too-white couch, a glass coffee table with three designer books no one will ever read. A woman with a headset greets them. “Ah, thank you, Chishiya-san. We’ll just ask you a few casual questions. Feel free to be natural.”

Chishiya makes a noise that could mean “sure” or “I hate all of you.” Could be both.

Arisu sits off to the side, again trying not to gawk. But it’s hard when Chishiya’s on camera and suddenly this… other version of him turns on. Like a switch flips. He slouches a little, but not like he’s lazy—like he owns the space. His gaze is calm, voice low and precise. Dry humor laced into every answer.

“What’s your favorite thing about photoshoots?”

“Leaving.”

“What’s your skincare routine?”

“Genetics and spite.”

“What would you be doing if you weren’t here today?”

“Sleeping. Or stabbing something. Legally.”

Everyone laughs. Arisu melts.

Halfway through, Chishiya glances at him. A flicker. Enough to make Arisu freeze with a dumb, stupid grin. Chishiya raises an eyebrow like he knows.

And Arisu immediately pretends to be very, very interested in the fake plant next to him.

The interview wraps. The cameras shut off. Chishiya stands and immediately shrugs off whatever persona he was wearing like a coat. “Done. Finally. Let’s go.”

Arisu stands, blinking. “You’re not gonna say bye to anyone?”

“No.”

“Do you even know their names?”

“No.”

“You’re the worst.”

Chishiya shrugs. “And yet you’re still here.”

Touché.

___

They’re sitting cross-legged on Chishiya’s floor, knees bumping over an open convenience store bag, ramen bowls steaming between them. The curtains are drawn tight, even though it’s broad daylight, and Arisu still hasn’t taken off his hoodie from earlier. Mostly because he doesn’t know what to do with his body. Or his face. Or his whole presence.

Chishiya slurps his noodles like he hasn’t been stalked by cameras an hour ago.

“We’re gonna tell them you’re my assistant.”

Arisu blinks. “What?”

Chishiya doesn’t look up. “The press. That’s what we’re telling them.”

Arisu stares. “Why?”

“Because they already want a story, and I’m not letting them come up with something worse. This way, it’s clean.” Chishiya lifts his eyes. “And technically, it’s not a lie.”

Arisu makes a sound that might be a wheeze. “You mean because your parents literally pay me to—”

“Be my emotional support prop, yeah.” Chishiya’s voice is flat. “They’re already paying your tuition and housing. We just shift the narrative a little.”

“That is so messed up,” Arisu mutters, rubbing his neck. “You’re gonna tell people I’m your paid assistant?”

Chishiya points a chopstick at him. “You are awkward enough to pass for one.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I mean it. You hover. You carry bags. You remember my appointments.”

“Because you forget them,” Arisu says defensively.

“Exactly. Assistant behavior.”

Arisu leans back on his palms. “You’re seriously okay with this? Everyone thinking I’m just… paid to be near you?”

Chishiya finally pauses, ramen halfway to his mouth. “Would you rather they think you’re dating me?”

Arisu sputters. “W-what—no—I mean—wait—”

“Exactly,” Chishiya says, resuming his slurping. “This is the safer option. Less fanfic.”

Arisu covers his face. “I hate that you even thought about the fanfic.”

“I didn’t have to. I’ve seen my DMs.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I know.” Chishiya sips the broth. “You’re still here though.”

Arisu groans and drops onto his back, eyes on the ceiling. “I should’ve faked that stomachache.”

“Too late. You’re staff now.”

Arisu sighs so loud it shakes the curtain. “Do I at least get an ID badge?”

Chishiya smirks. “I’ll make you one in Photoshop.”

___

High school again.

Arisu thought he’d gotten used to weird—being in Chishiya’s orbit long enough makes you immune to most kinds of chaos—but this? This is worse.

This is hallway silence and half-whispered gasps. This is people literally pausing their footsteps when Chishiya walks in, like he’s a glitch in their personal simulation. And to be fair… Chishiya does not help. Not when he walks with his hands in his pockets like he owns every hallway, not when his uniform’s technically within dress code but still somehow feels too clean, too sharp, too curated.

“Oh my god, he’s even prettier in person,” some first-year mutters in homeroom.

“I heard his mom’s, like, royalty or something.”

“No, his dad’s a surgeon general or a super-CEO—”

Arisu wants to melt into the floor.

They don’t even whisper around him. Just talk over him, like he’s background. Like he’s the assistant.

(Which technically—shut up.)

It’s like everyone collectively decided Chishiya isn’t a person, but an event. A walking drama special. A limited-edition luxury collectible. Even the teachers hesitate around him. One tries to ask about his coursework and stumbles halfway through his own sentence. Another asks Arisu to “remind Chishiya to submit the quiz by Friday,” like he’s the translator.

And Chishiya? Chishiya is fine.

No, actually, Chishiya is visibly annoyed, but so used to being annoyed that he processes it with the emotional energy of a tired cat.

By lunch, Arisu’s ready to scream into a milk carton.

Then Karube and Chota show up.

Karube nods at Chishiya like he’s just a guy. “Yo.”

Chishiya lifts a brow. “Yo?”

“Didn’t feel like saying hi like a normal person,” Karube shrugs, cracking open his juice box.

Chota squints at Chishiya. “Why do I feel like you got ten times more famous overnight.”

“Thanks,” Chishiya says flatly.

“I saw you on a poster once. Your eyelashes looked fake.”

“They’re not.”

“Hmm.” Chota looks completely unimpressed. “Lucky genes.”

They sit.

Just—sit..

For the first time all day, Chishiya’s shoulders lower. Barely. But Arisu notices.

He also notices how Chishiya doesn’t say it, but chooses to sit next to him again. Close enough their arms brush.

And how his tray has two cookies. And one of them gets shoved silently onto Arisu’s side without a word.

Arisu eats it, quietly.

Maybe high school is hell, yeah. But it’s a little better when your hell has cookies.

__

The moment the limo disappears around the corner, Arisu turns on his heel and makes a beeline for the station. He doesn’t even bother saying goodbye. He’s not trying to be rude—he just figures the timing’s convenient. Chishiya has another one of his so-called “appointments,” which usually means dealing with either media, medical specialists, or one of the seven thousand ways his family controls his life. It doesn’t matter. It’s not like Arisu can tag along.

So instead, he opens his phone and pulls up the apartment listings again.

Maybe this time, he’ll find something not too small. Something with a window that doesn’t face a wall. Something that doesn’t smell like old takeout in the hallways. Anything that feels like it belongs to him—not a borrowed corner of someone else’s world.

But of course, Karube spots him before he even makes it out of the school gates.

“Yo, Arisu!” he calls, walking up fast with Chota right behind him. “Why you walking like you’re late for a job interview?”

“I’m not,” Arisu says, shoving his phone into his pocket a little too fast.

Karube narrows his eyes. “Looking at apartments again?”

Chota looks between them. “Weren’t you staying with Chishiya?”

“I mean, yeah, I still am. Kind of. Temporarily.” Arisu winces.

Karube folds his arms. “You’re really gonna pretend that’s normal? Living in a billionaire’s house, being on his schedule, eating weirdly healthy catered meals every day?”

Chota tilts his head. “And riding in his family’s car, going with him to his shoots and press stuff. Come on, man.”

“What?” Arisu says, defensive. “I’m just helping him out.”

“Right,” Karube says. “Helping him out. Like a good friend.”

There’s that tone. The one where Karube clearly means something else but is too polite to say it outright. Chota, meanwhile, just stares at him with that patient, too-knowing look.

“What do you even feel about him?” Chota asks quietly.

Arisu blinks. “What—nothing. I mean—I care about him. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Karube says. “But is it like, ‘I care about my math partner’ or ‘I’d take a bullet for this messed-up rich guy who doesn’t eat his vegetables’?”

Arisu flushes. “Why is that even a comparison—?”

Chota laughs. “Dude. You’re red.”

“I’m not—!” Arisu starts, then groans and shoves his face into his hands. “Okay. Okay. Maybe I like him a little.”

Karube raises both eyebrows.

Chota smiles softly.

“I don’t know,” Arisu mumbles. “I just—I want to take care of him. But he doesn’t need me to. Or maybe he does. But he’d rather die than say it.”

Karube claps him on the back hard. “Well, you’re screwed.”

“Big time,” Chota agrees.

Arisu sighs. “Yeah. I know.”

Chota crosses his arms and gives Arisu the most annoyingly gentle reality check face in the world. “You know he’s way out of your league, right?”

Arisu blinks. “Wow. Thanks.”

“No, I’m serious,” Chota says, not unkindly. “He’s like… hospitals and Steinway grand pianos and photoshoots and contracts. You’re… late-night video games and noodles and quitting clubs two weeks after joining.”

Karube snorts. “He’s not wrong.”

Arisu groans. “Okay, thanks, both of you, I got it.”

“I’m not saying it to be mean,” Chota says, stepping in front of him. “I’m saying it because it’s the truth. You hate pressure. You don’t even like it when your mom asks you to go grocery shopping twice in a row.”

“I do like shopping—”

“You do not. You like avoiding anything that looks like responsibility,” Chota says, eyes narrowing. “And Chishiya’s life is, like, ninety percent responsibility. You’re not even in the same atmosphere.”

“Yeah, and I’m not trying to be,” Arisu snaps, then immediately winces because that sounds worse than he meant it. “I just… I don’t know. I don’t want to be like him. But I also don’t want to not be near him.”

“Dude,” Karube says, shaking his head. “You really fell in deep, huh?”

Arisu gives a half-shrug, looking away. “He’s not what you think. Like yeah, he’s cold and sarcastic and impossible, but also… I don’t know. He’s trying. He doesn’t know how to be normal but he tries.”

“You’re still dodging the point,” Chota says. “You’re not cut out for all that extra stuff. All that scheduling, and being seen, and people breathing down your neck. You hate complicated.”

“I know I do,” Arisu mutters. “But he’s not complicated. Not when it’s just me and him.”

They go quiet.

And then Karube says, “That’s the most romantic shit I’ve ever heard you say.”

Arisu groans again and covers his face. “I hate both of you.”

The train hums beneath them as they cross into another district, Karube munching on a convenience store sandwich while Chota scrolls through listings on his phone like a mission. Arisu trails behind them both, backpack slung low, tired hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

It’s easy like this. Familiar. Almost nostalgic, if Arisu lets himself think too hard.

Karube makes dumb jokes about a place that’s clearly haunted. Chota asks too many questions about plumbing. They wander through small alleys, peek through fences, get mildly chased by a territorial cat. It’s fun in a way Arisu hasn’t felt in a while.

Chota pauses in front of a building and arches a brow at the name—something too long and trying too hard to sound classy. “Man, this whole area’s turning rich. Ten years from now, we’re gonna need a billionaire friend just to afford rent here.”

Karube elbows Arisu with a grin. “Good thing you already got one.”

Arisu rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. It’s not like he can deny it anymore.

They look at another unit. Not perfect. Not awful. Arisu quietly stores it away in the “maybe” pile. He likes it better than the others because it doesn’t have fake marble floors or a concierge that gives them judgmental eyes.

On the walk back to the station, Chota slows his pace, phone stuffed into his hoodie pocket. “Hey… what are you gonna do after this?”

Arisu blinks. “After what?”

“This,” Chota says, gesturing vaguely. “High school. All of it. You still thinking of skipping college?”

Arisu rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. I mean… I don’t think I’d survive college.”

Karube snorts. “That’s just because you hate homework.”

“Exactly.”

Chota frowns. “So what, you’re just gonna work part-time forever?”

“If I can,” Arisu says. “I just want something simple. A bookstore maybe. A game shop. Nothing fancy. I don’t want—” he hesitates. “I don’t want a life that needs… managing. I don’t want to keep pretending I’m someone I’m not.”

Chota doesn’t say anything right away. Neither does Karube.

Then Karube claps him on the shoulder. “Well, as long as you’re not, like, planning to live in a tent and eat moss, I guess it’s fine.”

Chota huffs. “You’ll have to find a real job at some point.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Arisu says, smiling despite himself. “I just don’t want to be important. I want to be happy.”

They go quiet after that.

And Arisu doesn’t say it out loud, but part of that happiness—part of that dream—is already tied to someone with silver hair and sharp eyes and a terrible sense of boundaries.

Which makes everything way more complicated.

___

Chishiya’s not nervous. Let’s be clear about that.

He’s annoyed, which is different. His collar’s too stiff, the lights in this bougie place are too warm, and the waiter keeps refilling his water like he’s about to shrivel up and die without exactly 250ml of hydration every ten minutes.

But no—he’s not nervous.

He’s dressed well, obviously. No one ever accused him of not knowing how to show up. The jacket’s tailored, his shirt’s a muted cream with a silver pin at the throat (his grandmother sent it over in a box with a note that said “Be impressive”). His hair’s pulled back in one of those deliberately undone styles, a braid at the side twisting into a soft bun. He likes it. It makes people think he’s harder to talk to than he actually is—which is saying something.

Across the table, Nakahara Yuuto is smiling.

Chishiya hates that it’s a good smile.

Sharp jawline, perfect teeth, suit that fits like he didn’t rent it last-minute. He says things like “clinical rotations are brutal” and “I prefer Mozart but Chopin’s easier to improvise with” and “my little sister’s obsessed with your father’s hospital commercials.”

It’s disgusting. He’s disgustingly competent.

And Chishiya is disgustingly—well. Not not interested.

This is the problem with being too aware of your own type: you can see it coming and still fall face-first into it like an idiot.

Daiki refills Chishiya’s wine before the waiter can. “So. Are you into classical music, or are you more of a modern synth-pop guy in secret?”

Chishiya snorts, tips his head lazily. “I prefer silence. Music is a waste of bandwidth.”

Yuuto grins. “So your mother sent you here under duress too?”

“Obviously. If it were up to me, I’d be at home eating cup noodles and disappointing her in peace.”

Daiki laughs. It’s a nice sound. Great. Amazing. Kill me.

Chishiya sips his wine to buy himself a few seconds of dignity. His foot bounces under the table. His fingers twitch with the need to text someone snarky.

But he can’t. Not with him on the other end of the thread.

Arisu wouldn’t get it anyway.

This whole scene—this life—isn’t his.

And it makes something in Chishiya twist because… he wants to text him. He wants to look at this guy across the table, the pretty Nakahara boy with the good family and the future made of gold, and tell Arisu he’s boring and he talks too much about academic grants and his cufflinks are probably fake—

Except he’s not. He’s not boring. He’s sharp and witty and the type you introduce to board members without shame.

Chishiya pretends to be unimpressed. That’s the goal, anyway. Detached, snide, impossible to please.

And for the most part, it works—Yuuto keeps smiling like he’s in on the joke, like he’s used to people trying to intimidate him with detachment and knows how to smile right past it. Infuriating.

He picks at his steak just to have something to do with his hands.

Yuuto’s telling a story now. Something about almost missing a violin recital in Vienna because of a train delay and making it with seconds to spare. His tone is dry, self-deprecating, his hand gestures minimal and precise. Of course he’s a good storyteller. Of course Chishiya is listening.

He doesn’t even realize he’s leaning on one elbow until the sleeve of his jacket creases.

Yuuto notices.

“Comfortable?” he says, amusement slipping into his voice like honey.

Chishiya doesn’t blink. “No. But I look good doing it.”

That gets a laugh. A real one. Yuuto tips his head back, eyes narrowing slightly with it. He has that look—the kind that means he knows he’s winning and doesn’t need to say it out loud.

Chishiya’s stomach does a thing he hates.

Shit.

“I bet you’re the kind of guy who ghosted his piano tutors,” Yuuto says.

Chishiya raises a brow. “Only the ones who deserved it.”

“Oh?” Yuuto leans forward a little. “And what exactly made them deserve it?”

“Thinking they were more interesting than they were. Mediocrity pretending to be genius is intolerable.”

“Damn.” Yuuto smiles around his wine glass. “That’s brutal. No wonder your grandmother thinks you need a leash.”

“She thinks I need a trophy husband,” Chishiya corrects. “I think she’s bored and wants someone to play dollhouse with again.”

“And here I thought I was the doll.”

“You’re not nearly charming enough.”

Yuuto barks a laugh. “But I’m close?”

“Debatable.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m smirking.”

“Still counts.”

Chishiya sips his wine. His foot is still bouncing under the table. His brain won’t shut up.

This boy is a mistake. A walking complication with dimples and potential. His family is spotless. His smile is lethal. He’ll probably get invited to one of Chishiya’s father’s conferences next month and charm everyone in the room just by breathing.

He should hate this.

He doesn’t.

And the worst part is, when Yuuto gets distracted by the waiter offering dessert, Chishiya’s hand moves before he can stop it. His phone lights up under the table.

No new messages.

Of course not. Arisu never texts first.

Chishiya stares at the screen a second too long.

Then he locks it, slips it back into his jacket, and tells himself it doesn’t matter.

Yuuto is here. He’s smart, attractive, and apparently serious enough about this arranged date thing that he didn’t even flinch when Chishiya insulted Mozart. He’s the type that doesn’t crumble. The type that fits.

He’s everything that should make this easy.

So Chishiya lifts his eyes, flashes a smile that feels just a little too sharp, and says,

“Fine. I’ll give you a second date. You’ve earned it.”

Yuuto just grins like he knew that already.

Chishiya wants to punch something. Or maybe kiss someone.

Either would probably get him grounded.

___

Yuuto drives a sleek, matte black car that Chishiya would’ve mocked under normal circumstances—too polished, too engineered to look effortless. But he’s silent during the ride, one hand on the wheel, the other casually draped over the gearshift, and it’s... tolerable. More than tolerable.

They talk, but only in pieces. Mostly, it’s quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn’t ask for anything.

When they reach the curb outside Chishiya’s house, he reaches for the door handle immediately. “Thanks. See you—”

“Wait,” Yuuto says.

Chishiya glances over, eyebrow raised.

Yuuto’s turned toward him now, slightly biting his lower lip like he’s calculating risk. Then, slowly, he leans forward and reaches—

—for Chishiya’s lapel.

His fingers brush the edge of the silver pin at Chishiya’s throat. “It was crooked,” he murmurs. And he adjusts it gently, reverently, like it’s made of something delicate and sacred. His hand lingers just a second too long.

Chishiya doesn’t move.

Neither of them says anything.

Yuuto draws back, a little flushed but still holding his composure. “There,” he says, and smiles. “Would’ve driven me crazy if I didn’t fix it.”

Chishiya finally exhales. “You’re lucky I didn’t bite you.”

“You’re lucky I like difficult men.”

“Tch. Go home before I reconsider the second date.”

Yuuto laughs. “Goodnight, Chishiya.”

Chishiya mutters a “Whatever” and steps out. He doesn’t look back.

He’s still warm when he walks through the front door. His mother’s sitting on the settee like she’s been waiting for a news broadcast.

“Well?” she asks, all but vibrating with anticipation. “Do you like the boy?”

Chishiya shrugs, walks past her, kicks his shoes off one at a time. “He’s tolerable.”

“Which, coming from you, is a rave review.”

He hums, noncommittal, as he walks halfway up the stairs.

“Oh,” he adds over his shoulder. “You don’t need to schedule that tea with the Kinoshita girl.”

A beat.

Then an audible gasp, a victorious squeal muffled behind her hands.

Chishiya doesn’t turn around. He just smirks to himself all the way to his room, already dreading how smug Yuuto’s going to be next time.

__

Arisu walks alone now.

The bag of chips swings lightly in his hand, mostly empty. The sky’s gone that soft, navy blue—just past golden hour but not quite night yet—and there’s the hum of traffic in the distance, a train rattling somewhere overhead.

They found the apartment.

The one.

Even Karube had shut up for a second, just stared around the place like he could already see the furniture, see the future in it. Chota said it felt like a good omen, which, coming from him, meant he might cry.

Arisu didn’t cry. But it had made his chest warm. Like something finally clicked into place.

They celebrated at a convenience store nearby. Onigiri and iced drinks and dumb jokes until Karube’s laughter got them kicked out of the seating area. It was good. Felt like the kind of moment you don’t know you’ll miss until it’s already gone.

Now they’ve split off. Chota had to catch a train. Karube wandered off toward a girl he claimed wasn’t his girlfriend but definitely was.

Arisu’s walking back with the quiet.

He’s going to buy it.

Well—sign for it. But yeah. When the timing’s right. When he figures out how to explain it to Chishiya without sounding weird.

Because it isn’t weird. He just wants to tell him. That’s normal. Right?

He rehearses it under his breath.
 “Hey, I found a place.”

“No big deal, just thought maybe—if you wanted—you could see it.”

Or: “The view’s really good. You’d like it.”

He frowns. All of them sound too hopeful.

Arisu turns the corner without looking. His bag of chips hits something solid.

“Ah—sorry, I—”

He stops.

So does the woman he just bumped into.

She blinks at him, wide-eyed. Her hair’s done up. There’s a little clutch purse in her hand, a glint of pearls at her ear. She smells faintly like the house he grew up in.

“…Ryohei?” she says.

And his spine locks up.

He stares at her.

“M-Mom?”

….

She says his name again, like it’ll make him stay.

“Ryohei—”

Arisu takes a step back. Automatically. Reflex. Like his body remembers what to do before his brain catches up.

It’s been—what? Five weeks? Twenty-six days? That’s nothing, in the grand scheme of things. But she looks at him like he’s aged ten years.

Her eyes dart down to the plastic bag in his hand, the crumpled chip packet. His hoodie’s stained from the day before, and he hasn’t shaved in a bit.

“You’re eating junk,” she says softly. Like that’s the problem.

Arisu exhales, low and sharp. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” she says. “Your father—”

“Don’t.”

It comes out too fast. Too loud. People on the sidewalk glance over. Arisu swallows hard, lowers his voice.

“Don’t bring him into this.”

She flinches a little. “He’s been worried—”

“He’s not.”

His voice cracks. That pisses him off. He clenches his jaw.

“Worried?” Arisu scoffs. “He’s been worried that I’ll ruin the family name, maybe. Or embarrass him. Or drop out. Or keep breathing too loud in the house. Take your pick.”

His mother looks at him like she wants to argue—but she doesn’t. 

“I just…” she says, quiet again, “I thought maybe you’d come home.”

Arisu’s fingers curl tighter around the bag.

“Home?” he repeats. “You mean that place where I had to check the volume of my footsteps? Where nobody asked what I wanted, only what I planned to do that wouldn’t make us look bad?”

“You have a future—”

“I have a life,” he snaps. “Or I’m trying to, anyway. One that’s mine.”

People are definitely staring now, but Arisu doesn’t care. His heart’s hammering. He’s been waiting for this fight his whole damn life, and it’s like the moment showed up before he could rehearse.

“I have friends,” he says. “I have a place. I have—plans. That don’t involve him. Or your dinner table lectures. Or that school I never wanted to go to.”

Her face folds. slightly. Like a paper swan crumpling at the edge.

Arisu swallows again.

“And yeah, maybe I’m eating junk and working dumb part-time jobs. But I’m okay. You don’t need to fix that.”

Silence.

“Does he know you’re here?” he asks.

She shakes her head. Slowly.

“Then don’t tell him,” Arisu says. “Please.”

He walks past her before she can answer.

She doesn’t stop him.

___

Thank God, the timing’s smooth.

Chishiya and his mother are just finishing up dinner when Arisu slips off his shoes by the entrance. He hears soft laughter from the dining room, the clink of ceramic. His heart’s still thudding from the street confrontation, but the warm light in the hall dulls it a little.

“Arisu,” Chishiya’s mother says cheerfully from the dining room, peeking out. “You’re just in time for tea.”

Arisu nods politely, bowing slightly. “I already ate, ma’am, but thank you.”

Then, before he can even glance at Chishiya, a voice calls from deeper in the house:

“Arisu. My office, please.”

Chishiya’s father.

Arisu swallows hard and gives Chishiya a look—half questioning, half please tell me this isn’t bad news. But Chishiya just lifts a brow, then mouths, “Good luck,” as he casually pours himself more tea.

The office is dimly lit, expensive, and still smells faintly of the cigar his father only smokes when he’s just back from a deal abroad. He’s sitting behind the enormous desk like he always does, flipping through a manila folder. Arisu bows, closes the door behind him, and walks in.

There’s a long pause before Chishiya’s father lifts his head.

“You’ve done well,” he says simply.

He slides a thick white envelope across the desk. Arisu recognizes it—monthly payment for the odd work he does for the family, mostly personal errands and assistance to the estate managers. It’s more generous than it needs to be.

Arisu bows slightly, accepts it with both hands.

“Thank you, sir.”

Then there’s silence. Until—

“There’s a situation regarding Azami,” he says, voice heavy now. “My mother-in-law.”

Arisu blinks. “Is she unwell?”

“Not physically,” he replies. “She’s... made some requests.”

There’s that look in his eyes again. Not anger—more like... distaste. The way men like him treat words they’d rather not say aloud.

“She’s requested that Chishiya begin attending the seasonal board introductions again. The ones he’s avoided for three years. She believes it’s time he starts fulfilling family obligations more formally. There are certain... alliances she wants him to consider.”

Arisu stiffens. That’s not subtle.

“She wants him to meet more heirs.”

Chishiya’s father leans back, studying him now—not cruelly, not even coldly, but with the steady, calculating gaze that makes Arisu feel like he’s being sized up like a chess piece.

“I’m telling you this,” he says, “because I believe Chishiya may tell you first. Or—refuse to tell you at all, and act out in some self-sabotaging way. He tends to do that.”

Arisu doesn’t know what to say. His hands feel clammy.

“She’s old. Set in her ways,” the man continues. “But her influence in this family is significant. If she puts her foot down...”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

Arisu already knows how it ends. If Grandmother Azami puts her foot down, even Chishiya’s father has to listen.

“She won’t take well to a companion with... no name,” he says finally, carefully. “No legacy. No seat at any table.”

Arisu nods slowly.

Chishiya’s father leans back in his chair, gaze sharp behind expensive lenses. “Of course, if it comes to that, there are alternatives. Routes to legitimacy. If you were… willing to be vetted, formally recognized—Azami would have no reason to object. She might even support you.”

Arisu doesn’t flinch. He just smiles faintly, tilts his head like he’s thinking it over.

But in his chest, there’s a flare of something cold and bitter and real.

Because he knows what that means.

Recognition. Vetting. Legitimacy.

They’d want paperwork. Background. Family. They’d want to peel back every layer until they found something palatable—something they could mold into a seat at the table without scandal.

They’d want to know who he really is.

And Arisu can’t let that happen.

Because the truth? The truth is ugly. It’s the cramped apartment he grew up in, the shouting behind thin walls, the father who wanted a copy of himself and a son who only ever learned how to run. It’s the forged documents, the quiet withdrawals from school, the year he disappeared off every system that mattered. It’s the part-time jobs, the fake addresses, the way he built himself up from almost nothing with carefully controlled lies.

It’s the scared, angry boy who used to dream of burning every elegant hallway like this one to the ground just to feel warm.

So Arisu nods again, the picture of calm interest. “I’ll think about it.”

But he’s already filing this conversation away like evidence at a crime scene.

He’s not going to give them the truth.

Because the truth might just earn him a place among them—but it’ll cost him everything that matters.

And he’d rather stay an outsider, a shadow at Chishiya’s side, than be dragged into the light and forced to bleed for their approval.

___

Arisu trudges upstairs, mind still tangled in the conversation with Chishiya’s father. His face is blank, the practiced kind of neutral he wore around his own father, but the second his door comes into view—

“Oi. You done being emotionally devastated?” Chishiya calls flatly from across the hall, door cracked open.

Arisu blinks. “What?”

“I need help with chem. You’re already late.”

Arisu sighs. “You didn’t even wait to ask if I was okay.”

“I assume you’ll cry about it later,” Chishiya says, already turning back toward his desk. “Bring your own pen this time. I’m not letting you chew on mine again.”

Arisu huffs a laugh despite himself and steps inside. The desk is a mess of notes, open books, and what looks like an anatomy model of a heart—half-painted black for no discernible reason.

“You realize it’s summer break,” Arisu mutters, sliding into the spare chair. “No one’s doing homework right now.”

“I’m not no one,” Chishiya replies. “And I don’t technically have summer break.”

“What—why?”

“Because I’m not technically in your class.”

Arisu freezes mid-reach for the workbook. “Wait. What?”

Chishiya doesn’t even look up. “I’ve been going to the wrong classroom.”

Arisu stares. “You what.”

“For the aesthetic. Yours has better windows.”

“You—” Arisu actually sputters. “You followed me into my classroom for weeks? You sat there through lectures that weren’t even yours?”

“I liked the way the sunlight hit the third row,” Chishiya says mildly. “Also, your math teacher has better handwriting.”

Arisu gawks. “What year are you even in?!”

Chishiya finally glances up, face completely deadpan. “Second.”

Arisu slaps the table. “You’re a year below than me?!”

“I’m also smarter,” Chishiya adds, flipping a page. “Now stop yelling and explain this molecule before I dissolve you in hydrochloric acid.”

Arisu drops his head into his hands. “I cannot believe I helped you cheat for two months.”

Chishiya shrugs. “You’re very nurturing when you're distracted.”

Arisu groans into his palms, but his lips twitch. God help him, it’s hard to stay annoyed. Especially when Chishiya pushes the worksheet toward him with the tip of his pen and mutters, “...also I saved you a strawberry milk from the fridge.”

“…You are the strangest person I’ve ever met.”

Chishiya hums. “That’s rich, coming from a runaway doing group projects like his life depends on it.”

Touché.

Chishiya’s chair creaks every full rotation. It’s the annoying kind of noise—barely loud, just enough to fray the nerves like a mosquito near the ear. Arisu tries to ignore it, eyes glued to the textbook while his pencil scratches out a balanced chemical equation he’s already done in his own homework two days ago.

“So,” Chishiya says mid-spin, legs tucked up like a perched crow, “what did you do while I was gone?”

Arisu doesn’t look up. “Not much.”

“Not much,” Chishiya echoes. Another spin. “Did ‘not much’ involve Karube and Chota showing up in your browser history again?”

“Shut up,” Arisu mutters, cheeks warming.

Chishiya grins lazily, upside down now. “It’s not illegal, Arisu. You can admit you missed me.”

“I didn’t.”

Another creak, another turn. “Liar. You always twitch your left foot when you lie. You’re twitching right now.”

Arisu immediately tucks both feet under his chair, scowling. “I was just walking around.”

“Walking around,” Chishiya says, leaning his head back like he’s trying to memorize the ceiling. “Doing what? Soul-searching? Late coming-of-age arc? Tattoo appointment?”

Arisu doesn’t answer. He keeps his head down, eyes tracing over the equation again. It feels heavier now. The lie sits thick on his tongue. He can’t tell Chishiya about the apartment. Not yet. It’s too… big. Too final. It might sound like he’s planning on leaving. Like he’s building a life away from here.

Which he is, technically. But not from Chishiya.

He doesn’t want Chishiya to think that.

“That’s all?” Chishiya asks again, voice casual—but he’s only spinning half as fast now.

Arisu shrugs. “Yeah. I just… needed to think about stuff.”

Chishiya hums like he doesn’t believe him, but he doesn’t push. The chair creaks again.

Arisu glances up just long enough to catch the faint blur of Chishiya’s movement. He’s kicking off the edge of the desk each time. His hair’s come a little loose from the earlier bun—it’s fraying around the braid like messy streamers. His socks don’t match. There’s a stack of papers by his bed labeled “Read Me Later” that’s been collecting dust for a week. He talks more when he’s tired, and he spins in that chair when he’s trying to burn energy.

Lately, Arisu’s started to notice things like that. The weird little habits.

The thing is… he doesn’t remember when they started feeling weird.

He’d just always assumed they were normal. Because Chishiya made them feel normal. Because this—whatever this dynamic was—became routine.

And now he’s lying to protect that routine. Even if it means pretending he doesn’t have something quietly monumental waiting in his pocket for the right time.

Chishiya flicks a pen at his head. “You’re staring.”

“Was not.”

“Were too. Do your job, A-student.”

Arisu sighs, going back to the paper. “At least I’m in the right class.”

Chishiya kicks the desk. “Rude.”

They go back to the quiet, only the creaking of the chair and Arisu’s pencil filling the space between them. The lie still itches in his throat, but—for now—it’s safer than the truth.

___

Arisu closes the last workbook with a sigh and leans back in his seat, stretching his fingers out like he just ran a marathon. “There. All done. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Chishiya, who’s been slowly revolving in his chair like a lazy ceiling fan, doesn’t immediately respond. The spinning’s slowed down—just a faint back-and-forth now, the soles of his slippers occasionally brushing the floor.

Arisu watches him for a second, then asks, as casually as he can muster, “So what’d you do while I was gone?”

Chishiya blinks up at the ceiling, legs crossed, arms draped over the chair like royalty bored of being fed grapes. “Oh, you know. Walked the halls. Stole someone’s snack from the vending machine. Went on a date.”

Arisu snorts. Then he pauses. “…Wait, what?”

Chishiya finally turns to look at him, just a little. There’s a faint smile on his lips, like he’s mildly entertained. “A date. You know. Social interaction, strategic flirting, awkward small talk. That.”

Arisu’s mouth moves before his brain catches up. “With who?”

“Nakahara. Yuuto, I think. Son of someone. My mom’s idea. It was scheduled.”

Arisu nods slowly. His chest feels... weird. A little warm. Not in a nice way. Sort of like when he drank coffee on an empty stomach and couldn’t stop bouncing his knee for an hour afterward.

“Was it… good?”

Chishiya shrugs again. “He talks a lot. But he’s not dumb. And he’s easy on the eyes.”

Arisu laughs, but it comes out forced. “Wow. High praise.”

“Mmh.”

Arisu suddenly needs to stand. So he does. But then he realizes he has nowhere to go, so he just pretends to stretch and walks two steps toward the bookshelf, pretending to look for something. His pulse is loud in his ears, and his face feels warm.

It’s not jealousy. Obviously not. That’d be weird.

He’s just surprised. That’s all. Shocked. Off-balance. Processing.

Not jealous.

“Anyway,” Chishiya says, spinning the chair half a turn with one toe, “it was nothing important. Don’t make that face.”

“What face?”

“That weird one you make when you’re thinking too much and pretending not to care.”

“I’m not—” Arisu starts, but stops. Runs a hand through his hair. “I’m just tired.”

“Sure,” Chishiya says, voice flat, skeptical. “Tired.”

Arisu turns back toward him, crosses his arms. “Are you trying to provoke me?”

“Would I do that?”

“Yes,” Arisu says immediately.

Chishiya smiles. It’s annoyingly smug. “Then I guess it’s working.”

Arisu opens his mouth, closes it again. He doesn’t have a comeback that won’t sound too defensive. So instead, he says, “I’m getting a drink,” and walks toward the door before he can say something like “was he hotter than me” or “do you like him more than me” or anything else that would make this spiral worse.

Behind him, Chishiya keeps spinning. 

Arisu returns with a drink in hand—a canned coffee that he doesn’t really want but needed to do something with his hands. Chishiya’s still in the chair, still spinning, though now it’s more of a slow, deliberate sway, like a cat stretching its tail out just enough to trip you.

“Do you believe in fate?” Chishiya asks, lazily.

Arisu frowns, cracks open the can. “Since when do you ask questions like that?”

“Since I was bored,” Chishiya says. Then, after a beat: “You don’t, do you.”

Arisu shrugs. “I guess not. I mean—some things happen for a reason, but not everything.”

“Hm.” Chishiya stops the spin, resting both feet on the floor. He leans forward, elbows on knees, chin in hand. “So you don’t think it’s fate that you’re tragically single?”

Arisu nearly spits out his coffee. “What?”

Chishiya tilts his head. “You. No girlfriend. Ever.”

“That’s not—hey, I’ve had girlfriends. Sort of.”

“‘Sort of’ isn’t the win you think it is.”

Arisu groans, setting the can down. “Why are you even asking?”

“Just curious.” He spins again, slower. “You’re attractive enough. Not too stupid. Surprisingly loyal, even when you shouldn't be. So either you’re emotionally constipated… or you’re hiding something.”

Arisu stares at him, deadpan. “Are you trying to psychoanalyze me now?”

Chishiya shrugs. “Just saying. Statistically, someone like you should’ve had a dramatic high school relationship by now. Gotten cheated on. Had a teary confrontation in the rain. Something.”

Arisu mutters, “You’ve been watching too many dramas.”

“Maybe. Still doesn’t answer the question.” Chishiya glances sideways at him. “Why not? Why no girlfriend?”

Arisu sits back down slowly, avoiding eye contact. “I’ve been busy.”

“With what? Disappearing for a year? Getting adopted by my family?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Didn’t say it was.”

Arisu swallows hard. His ears feel hot again. “I’m just not interested. It’s not a big deal.”

Chishiya makes a soft, amused sound. “Not interested in girls, or not interested in relationships?”

Arisu doesn’t answer.

Chishiya smiles faintly, more to himself than to Arisu. Then leans back and spins once more, a slow, half-lazy turn.

“Okay,” he says. “Noted.”

Arisu wants to say something—anything—but nothing comes out that won’t feel like a confession. So instead, he takes another long sip of his coffee, bitter as hell, and pretends it doesn’t taste like regret.

The TV flicks on with a soft click, filling the room with dramatic music and teary monologues. Arisu barely looks up from his place on the floor, where he’s fiddling with something unimportant—one of Chishiya’s broken earbud cases, maybe, or a pencil he’s dismantling for no reason. His brain’s half-melted from doing Chishiya’s work, and the TV’s melodrama isn’t helping.

On screen, a girl is shouting, “You think love can be measured in time?! You left me in 2009!!”

Chishiya’s sprawled sideways on his bed, head propped on one arm. “So,” he begins without looking, “should I go to that piano recital next week?”

Arisu rolls his eyes. “The one where your grandma makes everyone wear gloves just to touch the door handles?”

Chishiya hums. “The very same.”

“You already know you’re not going.”

There’s a pause. The drama cuts to a commercial, some tragic perfume ad in black and white. Then Chishiya says, “Niragi asked me to play at the DystoMira show again.”

Arisu freezes for half a second. “As NoFace?”

Chishiya nods like it’s obvious. “I haven’t played in weeks. Niragi’s getting weirdly sentimental about it.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Arisu says, a little sharper than he meant to. “You know I don’t like that guy.”

Chishiya clicks his tongue. “You don’t like anyone who gets more attention than you.”

“I don’t like people who act like they invented rebellion,” Arisu mutters.

“You’re literally friends with Karube.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

Arisu doesn’t answer.

The commercial ends. Chishiya’s eyes flick lazily between Arisu and the screen. “So? Should I go?”

Arisu shrugs. “Do what you want. You always do.”

Chishiya shifts, stretching one leg out with theatrical boredom. “If I go to the recital, it’s three hours of Rachmaninoff and my grandmother’s opinions on waistcoats. If I go to the concert, I get to destroy my hearing and possibly my reputation. Seems fair.”

“You forgot the part where Niragi tries to flirt with you on stage,” Arisu says tightly.

“Oh,” Chishiya says, a slow grin forming, “you remember that.”

Arisu picks up a pillow and throws it at him—again.

Chishiya catches it this time, laughing quietly to himself, the sound barely audible over the TV. “You’re more fun when you’re passive-aggressive.”

Arisu crosses his arms. “I’m not passive-aggressive. I’m just aggressive.”

Chishiya hums like he doesn’t believe him, already turning his attention back to the screen.

But he doesn’t bring up Niragi again. Not tonight.

___

The next day, Chishiya was just… gone.

No note. No text. No sarcastic post-it with a drawing of a knife and “Don’t miss me.” Nothing.

Arisu stands in the middle of the room, hair sticking up from sleep, hoodie half on, blinking like the emptiness is personally attacking him. He hasn’t even eaten yet and now—ugh. Ughghghh. It’s Chishiya hunting time.

He groans, grabs his phone, and trudges downstairs like it owes him money.

Out front, the security guard waves at him from the gate. “Off to see your boyfriend again?”

Arisu glares, deadpan. “He’s not my—”

The guy’s already got his earbuds back in.

Outside, the sun is obnoxiously bright, like it knows he’s annoyed. Arisu starts walking, pulling out his phone, muttering, “Where the hell even is this concert?”

He scrolls through DystoMira’s socials—blurry promo photos, Niragi’s shirtless mirror selfies (ew), a teaser poster that says nothing helpful—and finally finds it buried in the tags:
 DystoMira LIVE – ‘Unplugged Rebellion’
  The Bunker – Shinjuku
  Soundcheck: 12:30. Doors open at 2.

Arisu checks the time.
 12:16.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

He turns on his heel and starts speed-walking like he’s late to court.

“First he disappears. Then he possibly joins a concert with Niragi again. And now I gotta go chase him like some side character in his indie band movie—God—why—”

__

Arisu gets to the venue sweaty, out of breath, and ten seconds away from chucking his phone into traffic.

The line outside The Bunker is long, full of kids in eyeliner and combat boots, some holding handmade signs that say things like “NOFACE MARRY ME” and “DISTORT ME, DYSTOMIRA.”

Arisu squints. “What does that even mean.”

Inside, it’s all dim lights and pulsing bass. The air smells like soda, cigarette residue, and a very specific kind of youth chaos. He fights his way to the front because if he’s gonna suffer, he might as well have a good view while doing it.

The crowd goes wild as Kuina struts out first, bass slung across her shoulder like a sword. Ann follows, cracking her knuckles as she takes her place behind the drum kit, looking criminally cool.

Then Niragi steps out in some unholy combination of fishnet and denim and the confidence of a guy who absolutely would hit on your girlfriend while you’re standing right there.

The crowd screams.

Arisu crosses his arms. “Yeah yeah, main character energy. Whatever.”

Niragi grabs the mic, grinning. “You miss me, Tokyo?”

The crowd howls.

“And guess who’s decided to grace us with his pretty little strings again?” Niragi looks offstage. “He’s back from the dead—give it up for NOOOOFAAAACE!”

And there he is.

White button-down, long gray coat, boots laced up like he’s got secrets, and that sleek, expressionless white-and-gray mask. No one really knows who NoFace is. No photos of interviews. A handful of cryptic appearances at DystoMira shows—always unannounced, always mysterious, always annoying.

But Arisu knows.

Because Chishiya has that same bored posture. That same way of holding a guitar like it’s a science experiment. That same casually smug aura like he’s about to win something even if no one’s competing.

NoFace plugs in his guitar, adjusts one dial, and strums once.

The sound rips through the venue—clean, sharp, spine-tingling. The entire crowd erupts.

Arisu stands there, stunned.

Then groans.

“Of course he wore the mask again. Of course he came here. And of course I followed him like an idiot.”

No one hears him over the music.

Which is good.

Because his stomach’s doing weird little flips.

And he’s not sure if it’s because of the sound—

—or the masked guitarist casually playing like the world’s his toy.

The lights start flashing, the first distorted riff kicks in, and Niragi’s already halfway into a dramatic pose, mic in hand, voice slick with that sleazy charisma.

“NoFace!” Niragi purrs, sauntering over mid-song, trailing a cord behind him like it’s some kind of leash. “You missed me, didn’t you, baby?”

NoFace doesn’t respond. He keeps playing like he didn’t hear a thing, chin slightly tilted like he’s above it all. (He probably is.)

Arisu rolls his eyes. “God. He’s gonna milk this, huh.”

But just as he’s about to get comfortably annoyed and pretend he doesn’t care—he feels it.

A stare.

No—a few stares.

Right at him.

From people. People who definitely recognize him.

Oh no.

Oh shit.

He forgot.

He’s supposed to be backstage. Or off to the side. Or behind the scenes, not dead center in the pit like some crazy fanboy trying to get NoFace’s pick. Or not in this concert at all.

“Wait. Wait, I’m—” he mutters, inching sideways, trying to disappear into the crowd.

But it’s too late.

Someone’s already whispering. Someone else pulls out their phone. Another flashes a peace sign in his direction like they’re trying to confirm it’s him.

And yeah.

Arisu is very recognizable when he’s standing up front at the DystoMira concert, looking extremely concerned every time NoFace and Niragi do their weird flirty back-and-forth.

From the stage, NoFace shifts slightly. But Arisu knows it’s for him.

And Chishiya’s probably smirking under that stupid mask.

Arisu has never wanted to crawl into a sewer more in his life.

It starts with one fan. Harmless enough. A girl with too much eyeliner and a phone gripped like a weapon.

“Hey,” she says, already too close. “Aren’t you that assistant dude?”

Arisu blinks. “Assistant…?”

“Chishiya’s. You were with him that time at that ramen bar near Kichijōji, right? You held his umbrella. I saw you.”

Oh, god. Umbrella girl has a memory.

“I just carry things,” Arisu says flatly, trying to sidestep.

But she follows. “So what are you doing here, huh? Concert like this, front row? Bit weird, right?”

“I like music?”

But then her voice drops. She leans in conspiratorially. “Is it true? That Chishiya is NoFace?”

Arisu chokes. “No—what? What even—?”

Another voice: “Oh my god, someone said that on Reddit last week—!”

And another: “Wait wait wait, isn’t that Arisu?! Chishiya’s friend?! I’ve seen him in pics—”

Arisu’s brain short-circuits.

Suddenly he’s being surrounded. Phones are flashing. People are whispering and pointing and pulling up posts.

“Does Chishiya really have perfect pitch?!”

“Can he even play guitar?!”          

“Why was he seen outside that bar in Shibuya the same night NoFace played there—?”

“I heard he hates being photographed.”

“IS THIS LIKE A MASKED SINGER THING???”

Someone shoves a phone in his face, recording. “Just blink if it’s true.”

Arisu stares. “I—what—no. No blinking. Stop filming me.”

And then:

“NOFACE LOOKED RIGHT AT YOU!”

“OH MY GOD HE DID—”

“I SWEAR THAT GUITAR SOLO WAS FOR YOU—”

“HE JUST NODDED TOWARD YOU, I SWEAR—!”

“IS THIS A SECRET RELATIONSHIP?! ARE YOU GUYS DATING?!”

“IS THIS A BIT???”

“I’M SO CONFUSED BUT I’M INTO IT—”

The screams are mixing with Niragi’s vocals, the guitar is wailing, Arisu is sweating, and every inch of him wants to dissolve into ash.

He ducks. Pushes through the crowd. Beelines for the nearest exit.

The fans follow like bloodthirsty ducklings.

He’s gonna kill Chishiya.

Or marry him. He honestly doesn’t know anymore.

Arisu’s breathing like he just ran a triathlon through hell. He stumbles past a stack of amps and finds the backstage corridor, sweat clinging to his neck, fans still screaming somewhere behind the thick concrete walls.

Chishiya's already waiting there. Mask off, eyeliner smudged, glaring like he’s been waiting his whole life to be disappointed in Arisu.

“What,” Chishiya says, voice sharp and dry, “the fuck did you do?”

Before Arisu can respond, Niragi appears from the opposite end of the hallway like he just walked off a battlefield—shirt half-unbuttoned, smirk wiped off, and eyes locked on Arisu like he's the last thing he wants to see and the first thing he wants to fight.

The silence is loud.

Chishiya’s gaze flicks between them. Arisu doesn’t even flinch. He crosses his arms and answers plainly:

“I bought a ticket.”

Chishiya groans so deep it sounds like he’s dying. He turns his back to them both and paces in a tight circle.

“That’s not all you did. You got cornered. Do you know what the internet looks like right now?”

“I didn’t say anything!” Arisu huffs.

“You breathed too loudly in front of a theorist.”

Niragi laughs once, bitter and amused.

Arisu squints. Then, finally notices it—Chishiya’s hair is done up again. Another layered style. Neat, twisted, and silver-threaded like he’s on his way to a royal sabotage.

“...Are you planning something?” Arisu asks.

“No.”

“...Really.”

Silence.

“I said no,” Chishiya repeats, but it sounds like a lie even to him.

Before Arisu can press, someone calls out: “Three minutes to curtain!”

Chishiya exhales through his nose and yanks his mask back on, already retreating toward the stage.

Arisu stares after him.

That hair definitely means something.

__

Arisu was so tired of running.

This was his fifth hiding spot. Maybe sixth. Whatever. It didn’t matter anymore. His legs hurt, his stomach was screaming at him, and someone had definitely seen him duck behind the scaffolding two minutes ago.

He couldn’t stay in one place for too long. Too many fans. Too much noise. Too much risk of getting dragged out by security for “suspicious activity.”

But none of that mattered.

Because Chishiya was on stage.

Arisu watched from behind a stack of amps, half-hidden by a curtain flap. The lights hit Chishiya—NoFace—just enough. The silver of his guitar. The edge of his jaw. The stupid calm posture he always had, even while chaos exploded around him.

And Niragi. Of course Niragi was already circling him like a damn shark.

The concert was halfway through, crowd still wild. Kuina was headbanging into her solo, Ann was barely holding the beat together with how loud the fans were getting.

And Chishiya just stood there, playing like he didn’t care.

Arisu narrowed his eyes.

No. That was a lie. He did care. He was doing something tonight. Something different.

He was standing closer to Niragi.

He wasn’t hiding as much.

And then—

The lights dimmed.

Arisu leaned forward.

A slow guitar riff started, low and dark. Niragi dropped his mic to his side and walked over. Close. 

Arisu stiffened.

Niragi was talking to Chishiya. Whispering in his ear. Laughing.

Arisu didn’t like that. Not at all.

Chishiya didn’t react.

And then Niragi reached for the hood.

Arisu’s heart stopped.

The fabric slipped back.

Hair fell out. That ridiculous, unmistakable platinum silver.

The crowd screamed. 

Arisu crouched lower. His chest was tight.

Niragi stepped around Chishiya again, this time behind him.

He slid his hand under the strap of the guitar. Mouthed something that made Chishiya actually smile.

That smile. Arisu knew that smile. It was evil. It meant trouble.

Then Niragi did it.

He grabbed the side of the mask.

Arisu’s hand clamped over his own mouth.

The mask didn’t come off completely. Just lifted. A tease. Flash of a smirk. Curve of a cheek. The fans were losing it.

They still weren’t sure.

But Arisu was.

He had been.

And now it was worse.

Niragi leaned forward.

Pressed his mouth right to the side of Chishiya’s jaw—bare skin now. Fingers digging into his side.

And Chishiya didn’t move away.

Arisu wanted to scream.

But he just sat there.

Dying.

In a pile of cables.

He was letting Niragi do that. On stage. In front of everyone.

Arisu’s vision went a little fuzzy.

“Fuck, I’m gonna murder him.”

__

Arisu stormed backstage the second the lights dimmed and the encore ended. He didn’t care about protocol or security or whatever manager was yelling something at his back.

He was seeing red.

“Where the hell is he?” Arisu growled, pushing past some sound techs.

And then he saw them. Niragi laughing like he didn’t just set the world on fire, and Chishiya—calm, smug, sipping water like he didn’t just rip Arisu’s entire nervous system apart.

Arisu beelined to them. “You—!” He jabbed a finger at Niragi first. “You did that on purpose.”

Niragi raised a brow, still wiping sweat off his neck with a towel. “Did what?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb—”

“Aw, come on, Arisu,” Niragi smirked. “It’s just part of the show. You jealous or something?”

Arisu’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He pointed harder. “You—!”

Chishiya cut in, barely looking up. “You're being loud.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Arisu snapped. “Was I interrupting your little makeout stunt?!”

Chishiya blinked slowly. “It wasn’t a makeout stunt.”

“You let him touch your face.”

“He always touches my face.”

Arisu practically combusted.

“You could’ve said no! You could’ve backed off! Do you even understand what that looked like?! There are literally ten theories right now exploding online—one of which I accidentally fueled by existing—and now there’s an 89 percent certainty that NoFace is you!”

Chishiya tilted his head. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I swear to god—” Arisu dragged a hand through his hair, pacing in a tight circle. “I leave for thirty minutes. Thirty. Minutes. And you’re out here doing... that!”

“Arisu,” Chishiya said, maddeningly calm, “are you upset because Niragi touched me, or because it wasn’t you?”

Arisu froze.

Niragi made a dramatic “ooh” sound from the side.

Arisu glared at both of them. 

But he was flushed. Not from running. Not from yelling.

Chishiya, the evil bastard he was, had the audacity to smile behind his water bottle.

“You didn’t answer the question. 

“I’m not going to,” Arisu hissed.

“Coward.”

“I hope your strings snap next set.”

And with that, Arisu turned around and marched off.

…only to come stomping back five seconds later.

“Also, you have another appointment in ten minutes and your shirt is inside out. Fix it.”

Then he stormed off again.

Chishiya blinked. Looked down at his shirt.

Niragi snorted. “So... he’s jealous.”

“Oh,” Chishiya said, quietly smug. “Painfully.”

__

As they walked back—half-pushed, half-dragged by Arisu’s hand on Chishiya’s arm—Arisu was already going off.

“Do you even realize what this means for you? For your record? For your life?!”

Chishiya didn’t respond. He just kept walking beside him, annoyingly calm, like he hadn’t just publicly almost-outed himself with the most aggressive mic-licking stunt Arisu had ever seen.

“You’re already an international musical prodigy, Chishiya. Like, actually. People cry when you play the piano. You’ve been on classical covers of Time Magazine. TIME!”

Chishiya yawned. “Once.”

“Once is enough!”

Arisu gestured wildly. “And your dad—your dad—he’s literally the CEO of like ten hospital branches. You’re basically royalty in the med world. And let’s not forget the PR firm still trying to make you the face of their 'next gen genius' campaign—”

“I told them no.”

“They’re still trying!”

“And now,” Arisu groaned, “you want to add ‘mystery rock band sex symbol’ to your résumé? NowFace? Again?!”

“NoFace,” Chishiya corrected blandly.

“I don’t care what you call it! You can’t have three alter egos, Shuntarō, it’s confusing!”

They paused at the parking lot. Arisu was red in the face now.

Chishiya finally looked at him. “You sound jealous again.”

Arisu pointed at him. “I’m not jealous. I’m terrified.”

“For me?”

“For me!” Arisu exclaimed. “Because if this thing goes viral, I’m going to be the one answering every single PR call while you sit on your throne of chaos playing Debussy with one hand and Niragi’s neck with the other!”

Chishiya smirked. “You think about my hands a lot.”

“Stop twisting my words!”

“You said ‘Niragi’s neck.’ That feels like a projection.”

Arisu made a strangled noise. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

Chishiya got into the car, finally, still smug.

Arisu stared at him for three seconds longer, then slammed the passenger door and muttered, “You’re buying dinner. And I’m ordering the most expensive curry.”

“Mm,” Chishiya replied. “You do that when you’re mad.”

Arisu crossed his arms. “Maybe I’ll do it twice.”

His phone pinged.

He glanced down.

Message from: Reika Chishiya.

Thank. God.

Something about her—her tone, her precision, her terrifying sense of order—snapped Arisu back into control like a slap of ice water to the face. He needed that. Right now, he needed anything that didn’t feel like spinning in circles.

The message was short.

「 Shuntarō is not at the venue. Is he with you? 」

Arisu exhaled through his nose, pressed his lips tight. Of course he wasn’t there. Of course.

“You’re late,” he muttered, glaring sideways at Chishiya in the driver’s seat. “You were supposed to be there forty-five minutes ago. Your entire fanbase of piano moms is probably crying.”

Chishiya didn’t look worried. He never did. His hair was still slightly messed up from earlier, mask long gone, and his hoodie was on backwards, for some reason. Like he’d been dressing blind.

“Was I?”

“Yes, was I?—Yes, you were! And your mom is messaging me, because apparently I’m the responsible one now!”

He texted Reika back:

「 On it. He got distracted. We’re heading there now. 」

Then he jabbed his finger at Chishiya’s arm. “You’re lucky I’m still here. You’re lucky she messaged me and not your dad. Do you want to die today? Because that’s how you die.”

Chishiya blinked slowly. “I was going to show up.”

“When? After everyone left? At your own funeral?”

Chishiya just kept driving, one hand on the wheel, expression neutral.

Arisu wanted to scream. Instead he said: “The next time you have a stunt with Niragi, at least give me a damn warning.”

“I didn’t know you cared so much about my career.”

Arisu leaned back into his seat, gritting his teeth. “You have no idea what I care about.”

Silence.

Then Chishiya said, “...That’s dramatic.”

“You’re dramatic.”

He checked the time again.

Five minutes until Reika Chishiya decides to call in a helicopter.

___

Arisu tugged at his collar for the fiftieth time. The stupid thing still felt like it was choking him. He was in his usual black slacks, black button-up, and a blazer that didn’t fit quite right—but next to Chishiya, he might as well have been in gym clothes.

Because Chishiya Shuntarō walked beside him dressed like some mythical royal. All white—perfectly tailored. The shirt had embroidery along the sleeves and throat, almost metallic in the right light. His shoes were custom. His jewelry glinted. And his hair.

God, his hair.

Slicked back at the sides, twisted and knotted in a loose but elegant tail. There were small ornaments in it—somewhere between subtle and too much, but somehow still tasteful. 

It had taken Arisu twenty minutes to force him into the damn car. Twenty more to drag him into the venue.

And now they stood in the long, echoey hallway backstage. The concert was about to start. The nerves were supposed to be Chishiya’s, but Arisu was the one vibrating.

But he felt Chishiya’s spine lock up the moment she entered. Her steps were quiet, but sharp. Her eyes even sharper. She stood still in her high-collared black silk like the matriarch of a dynasty and looked Chishiya over like he was something she meant to dissolve with vinegar.

“Your hair,” she said, flat as slate.

Chishiya’s jaw twitched. “Traditional.

“It’s excessive.”

“Then look away.”

Arisu’s eyes widened. Oh.

Azami didn’t blink. “And white?”

Chishiya smiled, but there was nothing nice in it. “Because it pisses you off.”

Silence. Cold enough to freeze a string quartet.

Azami turned slightly, not looking at Arisu, but clearly aware of him. “The chairman is in the front row. I assume you know what that means.”

“I do.”

“Then act accordingly.”

Chishiya’s fingers curled slightly against his thigh. “I always do.”

Azami gave him one last glance. She didn’t even bother to hide the disapproval. Then turned and left without a word.

Arisu waited. Counted. Said nothing. Then—

“You okay?” 

Chishiya’s teeth were clenched. “She thinks I exist to make her proud. I’d rather set the piano on fire.”

“Please don’t,” Arisu sighed.

Then the stage manager peeked in. “Chishiya-san? Three minutes.”

Chishiya inhaled through his nose, exhaled slow. He straightened his cuffs. 

Then, without another word, he walked onto the stage—white and sharp and blazing.

And Arisu followed him with his eyes, like always.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Daikaku Institute runs its curriculum like a prestige cult. Which means every Monday morning starts with Etiquette & Comportment, a class designed to ensure every heir and prodigy can bow at precisely the right angle before ruining someone's life.

Chishiya sits at his assigned seat—third row, far left, near the window. Prime disassociation location. The sun catches on the edge of his silver ring as he fiddles with it. Across the room, someone is answering a question about which fork to use for oysters.

Who cares.

Chishiya knows how to destroy someone socially without touching a single piece of cutlery. But sure. Fork theory.

The teacher—Madame Kasugai—glides past his desk like she’s allergic to mediocrity. She doesn't like Chishiya. He doesn't care. Her perfume gives him a headache.

“Mr. Shuntaro,” she calls.

He doesn’t flinch. “Chishiya.”

“Would you like to demonstrate the appropriate response to a breach in formality during a diplomatic luncheon?”

He raises one eyebrow. “Yes. I'd get up and leave.”

A few people snicker. One girl covers her mouth, like laughing at him might infect her with something chronic.

Madame Kasugai doesn’t blink. “That would be considered escalation.”

He offers a shrug so nonchalant it borders on disrespect. “Depends on who you are. My mother leaves meetings when the coffee is bad.”

That earns a pause. But she moves on.

Chishiya’s never had to try to be liked. Just inconvenient enough that they’d rather keep him happy than deal with the fallout.

Daikaku doesn’t work like that.

The problem with a school full of child prodigies is that everyone thinks they’re the exception. Everyone has a legacy. Everyone has a mother who owns something. So no one’s afraid of him here by much.

It’s unsettling.

Worse, they don’t underestimate him.

They calculate him.

After class, a boy from the back row bumps into him on “accident.” 

Chishiya doesn’t react. He watches the kid’s eyes flicker—like he was hoping for a response.

He files it away.

At lunch, someone slides into the seat across from him.

Kanzaki. Sharp blazer. Terrible posture. One of those top-percentile students who thinks small talk is a form of intelligence.

“You’re Chishiya, right? The transfer? Heard you skipped four grades. Same as me.”

Chishiya smiles without smiling. “Wow. Want a medal?”

Kanzaki laughs like they’re friends. “Nah, just saying. It's rare. You’re the med-genius one, yeah? CEO dad, music prodigy bloodline?”

He spears a cherry tomato with mechanical precision. Still watching Chishiya. Like he’s dissecting a lab rat mid-lunch.

“Weird how your mom transferred you in the middle of the semester. Thought Daikaku kids had to be vetted a year in advance.”

And there it is.

The overstep.

Chishiya doesn't blink. He smiles—sharper now. Razor-smooth.

“We don’t get vetted. We get cleared.”

Kanzaki freezes, like he just realized he touched something hot.

“Right,” he says. “Right. Cool. Just wondering.”

Chishiya looks down at his untouched food. Looks back up.

“You wonder too much.”

Kanzaki disappears three minutes later.

The thing is… he can handle the glares. The politics. The backhanded compliments. He knows how to navigate poisoned waters.

What he didn’t expect—what no one warned him about—was how much this place would feel like a performance. Like everyone here is pretending they aren’t dying.

Arisu fits in too well. Too quickly.

Chishiya watches him from across the courtyard later that day, standing in a tight ring of students. Laughing at the right times. Posture perfect. Smile like it’s been surgically attached.

And Chishiya feels it again—that itch under his skin.

Like something’s been stolen. Or worse, like Arisu gave it away.

He doesn’t know what. He just knows it hurts.

____

The Daikaku boys' bathroom is disgusting.

Not because it’s dirty—please, god no—it smells like sandalwood and authority. There's literal gold trimming on the faucets. The stalls are private pods. Each mirror is rimmed with soft lighting, tuned to make every prodigy look photogenic enough to cry in silence and still land a sponsorship.

But in Chishiya's eyes, it’s nothing but rotten. Privilege fermented too long in a sealed room.

He's in the far stall. Door locked. Not because he needs to go—he just needs to not be perceived. He’s been dodging people since etiquette class. Since Kanzaki. Since the way Arisu smiled like he was born here.

His stomach’s doing that thing again. It’s not nausea. It’s not fear. It’s worse.

It’s resentment.

And then—voices.

Footsteps, laughing. Three. Maybe four. The echoes are too sharp. Not soft enough for friends. Not slow enough for strangers.

A clique.

Perfect.

He exhales quietly through his nose, leans his head against the wall. Listens.

“—seriously, he followed him here?”

“That’s what I heard. Like, actual stalker behavior. Probably bribed the board or something.”

“Reika Chishiya has so much pull, it’s disgusting.”

“Right? Her son gets in, and then suddenly this random burnout with split ends and a savior complex shows up? Come on.”

“He’s cute, though.”

“Yeah. Like a rescue dog.”

They laugh. It’s high-pitched. Tight. The kind of laugh you only hear when everyone knows they’re safe—or think they are.

“I bet he’s sleeping with him.”

“I bet he wants to.”

“I bet he’s the reason Chishiya transferred.”

“Did you see the way he looked at him? Like he’d let Chishiya rip his throat out if it meant being needed.”

They snort. Paper towel crumples. A tap runs briefly.

And Chishiya—for a moment—just sits there. Stone-still.

Not because he’s offended. That would be laughable. He doesn’t care what people say about him.

It’s the way they talk about Arisu like he’s just... some pathetic side character. A leech. A pet. A walking inconvenience lucky to be tolerated by royalty.

Like Chishiya is the benevolent one.

It’s insulting.

To both of them.

He flushes the toilet—loudly. Stands. Unlocks the door.

They all turn, mid-lip-gloss application and whispered scheming, and freeze.

Oh.

It’s not just a clique.

It’s those kids.

The ones who smile like they own the school and maybe do. Scions of pharmaceutical empires and neural research dynasties. The kind of students who know how to break a person down with three words and no profanity.

Chishiya stares at them.

One of them—the ringleader, of course—dares to speak.

“Chishiya. Didn’t know you were here.”

Chishiya glances at the sink. Washes his hands. Very slowly.

“Clearly.”

Silence.

He reaches for a paper towel. Dries his hands with the same care one might use to dismantle a bomb.

“If you’re going to gossip,” he says, eyes still on his own reflection, “do it better.”

“Sorry?”

“Arisu’s not sleeping with me.” He meets their eyes in the mirror. “He’s too busy being better than you.”

They blink.

“I—”

“And,” Chishiya interrupts, voice still calm, still glacial, “if I hear you say one more thing about him like he’s disposable—”

He turns.

Soft smile. Razor teeth.

“I’ll have your medical files leaked.”

Now that gets a reaction.

All four of them stiffen. One goes pale. One clutches her bag like it contains her actual soul.

They try to laugh it off. Try to leave with their heads high.

Only one of them looks back.

Mistake.

“Next time,” Chishiya says, voice slicing the air as the door swings, “make sure the person you’re talking about isn’t in the same tax bracket as your nightmares.”

And then it’s quiet again.

He breathes.

Finally, he lets himself lean against the sink. Closes his eyes. The fury that built in his ribs like static has nowhere to go.

 They’re not exactly wrong.

He did transfer because of Arisu.

He does care.

But Arisu is starting to act like he belongs here. He doesn't like it. He never did. Chishiya knows he can't pretend not to. 

____

Arisu’s at a table near the back. The chair’s stiff. The spine of the book in front of him is cracked. He hasn’t turned the page in twenty minutes.

His knuckles itch.

They always itch when he’s trying not to hit something.

Or someone.

He hears them before he sees them.

Soft steps. Expensive shoes. Voices like syrup and venom.

The three of them round the corner like they own the damn oxygen. One girl, two boys, Daikaku’s finest. Laughing like they’re just students. Just normal kids.

Then they see him.

Pause.

Pivot.

Smile.

Shit.

“Ohhh, Arisu, wasn’t it?”

He says nothing.

“Didn’t recognize you without your leash. Where’s Chishiya? Letting you off for recess?”

His jaw clenches. Eyes stay on the page.

He doesn’t read the words. Doesn’t even see them.

“What’s your trick, huh? Cry on command? Act tragic? Daddy in debt? Mommy missing? That whole stray-dog vibe is so marketable.”

One of them snorts. Another sits across from him—uninvited.

“Hey. I’m talking to you.”

Arisu blinks. Once.

He meets the guy’s eyes. Slowly. On purpose.

And then—

Instead of speaking—

Instead of grabbing the edge of the table and flipping it into his face—

Instead of throwing a punch so hard it makes headlines —

He smiles.

“You like dogs, huh?”

The boy flinches the slightest. It's satisfying.

“Figures. Rich kids always do. Makes you feel good. Little power trip. Throw a mutt a bone and pretend you’re a saint.”

He leans forward, slow and casual, like he’s not itching to snap someone’s collarbone through their fucking pressed blazer.

“But you don’t feed strays out of kindness. You feed them ‘cause they bite.”

The boy across from him stiffens. His name is probably some shit like Ryouga or Takami. Doesn’t matter. They all blur into the same cologne-slick sneers and hollow threats.

“I’m not stupid,” Arisu says. Still smiling. Still leaning. “I know what I look like to you.”

He taps the cracked book spine with one finger. Thump. Thump. Thump.

“You think I’m here ‘cause someone pitied me. You think I sit next to Chishiya ‘cause I fetch on command. And maybe I do. Maybe I even roll over.”

He shrugs.

“But don’t get comfortable. I was mean before I was poor.”

Silence.

One of them—the girl—opens her mouth like she’s going to throw some rehearsed insult, but Arisu beats her to it.

“And if any of you rich-bred parasites ever look at me like that again, I’ll give you something to cry about. And no one in this school will stop me.”

His smile is gone now.

“They’ll be too busy filming.”

He stands.

The chair scrapes loudly—louder than it should in a library—but no one shushes him.

They just watch.

He walks out without another word. Doesn’t run. Doesn’t stomp.

Walks.

A stray with nowhere to go and nothing left to lose.

___

He sees him as soon as he walks in.

Chishiya.

Hair like he rolled out of bed and still somehow looked expensive. Elbow propped on the desk near the window. Not even looking up. Not even pretending he might.

Arisu hesitates by the door.

He doesn’t know why. He’s not shy. Doesn’t get nervous. Doesn’t even care about people liking him, usually.

But with Chishiya—

It's different.

They’d been talking. Laughing. Throwing barbs like knives and catching them midair.

And then suddenly they weren’t.

Azami came. Reika tightened the leash. And Arisu, predictably, ran.

Like always.

Still, Arisu walks toward him. Slow. Gives him time to glance up. Nod. Acknowledge him, something.

Nothing.

Chishiya’s eyes stay on the glass. Outside. Somewhere else.

Arisu reaches the edge of the row.

“Hey.”

No answer. Not even a twitch.

So Arisu keeps walking. Finds a seat on the opposite end of the room. The farthest one with a view of Chishiya’s stupid perfect side profile.

Figures.

The teacher walks in like she’s the CEO of Morality. Long scarf. Long vowels.

“Today’s prompt: What qualifies someone as ‘worthy’ of power?”

Of course.

Arisu doesn’t bother opening the book.

He already knows how this goes.

Daikaku’s favorite pastime: hypotheticals about poverty and governance, discussed exclusively by people who’ve never waited in line at a government office or been hungry on a Friday.

The first student starts speaking. Something about legacy and responsibility. Another follows with a half-baked metaphor about chess pieces and bloodlines.

Chishiya says nothing.

Arisu's fingernail starts digging into the corner of his desk. He forces himself to stop.

“Well, there’s a reason monarchies used to work, isn’t there? They weeded out the weak.”

“Exactly. It’s not about kindness. It’s about competence. You can’t just hand the crown to anyone who wants it.”

Laughter. Head nods.

Arisu feels it bubbling.

The heat in his chest. The metallic taste behind his teeth.

Then someone says it.

“You give power to dogs, and they’ll piss on the throne.”

He doesn’t mean dogs literally. They never do.

The teacher doesn’t stop them. She smiles.

Arisu raises his hand.

The room hushes.

He never speaks. Never participates.

But now—

Now he’s grinning.

It’s not warm.

“I’ve got a better metaphor,” he says. “You breed thoroughbreds too long, and they start tripping over their own legs.”

Pause.

He leans back in his chair, stretching like he’s bored.

“See, you think money means clarity. That if you’ve got the bloodline and the etiquette and the family name, you must know what you’re doing.”

He shrugs.

“But all I see in here is the blind leading the delusional. You keep recycling each other’s ideas like hand-me-down cashmere and pretending it’s innovation.”

No one laughs.

He looks directly at the boy from earlier. The library one.

“You want to talk about worth?” Arisu tilts his head. “Come find me outside this room. I’ll show you exactly how much I’m worth.”

Silence.

Even Chishiya looks over now.

Arisu breathes out.

He leans back, laces his fingers behind his head, and waits for the bell.

___

Chishiya doesn’t care for chairs that don’t recline.

He sits wrong on purpose. Legs too far out. Fingers laced behind his neck like this is some overpriced meditation retreat.

It’s not.

It’s Composure & Execution.

A class designed to polish off “rough edges” and sharpen “inborn grace.”

It’s also bullshit.

Chishiya’s already composed. He doesn’t need to be told how to sit, how to nod, how to pause for calculated effect. He wrote the manual on how to make people squirm without blinking. And yet—

“Shuntaro,” the instructor says, her voice a scalpel made of silk. “Would you like to try that entrance again? With less... slouch.”

His eye twitches.

This is new.

No one tells him what to do. He’s the Shuntaro Chishiya. Son of a world-famous violinist. Heir to a medical empire. Rank 7 in Daikaku’s internal hierarchy.

But she just watches him. Waits.

He hates that she can. That there’s someone in this building who outranks even him.

He redoes the walk.

Back straight. Steps measured. Slight nod. The kind that says I could kill you but won’t.

It earns him a single clap. No smile.

“Tolerable,” the instructor says. “You’ll unlearn that arrogance eventually.”

Behind her, Arisu is already up next.

And he—

Chishiya hates this part.

Arisu doesn’t obey. Doesn’t follow the rules like some trained mutt. He owns them.

Where Chishiya is precise, Arisu is fluid. Controlled in a way that feels earned.

He doesn’t pause before he walks. He just moves.

No hesitation.

He stops three feet from the instructor, bows just enough, lifts his head like someone who’s never had to flinch.

She smiles at him.

Of course.

“Excellent. Exactly the tone we want from our public delegates. Restraint, tempered with threat.”

Chishiya can hear the clapping behind him. All the other students. Sycophants. Followers. Pretending they don’t see what this is.

Power.

Real power.

And Arisu’s wearing it like a second skin.

__

He’s tired.

He’s bored.

But he’s focused.

This class is stupid, but the stakes are not.

You screw up, you don’t just get a bad grade. You get re-evaluated. Reassigned. Maybe removed.

And Arisu can’t afford that.

So he adapts.

Faster than the rest of them. Better.

He bows when they want bows. Smiles when they want stillness. Walks like a prince. Talks like a lawyer.

He watches the others falter. Some overdo it. Some shrink.

He doesn’t.

Then they pair them.

Chishiya and Arisu.

Of course.

Everyone watches like it’s a damn gladiator match. Two prodigies. Two favorites.

Except Chishiya’s used to being the favorite.

They’re meant to simulate a press conference response. Chishiya goes first. It’s clean, clever. That same smug cold-blooded thing.

Then it’s Arisu’s turn.

He stands like the floor was built for him. Tilts his head just enough. His voice low, gravelly. Not threatening. But warning.

“We thank the committee for its concern. We will continue to act with integrity. And we expect the same in return.”

No wasted syllables. 

The instructor’s smile is wider this time.

“Textbook perfect,” she says. “That’s the tone of someone who commands.”

Chishiya is silent beside him.

___

Azami doesn’t kneel like most people. She lowers herself like the world owes her gravity.

There’s dirt on her gloves. Expensive, imported dirt. The kind Reika paid a premium for because some influencer said it was “nutrient-rich.” It’s trash. Azami’s already reordered real soil. Kyoto-grown. Historical. Proper.

She clips a dying camellia, muttering under her breath.

“Tragic. This whole garden’s a metaphor for your parenting, Reika.”

From behind her: soft footsteps. Miharu. 

“Azami-sama. Reika-san asked me to inform you—there’s a family visit planned this afternoon. From your daughter’s side.”

Azami hums. Doesn’t look up. Snips another flower. Dead weight.

“Shuntarō already has a partner arranged, doesn’t he?”

Miharu nods immediately.

“Yes, Azami-sama. Reika chose Nakahara Yūto.”

Pause.

Azami freezes. Her head turns, slow as sunrise.

The look she gives Miharu is the kind that once started wars.

“The Nakahara boy?” Like she just said “the rotting banana?”

Miharu, wisely, doesn’t answer.

Azami stands. Wipes her gloves on a silk handkerchief. Not because they’re dirty. Because the moment needed punctuation.

“Fine. Let it be.”

A lie.

“Invite the Nakaharas, too. I want to see what kind of low-rent circus Reika plans to marry into.”

She turns.

“And Miharu? Have the chef prepare something palatable. I doubt the boy can digest flavor.”

___

Chishiya rests his chin on his palm and taps his pen once against his cheek.

Advanced Math & Integrated Sciences. A mouthful. Like most things at Daikaku, it’s all performance and pressure dressed up in silk.

He doesn’t try. Not really. The instructor drones on about something algorithmic and idiotic. He’s already solved the worksheet on page six in his head, circled the wrong answers just to keep up appearances.

Chishiya doesn’t do “eager.”

He skims the formulas on the board and imagines setting them on fire.

“Chishiya-kun,” the teacher says, with that polite edge that means I know your last name. “Would you like to demonstrate the problem on the screen?”

He lifts his hand lazily. Points.

“It’s wrong.”

Murmurs. He lets them.

“Which part?”

“The part that assumes you don’t know what entropy is.”

A shrug.

“Kind of embarrassing.”

That shuts the teacher up. Another strike for arrogance. Probably. He’s past caring.

He’s about to go back to zoning out when the door opens.

Click.

He doesn’t look up at first.

“Arisu Ryouhei. Joining us today?”

That makes him pause.

Pause.

Breathe.

Frown.

The last time he saw Arisu, he was still trying. Still looking for something—someone—to belong to.

The boy walking in isn’t looking for anything.

Arisu doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t flinch at the eyes on him. His uniform’s sharp. Posture perfect. Like someone carved the street rat out of him and left a doll in its place.

Chishiya hates dolls.

Arisu takes the chalk from the teacher like he’s done it a hundred times. Doesn’t ask what the problem is. 

He finishes it. Fast. Clean. Elegant.

The room is silent.

He writes his answer, underlines it. Puts the chalk down like a surgeon placing a scalpel.

Returns to his seat.

Not once does he look at Chishiya.

And Chishiya—

Chishiya grips his pen too tightly. His throat’s dry.

Who the hell are you?

And what did they do to the Arisu he knew?

___

He doesn’t talk to him after class. 

But he follows.

Subtle, of course. He’s not insane.

(He is, actually.)

He waits five minutes, then excuses himself with a flimsy lie about stomachaches and low blood sugar. The teacher doesn’t even fight him. Nobody wants to argue with a Chishiya.

He slips into the hallway, lets the crowd thin. Looks left.

Gone.

Then—

Right.

There.

Arisu, walking like he has a map in his head and nowhere to be. Polished shoes. Pressed uniform. Spine straight.

Too straight. Too perfect.

Chishiya tails him from a distance. Third row of lockers. Then the stairwell.

The whole time, Arisu doesn’t look back. Not once. Like he’s untouchable. Untouching.

Like Chishiya never existed.

It’s unsettling.

The old Arisu would’ve sensed him by now. Would’ve turned around with that lazy half-smirk and called him creepy. Would’ve thrown something. Would’ve cared.

This one—

Doesn’t.

This one walks into the conservatory hall, past a pair of teachers, and vanishes around a corner like he belongs there.

Like he is one of them.

Chishiya exhales. Realizes he’s pressed his back flat against the cold wall.

Realizes he forgot to blink.

Realizes he’s gripping the strap of his bag so hard the skin over his knuckles is white.

“That’s not Arisu.”

__

He’s not following Arisu.

That’s ridiculous. Immature. Borderline pathetic.

Chishiya is simply… walking. Like a normal person. Through the same corridor Arisu just turned down. Again.

Coincidence.

There’s a lot of those lately.

He tells himself he’s just curious. That’s all. Anyone would be. Arisu was a stray mutt from outside the Daikaku pedigree, and now he’s—what? Housebroken? Groomed? Performing?

It doesn’t make sense. Arisu was raw edges. Unfiltered rage with a short fuse and stupid loyalty.

But now—

Now he’s wearing his uniform like it costs more than Chishiya’s ego. He says sir when spoken to. Answers perfectly when called. Hasn’t looked at Chishiya once.

Chishiya taps his phone screen. Blank. He’s standing outside Arisu’s etiquette class. Again.

He rolls his eyes at himself. This is stupid. This is beneath him.

He’s a genius. An heir. Practically royalty. He does not lurk outside classrooms like some clingy ex.

...He takes a step back when he hears the door.

Students file out. Arisu’s not among them.

So Chishiya waits. Casually. Leaned against the marble pillar like it’s a throne. Arms crossed. Expression bored.

Arisu walks out five minutes later. Alone.

He doesn’t notice Chishiya. Not even a flicker.

Something curls tight in Chishiya’s chest. Something cold.

He always noticed me before.

He trails behind him again. Long enough to see Arisu take a right into the south garden.

Chishiya tells himself it’s fine. He’s done now. He’ll go back to his room. Go back to his puzzles.

But he doesn’t.

He stands there. Watches the path Arisu walked down. Doesn’t move.

And when someone walks by, he immediately shifts like he wasn’t just doing that.

Not stalking or watching or obsessing.

Just curious.

Perfectly normal.

___

He doesn’t mean to corner him.

It’s just that Arisu’s alone. The corridor’s empty. His bag is slung lazily over one shoulder, like he didn’t just surgically remove his personality and bury it under etiquette lessons and forced smiles.

And Chishiya—

Chishiya snaps.

One hand on Arisu’s arm. Pulls him back. Hard enough to make Arisu stumble.

“What the hell is this?”

Arisu doesn’t fight it.

Chishiya’s eyes narrow. He steps in close, like it’s instinct. Like it’s reflex.

“You ignore me for a week, start kissing the floor at etiquette class, and now you can’t even look me in the eye? What are you doing, Arisu?”

Arisu meets his gaze. Finally. His voice is quiet.

“Trying to survive.”

The silence after that is suffocating.

Chishiya studies him. Hair combed. Tie perfect. Jaw clenched like he’s holding something in.

It’s not the Arisu he knew. And yet—somehow, it’s exactly him.

Chishiya steps even closer. They’re almost chest to chest.

“You think you can become one of them? You think they’ll actually accept you?”

Arisu’s breath hitches. He says nothing.

“They won’t. You’re not one of them, Arisu. You’re—”

“Yours?”

That shuts Chishiya up.

Arisu’s mouth twitches into something broken. Not quite a smile. Not quite a grimace.

“That’s what you’re about to say, right? That I’m yours.”

Chishiya’s throat tightens.

Arisu leans in, voice barely audible, “Fine. I’m yours. Say whatever you want. Just—”

His voice cracks.

“Just forgive me.”

And suddenly Chishiya hates himself a little more than usual.

A sharp beep interrupts them. The limo pulls up at the curb, sleek and glinting with inherited wealth and disappointment.

A uniformed driver opens the door. Doesn’t look at either of them.

Time to go "home."

Chishiya watches Arisu walk to the car.

___

Arisu really thought—really thought—that once they got home, he could stop pretending.

But then the gates opened. The car rolled past perfectly trimmed hedges. The mansion was polished like it had something to prove.

Or maybe that was just him.

He stiffens before the door even opens. Something’s off.

Inside, servants are scurrying around in perfect silence. Like ghosts. Like trained whispers.

Then he sees Reika Gown too elegant. Hair too tight. Panic just behind her eyes.

She’s across the foyer in seconds. Not walking—gliding. Like she’s afraid to make noise.

Her hand wraps around his wrist. Nails painted, grip like steel.

“You know what to do,” she breathes.

Just like that, the version of him he’s been building—this strange, sharp, perfect thing with a tied tongue and still hands—disappears.

He shrinks a little. Shoulders loosen. Mouth pulls into that obedient, docile smile.

The one Reika paid for.

He follows her into the main parlor, past velvet drapes and antique vases and men in suits who look like they want to own a country before dessert.

Chishiya’s father is standing near the fireplace. And for once, he’s actually there. In the flesh.

His posture is perfect. His suit is quieter than the room. He smiles politely as Reika’s side of the family filters in, offering cheek-kisses and icy compliments like daggers in lace.

But Arisu catches it. The flicker in his expression. The way his mouth twitches just slightly when Reika’s cousin introduces herself. The way his hand tightens around the glass he’s holding.

He’s not happy. But he plays the part.

God, this whole place is one giant performance.

Chishiya is seated by the piano, legs crossed, uninterested.

He hasn’t looked at Arisu since they walked in.

Which is fine.

It’s fine.

Arisu is not here to be looked at.

He’s here to be the friend.

The well-mannered, lower-class accessory that makes Chishiya seem human.

A conversation piece. A social charity. A doll.

“Oh, is that Shuntarō’s friend?”

“He’s so well-behaved!”

“Did you hear? His background’s tragic. Reika’s so generous to let him stay.”

He plays the role.

He thanks the guests. Bows when expected. Smiles with his eyes dimmed.

He doesn’t speak unless spoken to. And when they ask about school, he lies beautifully.

Chishiya’s eyes flick to him—once.

Arisu catches it. Pretends he doesn’t.

Because if Chishiya sees the real him right now—

If anyone does—

This whole fragile performance collapses.

The doors open wide.

Arisu stands a little straighter, watching them cross the threshold. The Nakahara family. Silks. Glossed shoes. A patriarch who smiles like he runs three boardrooms in his sleep. He assumed they were just old friends of the family. Footnotes. Networking fluff. 

The oldest son steps forward. Tall. Buttoned up to the throat. Calm, effortless sort of handsome.

He walks up to Chishiya like they’ve done this before. Like this is routine.

He stops in front of him. Bows slightly. Enough to show respect without groveling.

“Shuntarō.”

A smile. Polite. Not quite warm—but knowing.

And Chishiya rolls his eyes, but there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. But something like the ghost of one.

His stomach tightens.

His jaw locks so hard it makes his temples hurt. Hands still at his sides, fingers curling just barely. A flush creeps up the back of his neck.

His breath pulls tighter in his ribs. Like the room shrank two sizes. Like he forgot how to stand still.

Reika floats in just then, smile powdered and perfect.

“Ah, the Nakaharas,” she says sweetly. “I was just telling my son how lovely it’ll be to have you over.”

One of the aunts—draped in pearls and perfume—leans in, eyes glinting.

“Is this the one?”

“His perfect match?”

She says it like she’s announcing a wedding. Like the future's already signed and sealed.

Arisu wills himself not to make a sound. But he swears he can hear something crack. Somewhere behind his ribs.

Then she glides up beside Arisu with a smile that’s almost too tight, like it’s stapled to her face.

“Arisu,” she murmurs low enough not to interrupt the mingling, “take Shuntarō upstairs to get changed, will you? The help will assist. His stylist’s been let go.”

She says it like she’s so used to damage control, it’s practically a hobby. Before Arisu can speak, she’s already waving toward one of the housekeepers.

“Upstairs. Quickly, please. The guests won’t wait forever.”

Arisu follows Chishiya silently, a few steps behind, because Chishiya doesn’t wait for anyone, even when it’s his own damn house.

The hallway stretches too long. The staff member walks beside them, head slightly lowered in deference but not intruding. They reach the double doors to Chishiya’s room. Inside, Chishiya shrugs off his jacket. It drops to the floor.

“You gonna pick that up?” Arisu mutters, mostly to himself.

Chishiya doesn’t answer. The staff member is already kneeling to collect it.

The closet opens like a vault. A white suit is prepped. Precise and tailored just for him.

Chishiya sits in front of the mirror, legs crossed lazily, eyes half-lidded. The help begins unbuttoning his shirt with practiced care.

Arisu leans against the wall. He tries not to look.

He fails.

Chishiya’s collarbones. His pale neck. The still-red edge of a scar near his shoulder—not from accident, no way. Not in this family.

Arisu's jaw works. No words.

Chishiya finally looks up in the mirror.

“Jealous?” he says, voice like honey laced with battery acid.

Arisu snorts. His arms are crossed so tight it’s cutting off circulation.

“Of what? Your stupid neckline? Your army of maids? Sure. Deeply envious.”

Chishiya smirks. The staff finishes folding the shirt off his shoulders.

“You’re staring.”

“You’re half-naked in a room full of mirrors.”

“So don’t look.”

Arisu almost does, but he's too weak for this bullshit. He can't decide if he wants to punch the mirror or break it over someone’s head.

Instead, he just says, “You done?”

Chishiya turns slightly. Looks at him over his shoulder.

“With dressing?”

He tilts his head.

“Or with you?”

Arisu doesn’t answer. The staff quietly clears their tools and steps away.

The dinner is a well-oiled performance.

Crystal glasses clink like warning bells. Laughter floats like perfume. Every word is too rehearsed, too kind. Arisu stands near the edge of it all, perfectly positioned to look present, but out of reach.

Exactly where he belongs.

The Nakaharas are seated now, velvet and silk and old money gossip. The boy—Yuuto—hasn't stopped watching Chishiya since they arrived.

Arisu catches that twitch again. The almost-smile. From Chishiya.

It shouldn't matter.

It shouldn't crawl under Arisu’s skin like this.

“You’re Arisu, right?”

Arisu blinks. Turns. Yuuto’s standing next to him now, plate balanced in one hand, posture easy and disarming.

“Shuntarō’s friend?”

Arisu gives him a tight nod.

“Sure. Something like that.”

Yuuto grins. He’s the kind of pretty that comes pre-approved by mothers and magazine covers. Soft brown eyes, clean-cut jawline, hair so neat it might actually be bulletproof.

“Good. I was worried he didn’t have any.”

“Friends?”

“Yeah.”

Yuuto’s eyes flick across the room, toward Chishiya, who’s talking to some extended uncle like it’s a hostage negotiation.

“He never seems close to anyone,” Yuuto says. “But I’m glad to know he has someone. I mean…he’s a lot, right?”

Arisu almost chokes on his wine. It’s expensive, dry, and now very much burning his throat.

“You have no idea.”

Yuuto laughs. It’s warm and easy. Arisu doesn’t trust it.

“I was worried about meeting him again. He used to be… colder. Scarier, even. But seeing you with him—it’s weirdly reassuring.”

Arisu raises a brow.

“Me?”

“Yeah. You make him look human.”

Arisu doesn't answer that. His fingers tighten slightly around his glass, but his smile stays intact.

“Anyway,” Yuuto says, tone still light, “I hope we can get along too. You seem cool.”

Arisu doesn’t believe him for a second. But he nods anyway.

“Same.”

He hears the footsteps. Sharp and clean and deliberate. Everyone turns—of course they do.

Chishiya descends the stairs like it’s a runway. Like he’s untouchable. Like he knows it.

He’s wearing all white.

Cream silk shirt tucked into ivory trousers, buttons minimal, cuffs sharp. The kind of outfit that would look ridiculous on anyone else, too perfect, too rich, too... theatrical.

But on Chishiya?

It’s unfair.

The short hair has finally grown in just enough to not look freshly hacked, just softened—deliberately messy in a way that says someone spent time on it. His face, always infuriatingly blank like showing emotion cost him his dignity, is now cast in that delicate, polished glow that comes from good lighting and expensive grooming.

He looks like—

Arisu swallows.

He doesn’t even know what he looks like. Only that it hurts to look.

He shifts his gaze away, too fast. Too guilty. Like he got caught staring at something he shouldn't. Like Chishiya’s some sacred thing and Arisu’s the intruder again.

The room erupts.

“Oh, Shuntarō! Look at you!”

“Absolutely divine, Reika, how did you manage this?”

“He looks just like his grandfather, doesn’t he?”

Chishiya glides through the compliments like a blade through chiffon. He smiles small, rehearsed. Bows his head just slightly, just enough. Says all the right things, detached but pleasant.

He doesn’t look at Arisu. Not even once.

Arisu clenches his jaw and pretends to sip his drink.

Then Chishiya moves again—away from the crowd this time. Like it’s a performance that’s ended, and he’s bored of applause.

He heads toward the grand piano at the far end of the room, and with casual grace, he sits.

Long fingers hover.

And then—

He starts to play.

The room hushes. People fall into their conversations in low, reverent tones.

Arisu watches because he can’t not.

He stares.

Stupid.

So stupid.

If he’d just left things alone—

If he hadn’t dragged Chishiya out on that dumb little quest—

“Let’s find what actually makes you happy,”  he’d said.

Like some charity worker. Like some savior.

God, what an idiot.

It was stupid.

And fun.

And dangerous.

He should’ve known better.

He did know better.

But he’d looked at Chishiya one too many times. Laughed too loud. Let it linger too long. Thought—just for a moment—that maybe they were real friends.

And then Azami came.

And now—

Now Chishiya plays piano in all white like a prince on a stage, like he belongs to them, and Arisu stands in the corner like a dog brought in to prove he won’t bite.

It’s wrong. All of it. Their friendship, their silence, this whole damn room.

He ruined it.

Cameras flash.

Phones out, subtle but hungry. Eyes always watching. Not for him. Never for him.

For Chishiya. For the heir. The prodigy. The porcelain doll they want to polish until he disappears.

Arisu looks away. He wants to throw a chair through a window. Instead, he stands still and clenches his jaw until it aches.

He can’t afford to break.

Not here.

Not while Chishiya plays.

Not while he doesn’t look at him.

“I didn’t expect you to last this long.”

She strolled past the clumps of family still gushing over the heir and his precious piano skills. She looked every inch the retired villainess from some royal court—flawless silver hair, subtle diamonds in her ears, and a voice like velvet over razors.

A glass of wine in Azami's hand, garnet-red and unbothered, Arisu didn’t flinch.

He braced.

She didn’t look at him at first. She turned the wine glass gently by its stem, admiring the way the light caught it.

Arisu swallowed. “I’m resilient.”

“Mmm. So were cockroaches.”

She took a sip. No pause.

Then she looked at him. Slow. Direct. Not unkind—but not remotely human either.

“You’re lucky, you know. Someone like you. Right place, right time. Good face. Passable manners. And now you’re here. In this house. Wearing our suits. Breathing our air.”

Arisu didn’t respond. He didn’t dare.

Azami smiled. But it didn’t reach her eyes.

“So let’s talk options.”

His stomach coiled. He knew this game. He just never thought he’d be invited to play.

“You want to stay close to Shuntarō?” she asked, tone light. “Then be useful. Become indispensable. A shadow. A secret. Do what Reika couldn’t.”

Arisu clenched his fists at his sides. “I’m not a—”

“Oh, you are.” She interrupted without blinking. “But that’s not a bad thing.”

Her nails tapped against the glass. Click. Click. Click.

“A boy like you? Not much money. But you’re clever. Crude. Rough around the edges; but charming in a way that makes people lower their guard.”

She tilted her head. Still smiling.

“Boys like you get bought. Or destroyed.”

The words didn’t sting. They branded.

“Now,” she murmured, eyes narrowing, “wouldn’t it be smarter to get bought?”

Arisu didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until the pounding in his ears kicked in.

And worst of all?

Some sick, twisted, stupid part of him wanted to nod.

Wanted to ask, how much.

Wanted to stay in this house just a little longer.

Near him.

The wine in her hand caught the light again. Like blood.

“Think about it,” Azami said, turning to walk away. “You're far too pretty to waste.”

And just like that, she was gone.

Music floated in from the other room. Cameras flashed again. A laugh too perfect echoed down the hall.

Arisu felt like he’d just agreed to something without ever saying a word.

He finds her near the window.

She's holding another glass of wine—of course she is—and laughing politely at something some distant relative is saying, something stupid probably. Her eyes flick to him before he even says a word.

She knows.

He hates that she knows.

Still, he smiles. Smooth. Easy. Just the right amount of charming.

"Got a minute?"

Azami dismisses the relative with a look so slight it barely qualifies as a gesture. They vanish like smoke. She's already smiling before he speaks again.

“Changed your mind?” she asks, like she’s offering dessert.

“I have a question,” Arisu says. His hands are in his pockets, shoulders loose, like he does this all the time. Like this is nothing.

Azami hums. "Ask."

"Let’s say I want in. Let’s say I’m tired of scraping by. What do I have to do?"

She looks at him a little too long. Then she sets her glass down with a click. That’s her version of interest.

“Be clever. Be quiet. Be better.”

He tilts his head. “Better than what?”

“Everyone.”

Her voice is calm. Crisp. Deadly.

“Learn what people want before they know they want it. Say the right things. Disappear when you should. Don’t embarrass me.”

Arisu breathes in, slow.

He can do that. He was that. Before all this rich people bullshit. He’s always been able to bend, if it meant survival.

"And Shuntarō?"

Azami's eyes sharpen,

“Don’t fall in love with him.”

Arisu grins. “Too late.”

She doesn’t blink.

Neither does he.

"Money’s always been a problem," he says, softer. Like a secret. "I’m tired of it being one."

Azami picks up her glass again. “Then make it disappear.”

She walks away again, just like that.

And Arisu watches her go, his stomach doing weird flips.

Money. Power. Safety.

He hates himself a little, but…

Yeah.

He’d sell his soul for that.

Hell, maybe he already did.

Reika corners him near the hall of mirrors.

Literally. Mirrors. Gilded ones. A whole hallway of distorted reflections that make everyone look richer, taller, shinier than they really are. It feels like a trap. Probably is.

“Why were you talking to her?” she asks like she’s trying not to make a scene. Which, let’s be honest, she totally would if she needed to.

Arisu gives her his best confused-innocent face. “Talking to who?”

She glares. “Don’t play dumb. My mother.”

“Oh,” he says, and shrugs. “Just chatting.”

Reika steps closer. “Don’t chat with her.”

Arisu tilts his head, still playing it cool, even though his spine’s buzzing like a wire about to snap. “Why not?”

“Because you don’t talk to my mother. Not unless she talks to you. Not unless she wants something. And if she wants something from you, Arisu, that’s a problem.”

Arisu leans against the wall, arms crossed. Cool, relaxed. Acting.

"Maybe I want something too."

Reika’s face tightens. "God, you sound like her already."

He exhales. This is where he could lie. Could fake something charming, something forgettable. Instead—

“My dad worked for the Ministry. You knew that. What you probably didn’t know is he got caught in one of those scandals. Wth briefcases and bribes and politicians pretending they didn’t see a thing.”

Her eyes widen slightly.

“My mom? She was a top academic at Todai. Now she teaches first-year psych to kids who sleep through her lectures and call her obasan.”

Reika says nothing.

“We lost everything.”

And still—he smiles. Soft. Bitter. Like he’s telling her a bedtime story with a bad ending.

“So when Azami talks to me, Reika… I listen. That woman doesn’t waste her breath. If she’s got a plan for me? Good. Means I’m not disposable yet.”

Reika’s voice comes out small. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I do, actually.” Arisu straightens up, eyes sharp now. "I'm doing what your whole family does. I'm surviving."

A beat.

Then her voice cracks, just barely. “She’ll ruin you.”

And for once, Arisu doesn’t smile.

“She’ll have to catch me first.”

The party fades behind him like a ghost he doesn’t want to look in the eye.

Arisu slips through the polished halls, the click of his shoes swallowed by velvet rugs and tension. Reika yells after him—"Bring your friend his drink!"—and shoves a tray into his hands. Two glasses. Something chilled and syrupy and expensive-smelling. One for Chishiya. One for him, if he feels like playing pretend a little longer.

He stops by the guest room he’s been using, yanks the stiff collar of his outfit off, and changes into something easier. Looser. Something he can breathe in. He stares at himself in the mirror. For too long. He doesn’t look like a liar. But he is. Especially now.

He hesitates outside Chishiya’s room. The tray feels heavier the longer he stands there. He raises his hand. Knocks once. Twice.

No answer.

He knocks again.

Then, tentatively, he opens the door.

The lights inside are warm. Yellow. A little too golden for this house, which usually loves silver, white, and cold. The room is spacious, pristine, too clean—except—

Chishiya’s on the floor. Cross-legged. In a pool of scattered puzzle pieces, hair falling in his eyes. He’s changed into a soft, oversized long-sleeve and loose lounge pants that look hand-woven. Barefoot. He looks—

Normal.

Real.

Arisu swallows something he can’t name.

He lowers the tray, carefully setting it on the floor beside the puzzle, avoiding the pieces like they might crack under pressure. His hand lingers on the edge. He thinks about saying something. But Chishiya doesn’t look up.

So Arisu stands.

He’s going to leave.

He should leave.

But just as he turns—something tugs at him.

Literally.

A pale hand grips the cuff of his pants. Gentle, but firm.

Chishiya still doesn’t look up. His hair hangs like a veil over his eyes.

“You’re not gonna leave, are you?”

The words are soft. Small. Childlike, almost.

Arisu freezes.

His heart kicks into something wrong. Like it misses a step and tumbles down the stairs inside his chest. His throat tightens. His fingers curl in. Heat flares at the back of his neck. Like shame. Like guilt. Like the weight of every wrong decision he’s made until now, rolled into one too-human voice.

He doesn’t answer right away.

He doesn’t know how.

He looks down. Chishiya’s hand is still on his pants. Fragile. Like if Arisu pulls away, it might vanish altogether.

“Promise me,” Chishiya says, barely louder than before.

Arisu’s tongue feels glued to the roof of his mouth. His fingers are trembling. No one can see, but he knows.

He forces himself to breathe. Then—

Behind his back, out of sight, he crosses his fingers.

“I promise.”

Another piece clicks into place.

Arisu doesn’t know how long they’ve been sitting like this. The tray’s still on the floor, the drinks untouched. The room is too quiet—quiet in a way that feels like it’s pressing against his ears. Like it’s waiting.

Chishiya shifts. Slowly. Casually.

Then leans his head against Arisu’s shoulder.

Arisu freezes all over again. Not violently—just enough that it feels like every single nerve in his body goes still, like something’s hunting him and he’s trying not to breathe.

Chishiya’s hair brushes his jaw. His cheek rests lightly, barely-there pressure. It’d be easy to pretend it means nothing.

Except it doesn’t.

“I forgive you,” Chishiya mumbles.

Soft. Thoughtless. Like he’s just stating a fact.

“I didn’t mean what I said. Just… don’t leave, hm?”

His throat tightens. Like there’s something lodged in it. His mouth goes dry, and for a second he thinks he might actually cry, which is stupid, because what the hell is he crying for? He wanted this, didn’t he? He wanted to be here. He wanted to matter.

But it’s wrong now.

And something itches in his chest. Like nails under his skin. He wants to dig in and scratch until it stops. Or run. Or scream. Or both.

He almost does.

He really, truly almost does.

But Chishiya shifts again. Still leaning on him. Barely paying attention to Arisu, but somehow still clinging, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. One of his legs drapes against Arisu’s. His sleeve brushes his wrist. There’s no space between them now.

Arisu stares at the floor.

He tries to focus on the puzzle. But the edges blur.

He’s sweating. Just a little. His chest feels like it’s buzzing, like static in an empty TV channel. His hands are in his lap, but they twitch every so often, like they want to do something. Push Chishiya off. Or pull him closer. Or break something, maybe.

He doesn’t notice how Chishiya’s fingers inch toward the hem of his shirt. A little tug. Like a child afraid something might disappear again.

And still—Chishiya doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t say anything else. 

Arisu tries to calm down. Focus. Pretend.

Okay, he tells himself. It’s fine. It’s okay. You broke it. You can fix it.

And maybe he can.

Or maybe he's just digging himself deeper. But for now—

They talk about nothing.

Not even real nothings. Stupid nothings.

Chishiya’s voice is low and flat, like he’s too lazy to emote, but he still talks. About the puzzle. About the ugly paintings downstairs. About how his cousin tried to play piano earlier and butchered it. Arisu laughs, but it comes out too soft.

Chishiya shifts again. Slumps. His whole side presses against Arisu now. His arm loops loosely around Arisu’s, fingers absently rubbing over his wrist like he’s bored. Like he’s allowed.

He doesn’t ask permission. Never has.

Arisu doesn’t move. He listens. Nods sometimes. Murmurs a reply when he can think of one. Most of his brain’s screaming in the background anyway.

“Next week,” Chishiya says, between yawns, “we’re going to Paris.”

He says it like it’s an errand. Like going to Paris is just grabbing groceries.

“It’s a family thing. Which means you’re coming too.”

Just like that. No ask. No offer. No do you want to. Like it’s a fact. Like Arisu belongs.

For a second, he wants to believe it.

He really, really wants to believe it.

But he can’t stop thinking about Azami. That stupid smile. Her wineglass. The way she looked at him like he was some perfect little pawn. Like she could make him something useful. Something dangerous.

And he let her. He talked to her. Asked questions. Played nice.

He thought it’d feel powerful.

It doesn’t.

Now it just feels like rotting from the inside.

Chishiya exhales against his neck.

He’s closer now, somehow. When did that happen?

His legs have curled into Arisu’s lap. One hand is loosely gripping Arisu’s hoodie now, like a tether. Like if Arisu stood up, he’d drag Chishiya with him. Like leaving isn’t allowed anymore.

Arisu doesn’t even remember shifting this close.

“You talk less now,” Chishiya mutters, not even opening his eyes.

Arisu hums. Can’t say anything. If he does, he’ll ruin it again.

And then Chishiya’s quiet. His breathing evens out.

He’s asleep.

The puzzle’s half-finished on the floor. The tray’s still full. The air in the room is heavy and too warm, and Arisu’s hand is starting to cramp, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare.

Because if he does—

Chishiya might wake up.

And Arisu might have to look him in the eye.

His stomach twists. Guilt gnaws at his ribs like a dog with a bone. He feels it in his throat. In the back of his eyes. In the way he can’t unclench his jaw.

If only he hadn’t talked to Azami.

If only he’d stayed away.

If only he didn’t always need more.

If only, if only, if only.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Arisu steps out of the shower, towel hanging low on his hips, damp hair clinging to his forehead. The bathroom mirror is fogged over, but not completely. There's just enough clarity to see himself.

He glances up by instinct—just a glance—

Then stops.

His ribs.

Shit.

He leans in, dragging the towel up a little more as he squints at his torso. The skin over his ribs is discolored—bluish. Not exactly a bruise. But it stings like one.

Shit. Shit.

He presses a fingertip to the spot and flinches. Then he breathes in, and it catches halfway through his chest.

Of course. Of course it’s getting worse.

He stares for a few more seconds, frozen in place.

Knock.

“Hey.”

The door opens before he can even say a word.

Chishiya stands in the doorway, blinking, holding a room service menu.

Arisu blinks back.

There’s a full second of silence. Fog. Towel. Bruised ribs. Steam. Chishiya’s deadpan expression.

“…What the fuck?” 

Arisu throws a hand over his ribs like he’s shielding state secrets. “Knock first!”

“I did. You didn’t answer.”

“I was—! I’m—!” Arisu scrambles for dignity, tugging the towel tighter like that’s the real emergency here.

Chishiya squints at him. “Are those bruises?”

“No.”

Chishiya raises one eyebrow.

“Okay yes, but not the—they’re fine.”

“People don’t fine like that,” Chishiya mutters, stepping back. “Get dressed. I’m ordering food before you faint again.”

Arisu groans into his hands. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

Chishiya doesn’t even bother pretending not to stare.

He’s seated cross-legged on the edge of the bed, arms draped over his knees, mug in hand—watching Arisu like he’s an unsolvable equation that just walked out of the bathroom in a wrinkled shirt.

“Toast is good,” Chishiya says flatly. “Dry, emotionless. Very on-brand for us.”

Arisu nods too fast. “Right. Toast. Breakfast. Important.”

“Protein’s better, though. You look like you’re going to fold in half. You need eggs. Or meat. Or intravenous vitamins, maybe.”

Arisu lets out a tight, too-light laugh. “Wow. Harsh.”

Chishiya keeps going. “You’re also iron-deficient. Probably B12. Your lips are blue. That’s not metaphor. That’s actual cyanosis.”

“I like how you casually diagnose me like we’re in a soap opera,” Arisu mutters, grabbing the nearest croissant and pretending it doesn’t tremble in his fingers.

“I’m being helpful,” Chishiya says. “This is breakfast small talk.”

Arisu forces a smile. “You’re terrible at it.”

Chishiya tilts his head, sipping his coffee again, eyes scanning Arisu’s face. Slowly. Shamelessly.

“You’re pretending to be fine.”

Arisu bites into the croissant, chews like it's made of cardboard, and shrugs.

“Convincing,” Chishiya adds. “Very Oscar-worthy. Maybe I’ll pretend too. We can be two emotionally constipated actors on a fake vacation.”

Arisu swallows hard. His throat aches. “I’m not—”

“You’re not fine,” Chishiya says again. Quiet now. “You just think pretending keeps people from leaving.”

Arisu sets the croissant down. His hand is still trembling.

Silence.

Then Chishiya sighs, deadpan as ever. “I really hate breakfast.”

They make it to the lobby with Chishiya dragging him by the sleeve like a mom pulling her half-asleep child to Sunday school. Arisu’s shirt is wrinkled. His hair’s still wet. His soul is probably still upstairs.

“You’re not even wearing socks,” Chishiya says, giving him a once-over.

Arisu blinks down. “Oh. Shit.”

“You say that like we have time to go back.” Chishiya turns toward the entrance, tugging him along like this is some kind of hostage exchange.

“Wait—where are we going?” Arisu says, voice hoarse, catching up to his own footsteps.

“Paris.”

“I know that,” he groans. “I meant—like—what part?”

Chishiya pauses at the doors, turns, and says with a straight face:
 “All of it.”

Arisu just stares at him. “You have got to be joking.”

“I made an itinerary.”

“You what—”

“Cafés. Bridges. Giant metal triangles. It’s a fun little death march.”

Arisu sighs, but lets himself get pulled outside anyway. His ribs still ache. His head’s still foggy. The bruises feel like blooming secrets under his shirt. But Paris is cold and gold and loud, and Chishiya is here. So he keeps walking.

(Also because Chishiya will not let go of his sleeve.)

He doesn’t even flinch at the people staring.

Which is unfair, Arisu thinks, because everyone is staring. At him.

Well—no. At Chishiya. Obviously.

A group of girls passing by actually stop and do a triple take. One of them whispers, “C’est lui, non? C’est lui de TikTok—”

Another one says, “Il est encore plus beau en vrai.”

Arisu mutters, “They’re talking about you.”

Chishiya shrugs. “I’d be concerned if they were talking about you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

A flash goes off from someone pretending to take a selfie—but clearly aiming the camera right at them. Chishiya doesn’t break pace..

Someone actually approaches them. “Excuse me, are you—”

“No,” Chishiya says.

“But I just—”

“No.”

Arisu is half-hiding behind him, mumbling, “Maybe we should just go back—”

“No.”

“Chishiya—”

“We’re going to that café. You’re going to eat something that doesn’t come out of a vending machine. You’re going to drink actual water.”

“What if I just evaporate instead.”

Chishiya stops walking. Turns. Stares at him. “Then I’ll drag your ghost to lunch.”

Arisu sighs, rubbing at his ribs again, wincing a little. “Cool. Can’t wait to haunt a bakery.”

Chishiya doesn’t comment on the wince. He resumes walking, deliberately ignoring the girl trying to sneak a photo behind them.

“I hate how unfazed you are by attention,” Arisu mutters.

“I spent my childhood being examined like a frog. A few French girls with iPhones aren’t going to break me.”

That… shuts Arisu up.

They end up in a narrow café tucked between a flower shop and some place that smells like old books and licorice. The awning is faded red. The sign is barely visible. Chishiya doesn’t check the menu, doesn’t pause—he just walks in like he’s been here a hundred times before.

“Do you even know what they serve?” Arisu asks, slightly breathless from the stairs, the pace, the attention.

“Good coffee and carbs,” Chishiya says, already claiming the corner booth. “Which is more than you’ve had in two days.”

Arisu hesitates at the edge of the table, fidgeting with his hoodie strings. “What if I’m not hungry?”

Chishiya doesn’t look up from the menu. “You’re not. That’s not the point.”

Arisu sits.

And he tries, for a second, to be stubborn. To fold his arms. To remind Chishiya that just because he’s always two steps ahead doesn’t mean he gets to puppeteer every moment of Arisu’s life. But then a waiter appears, and Chishiya orders for both of them in clipped, clinical French.

“Seriously?” Arisu glares. “I could’ve—”

“No, you couldn’t. You would’ve panicked, gotten something safe, and then picked at it like a bird.”

Arisu opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Okay. Fair.

The waiter disappears. And then—for a moment—there’s quiet.

Chishiya leans back. Arms folded. Scanning Arisu again like he’s trying to figure out if Arisu’s vital signs are improving, if the ghostliness around his eyes has faded even a little.

“Why do you always do that?” Arisu mutters. “Act like you know what’s best for me.”

“I do.”

“You’re not my—” Arisu falters. “You’re not my… anything.”

Chishiya’s mouth twitches.

“That sounds like a you problem.”

Arisu snorts. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know.”

The food arrives—flaky pastries, strong espresso, something savory that Arisu doesn’t recognize but eats anyway.

“See?” Chishiya says mildly. “Not poisoned.”

“Yet,” Arisu mutters, chewing.

They eat in silence for a while. Outside, the sky is overcast. Paris doesn’t look like the romantic fantasy from movies. It’s gray and lived-in and kind of smells like rain and cigarette smoke.

“Thanks,” Arisu says eventually, picking at the edge of his cup. “For dragging me out.”

Chishiya shrugs. “Don’t make it weird.”

Too late.

They walk along Rue des Martyrs next, where the street is narrow and overflowing with color—fruit stands, bakeries, secondhand bookstores with handwritten signs like "No Wi-Fi. Pretend It’s 1993."

Chishiya drifts ahead, hands in his coat pockets, glancing at things without ever stopping. Arisu trails behind, this time not because he’s hesitant—but because he’s watching.

“Do you even know how weird you look?” Arisu calls after him, voice playful. “You’re dressed like a Bond villain trying to buy a baguette.”

Chishiya doesn’t break stride. “You’re just jealous because I have a fashion sense.”

“Fashion sense? You look like you’re about to murder someone with a fountain pen.”

Finally, Chishiya stops at a patisserie window. Arisu catches up, breath misting the glass.

“Ohhh,” Arisu grins. “So the emotionless genius does have a soft spot for raspberry tarts.”

“It’s not emotional. It’s tactical.”

Arisu snorts. “You strategically crave sugar?”

Chishiya ignores him and walks in. Arisu follows, whispering, “Do you ever smile? Or do you just twitch smugly when people fail?”

Inside, the shop smells like warm butter and vanilla. Chishiya points at two things in the glass case. One of them has powdered sugar so aggressively dusted, Arisu sneezes just looking at it.

“Bless you,” Chishiya says dryly.

“I’m allergic to your superiority complex.”

They eat in the park, sitting on the edge of a marble fountain. Arisu kicks his legs a little, gets powdered sugar all over his hoodie, and licks his fingers shamelessly.

Chishiya observes him like he’s a case study.

“You have no shame,” he remarks.

“Nope.” Arisu grins. “But I do have this.” He holds up a tiny silver spoon from the patisserie. “You left it on your tray, so I stole it.”

Chishiya raises a brow. “Are you five?”

Arisu shrugs. “No. I’m chaotic neutral.”

“…You’re not.”

“Oh yeah?” Arisu leans close. “Then what am I?”

Chishiya pauses. Looks at him for a moment too long.

“You’re unpredictable,” he says. “But not chaotic.”

Arisu quiets.

“Wow. You really like me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You totally do. That was borderline affectionate.”

Chishiya stands abruptly. “Come on. We’re going to Shakespeare and Company.”

“Because books scream romance.”

“No. Because you can’t read any of the street signs and you’re one wrong turn away from being abducted by an accordion band.”

Arisu throws his head back and laughs.

After the park, they head south toward the Seine.

The streets shimmer with leftover rain and streetlight. Tourists fade out. Locals trickle into bars. They pass the Pont des Arts. Love lock bridge.

Arisu eyes the thousands of padlocks welded to the railing. “You think this is romantic or kind of disturbing?”

Chishiya doesn’t even glance. “It’s inefficient. The weight could collapse the bridge.”

Arisu scoffs. “Jesus. Who hurt you?”

“I think you know.”

That shuts him up for a few steps. The quiet lands like cold metal in his stomach.

But then, “You know, I could lock you to the bridge,” Arisu offers, smirking. “For symbolic reasons.”

“I’d pick the lock.”

“I’d weld it shut.”

Chishiya actually hums at that. “Clever.”

They keep walking.

Next stop was Rue Cremieux. A tiny residential street, famous for its rainbow houses. Everything here looks like a toy set—lavender doors, yellow shutters, vines curling up pastel bricks.

They slow down.

Arisu sticks his hands in his hoodie pocket, awkward now. “This street’s kinda stupid.”

“It’s meant to be charming.”

“Well, it’s failing.”

Chishiya raises an eyebrow. “It’s working on you.”

“…Shut up.”

A cat crosses their path. Arisu bends to pet it. Chishiya watches like he’s trying not to intervene.

“I don’t trust that cat. It looks too confident.”

“You look too confident.”

The air is light again; but not flimsy. Arisu stands up, wiping fur off his hands. Chishiya shifts closer without meaning to.

Their arms brush. Arisu doesn’t move away.

They’re sitting on the rooftop of some sleepy little bookstore café Chishiya randomly led him to—Paris stretched below them in muted golds and cloudy soft blues. There’s a silence between them that isn’t uncomfortable, but it is weighted. Chishiya’s looking at the city like it owes him answers. Arisu’s watching him like he owes Chishiya one.

Then Chishiya says, without looking at him, “Why did you promise to make me happy?”

Arisu blinks. The question lands wrong, like it’s a trick. “Huh?”

“You said it. That you'd make me happy. But you're just supposed to be…” Chishiya exhales, like the word tastes like rust. “A friend.”

Arisu’s quiet for a second. Then he leans forward, rests his arms on his knees, and thinks out loud like he always does.

“I guess because... I know what it feels like to think you're only valuable if you're useful. If you don’t do anything for anyone, you’re nothing. You disappear. So… maybe I didn’t want you to feel like that. Not around me, at least.”

Chishiya turns to him finally. 

Arisu shrugs with a half-laugh. “Also, like, you’re the loneliest bossy bastard I’ve ever met. And I’m apparently a sucker for strays.”

Chishiya snorts, but his smile is slight. Fond. Faint. “You’re not as stupid as you act.”

“Thanks,” Arisu grins. “Neither are you, but don’t let that go to your head.”

Before either of them can get too sentimental, Arisu’s phone buzzes. He glances down and immediately grimaces.

“Uh-oh.”

Chishiya raises a brow. “What.”

Arisu shows him the screen.

REIKA: 

You two are ten minutes late. 

“…We should go.”

Chishiya sighs, pushes off the bench, and mutters, “I’m always grounded when I’m with you.”

“Technically I’m the one being paid to babysit you,” Arisu points out, hopping to his feet. “So whose fault is it really?”

“Yours,” Chishiya says flatly, and starts walking.

But he doesn’t walk too far ahead. Not this time.

__

Reika stands like she owns the marble beneath her heels, speaking in fluid, polished French to a cluster of equally polished guests. 

It’s all very... expensive. Arisu doesn’t understand the words, but he gets the tone—formal, tight-lipped, and fake. Chishiya’s there, a step behind her, arms folded, jaw set. He’s not just quiet. He’s disagreeing.

One of the guests laughs. Another gestures, like they're referencing something Chishiya should obviously comply with. 

Reika says something quick and neat, but her knuckles are white around the clutch in her hand. Her smile is dangerous. A don’t-you-dare kind of smile.

Chishiya exhales. Hard. Then he says something low, clipped, and completely final. French. It sounds like fuck off, but with manners. He turns without waiting for permission and jerks his chin for Arisu to follow.

Arisu obeys before his brain catches up.

They’re halfway down the hallway when Arisu realizes he hasn’t breathed properly since they walked in. By the time the door clicks shut behind them in the hotel room, his heart is still playing catch-up.

“What the hell was that?” 

Chishiya pulls off his coat like the air is heavier now. “They want me to perform.”

Arisu frowns. “Perform...?”

“On the ice,” Chishiya mutters, like it’s obvious.

And it is, sort of, but also isn’t. Arisu’s brain scrambles. Right. Ice skating. Fancy bloodlines. French diplomacy or whatever the hell that was. Oh my god, they wanted a show.

“A performance?” Arisu echoes, still catching up. “Like—like you’re some... trophy?”

Chishiya doesn’t answer. He just sits down on the edge of the bed like all his bones have gone cold. Arisu stares at him.

They wanted him to dance on ice. Like he’s still fifteen. Like he’s still theirs. Like he hasn’t spent years trying to be anything else. Arisu suddenly feels like punching someone.

Chishiya makes a call—sharp, quick, no room for argument. Less than five minutes later, there’s a knock.

The door opens and someone steps in carrying a garment bag and a black violin case. 

Chishiya takes the clothes without a second glance and disappears into the bathroom. The sound of hangers clinking, zippers, and fabric follows. Arisu stays frozen, eyes on the floor.

When Chishiya steps out again, he’s already dressed—black slacks, black button-up, everything clean-cut and mercilessly neat. He’s buttoning his cuffs when he mutters, “Let’s get this over with.”

They fix his hair in seconds. It’s short now, so all it takes is a comb, a bit of product, and a hand that knows what it’s doing. No one says a word.

Chishiya slings the violin case over his shoulder, nods once to the person who brought it all, and walks out.

Arisu follows. Wordless.

Down the elevator. Past the gold-trimmed lobby. The doorman opens the limo without being told.

Chishiya pauses and says, flatly, “You should ride with my mother.”

Arisu blinks. “Why?”

“She’ll ask if you don’t.”

That’s it. No more explanation. Chishiya ducks into the limo already waiting for him, and Arisu is left under the awning of the hotel, breath caught in his throat.

He turns, scans the area, and spots Reika with her husband. She looks like she’s been expecting him. Arisu walks over, and without a word, the second limo pulls up.

They ride together—to the rink. An exclusive one. Secluded. Private. One of those places that looks like it was made to be stared at, not played in.

Arisu, still sitting upright in the limo, watches the grand lights of the building blur past the tinted window. He glances at Reika, who’s calmly fixing her earrings like they’re the only thing worth adjusting in this entire situation.

“…This whole thing is for him?” 

Reika hums. “The French delegation enjoys Shuntarō’s performances. He’s become something of a… favorite. We only host them once or twice a year. It’s best to give them what they want.”

She says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s natural. Like offering up your son as curated entertainment is no big deal.

Arisu tries not to let his face twist. “And what does he want?”

Reika gives him a slow, practiced smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “That’s not always the question we ask.”

The limo rolls to a stop.

The venue looks like it came straight out of a billionaire’s fever dream—an ice rink framed by glass architecture, chandeliers suspended like stars, fountains flanking the entrance like twin guardians of elegance. The doors swing open.

Inside, it's louder. Polished voices, clinking glasses, ambient strings. French everywhere. Velvet gowns, tailored tuxedos, high heels that sound like gunshots on marble.

Arisu follows Reika and her husband through the crowd. And instantly, they're surrounded.

“Madame Chishiya, toujours aussi ravissante!”

“Vous avez entendu? Le jeune Shuntarō va jouer ce soir.”

“Qui est ce garçon avec vous?”

Arisu stiffens as heads turn. Eyes flash to him. He's not dressed like them. He doesn’t talk like them. But they stare like he’s either someone very important—or a very interesting mistake.

Reika smiles, hand light on Arisu’s back. “A friend of Shuntarō’s. He’s observing.”

Observing.

The lights above the rink dim.

A hush ripples through the French and Japanese elites like the air itself is being held still. A subtle spotlight spills onto the ice, cool and bluish, and the opening chords from the sound system fade to a distant whisper. Then—

Chishiya steps onto the ice.

And for a second, Arisu blanks.

He never really considered that Chishiya would be a figure skater. It just didn’t… come up. Not with his deadpan face and sociopathic timing. But then again, of course he is. He’s a rich kid. The kind who probably took skating lessons at five, fencing at six, cello by seven, piano by eight. Probably has a chess medal somewhere he forgot about.

But it’s different seeing it.

Chishiya isn’t in anything extravagant—just a tailored skating suit with elegant black and deep silver trim, gloves tucked sharp to the wrist. But it’s the way he moves that stuns Arisu into silence.

Like this isn’t a performance. Like this is instinct. Like he’s not performing at all. Existing in his element.

Chishiya circles once, slow, crisp. He pulls out a violin from a case set at the rink’s edge—like a detail so surreal it could only exist in his kind of world—and brings it up to his shoulder.

He breathes in.

And Arisu’s pupils dilate.

The first note splits the silence with something so sharp, so aching, that it pierces straight through the crowd and directly into Arisu’s chest.

Not like the cello. Not like the piano. This is raw.

The kind of sound that vibrates through bone. That grabs the part of you that’s never said anything out loud and yanks.

Arisu watches, heart hammering harder with every phrase Chishiya plays. He shouldn’t be reacting this much. It’s just another performance.

Except it's not.

It’s him.

And he’s watching him.

Chishiya is…

Damn near ethereal.

Not just skilled. Not just precise. He’s skating like it’s second nature, like he doesn’t have to think about each movement, each breath, each turn. Like he could be blindfolded and still land every jump, still drag that bow across the strings with that ridiculous, aching elegance.

He twirls once, leans into a glide, draws the bow again—and the note bends, cries, trembles just a bit before settling.

Arisu swallows hard. His palms are sweating and his jaw is tight, and that’s when it hits him.

Like a stupid ton of velvet-lined bricks.

He’s messed up.

He’s actually messed up.

This isn’t fair.

How is Chishiya… this?

Why didn’t he see it sooner?

Why does he make it so easy to forget the plan?

He was supposed to show up, fake being his friend, keep things simple, get paid, and leave. But now—

Chishiya drags the bow slower, head tilted, eyes half-lidded like he's playing not for the crowd, not even for himself, but for something unspeakably intimate.

Arisu swears under his breath again. Something French this time. He doesn’t even know French.

He can’t look away.

He has to look away.

He doesn’t.

They meet eyes. Arisu swears that the bruises in his ribs sting harder—but not from pain. From something else. From heat, or hunger, or whatever the hell this feeling is.

Chishiya’s blade kisses the ice like it was born there. Like it belongs there. One arm draws his violin close, the other guiding the bow like a whisper, and the sound—

God, the sound hurts.

It’s beautiful. Aching. Cold and aching like memory. Like grief dipped in gold.

Arisu knows this man plays every instrument like it owes him its soul—but this. This is different. This is his.

Their eyes meet.

And his eyes—his goddamn eyes—

They almost look like they’re smiling. Not his lips, not his face, just his eyes.

And Arisu realizes, way too late;

He’s fucked.

(Not supposed to fall for the person you work for. Especially not when they’re this untouchable. Especially not when they’re him.)

Arisu coughs.

Sharp and sudden, a ragged snap in his chest that makes his shoulders jerk forward.

He presses the back of his hand to his mouth, and his fingers come away cold. His lips feel blue. Maybe he shouldn’t be standing this close to the rink—the temperature, the ice, the stupid chill in the air. That would’ve been a reasonable excuse.

But he knows. It’s not the cold.

His head swims slightly, like the lights above are flickering too low, like the air is thinner here. He blinks and it feels delayed.

His throat—

It feels wrong. Like something's growing inside it, foreign and stubborn. Like roots clawing their way up from the bottom of his lungs, inching toward his mouth.

He swallows. The taste of iron sits heavy on his tongue.

Chishiya plays on. Bow dragging across strings, notes unfurling like fog. He hasn’t looked at Arisu again. 

Arisu wraps his arms around himself. He can’t tell if he’s shivering or shaking. Maybe both.

He should walk away. Should breathe.

But his feet are planted. And his heart is a fucking traitor.

Reika notices before anyone else.

From the edge of the rink, she straightens slowly, fingers clasped neatly in front of her like she hasn’t already been watching him out of the corner of her eye the moment he walked in.

“Ryōhei. Are you alright?”

Her voice has that terrifying softness—like snow falling on glass. The kind that doesn’t ask for lies but expects them anyway.

Arisu blinks. Once. Twice.

He smiles, and instantly regrets it. “Fine,” he says. Or tries to.

It feels like splinters in his throat. His head pulses with every heartbeat. There’s pressure building behind his eyes like his own body is sick of him pretending nothing is wrong.

He nods—a little too quickly—not quite meeting her gaze. “Just a little… cold.”

Reika doesn’t move. Not yet. But her eyes sharpen.

“Cold?” she repeats, even as she watches his knees shift, the weight of his body clearly sagging to one side. “You’re pale.”

Arisu opens his mouth to answer—

—and the room spins.

His ribs flare in pain. His throat tightens like vines are coiling inside it. And the ice below Chishiya’s skates suddenly looks so far away.

His hand shoots up to cover his mouth, barely catching a choked cough. Something warm and metallic touches his tongue.

Shit.

“Arisu?”

Reika’s tone changes instantly—not soft anymore. Not that kind of soft. More clinical. More alert.

And Arisu—

His vision tunnels. His legs give out.

He’s going to faint. He knows it. And in the split second before he fully blacks out, the one stupid thought that burns through his skull like fire is:

Goddamn it. Not in front of Chishiya’s mom.

__

He watches roots unfurl in his left atrium.

Thin, fibrous, invasive. 

They slither through chambers of muscle, slipping into his lungs like they were always meant to be there.

It doesn’t hurt. Not yet.

The roots keep growing.

Keep curling, climbing, wrapping around alveoli like ivy on old brick.
 And then—

a flower.

It blooms inside him, gentle and pale. Its petals rise like breath, but they don’t let him breathe.

They push against his trachea.

Clog his air.

Silence builds in his throat, thick and permanent.

The roots keep going—

into his veins, up his neck, around his vocal cords.

His mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

Too late.

He wakes up in a hospital.

White light. IV drip. His throat aches like it’s still filled with soil.

He turns his head. A monitor beeps steady. Reika’s voice murmurs just outside the door.

And by the window, in a cheap plastic vase—

a single flower. Still blooming.

Arisu stares at the flower.

He can’t breathe.

Not because of tubes or wires or whatever drug is still dragging through his blood—

but because it looks exactly like the one in his lungs. The one from the dream. The one that killed him, in slow motion, petal by petal.

Something in his chest twists violently.

He yanks the IV from his arm. His headache spikes, but he doesn't care. His legs wobble under him, but he stands.

And with all the fury his weak arms can manage, he grabs the vase—

and throws it against the wall.

Glass shatters. Water splashes. The flower hits the ground, broken.

But Arisu is still shaking. He can't breathe, he can't breathe he can't, he really can't, he can't he can't he can't—

The door bursts open.

Arisu flinches, blinking against the hospital light. His vision swims—white sheets, spilled water, blood still trickling faint from where he tore the IV. He thinks it’s another nurse. Or worse, Reika.

But then—

arms.

Arms wrap around him tightly, pulling him in before he can speak or fall or cry or run.

It’s Chishiya.

Arisu blinks fast, breath hitching. Everything’s blurry. He can’t even see Chishiya’s face properly. Just the shape of him. The warmth.

His body goes still in the hug, like he’s forgotten how to exist inside safety. But then—

his ribs loosen. His shoulders drop.

Something unclenches inside him.

He doesn’t speak. He can’t. But he leans into it.

And for the first time in what feels like days, Arisu wants to stay.

Right there. Right in that moment. Forever.

But he knows that’s impossible. Forever’s always impossible.

It rots. It leaves. It dies.

He stiffens in Chishiya’s arms.

The walls are closing in again. The flower in his chest pulses like it's still there, squeezing tighter, thorns curling around his ribs.

He needs to leave.

He needs to get out.

Now.

He can’t stay here. Not another second. The white walls. The beep of machines. The air too clean, too fake.

He has to quit.

 All of it. Everything.

He pulls back, but Chishiya doesn’t let go at first—he looks at him, worriedly, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to figure out what the hell is happening.

“Are you okay? Do you need—”

But Arisu isn’t listening.

His head is somewhere else. Drowning in the weight of all the promises he made, all the things he said he’d do. All the things he can’t do anymore.

He can’t.

He really can’t.

Then his phone rings.

Arisu grabs it like it’s oxygen. Like maybe it’ll drown out the chaos in his chest.

He answers without thinking. "Hello?"

There’s sniffling on the other end. Small. Broken. Familiar.

“Ryō…” a voice cracks. “Mom’s… she’s gone. And—and—”

It’s Hajime.

Arisu goes still.

Everything else—

the flower, the quitting, the choking grief—

drops into silence.

Arisu doesn’t move for a while. Like his brain finally shut off.

Maybe it did.

He hopes it did.

But he’s breathing. He’s still standing. So no, unfortunately—he’s not dead.

Chishiya watches him closely, then gently takes the phone from his hand like it’s something delicate. Fragile.

“Who is this?” he asks, tone low, cautious.

There’s a pause. Then Chishiya’s expression changes. He stills.

The sniffling on the other end continues—quiet, wet, barely holding together.

“Your mother is…”

Chishiya’s voice dips, as if it’s not sure if it should say the words out loud.

“She’s in the hospital.”

A beat.

“She tried to kill herself.”

Chishiya stares at nothing. Not Arisu. Not the phone. Not the room. Just... nothing. Blank. Stunned in a way Arisu recognizes far too well.

Arisu knows that feeling. The one where your body keeps going but your insides… don’t.

He reaches out, takes the phone back.

“Hajime?”

A hiccup. “Yeah.”

“Where’s Dad?”

“He’s trying to get off work,” Hajime says. “He’s—he’s talking to the nurses. I don’t know, he said he’ll call you later. He—he doesn’t know what to do.”

Arisu nods, even though Hajime can’t see it. It’s the only thing he can do.

“…Okay.”

He hangs up. 

They both breathe like that for a while. Heavily. Like breathing itself felt like a punishment for still being alive. Since when did we have to breathe? It's nothing but a necessity. No one told us to keep breathing, but we do it anyway. 

“I have to go,” Arisu mutters, barely audible. “Don’t wait for me.”

Chishiya ignores him. “I’ll take you to the airport.”

“No.” Arisu grips the strap of his bag tighter. “I said I’ll do it myself.”

Chishiya’s jaw tightens. “You’re shaking. Don’t be an idiot.”

“I’m not your responsibility.”

“I know.”

“Then stop acting like you care.”

Chishiya blinks, stunned for half a second. “I do care.”

“No, you don’t,” Arisu spits. “You were never supposed to. You don’t even know how.”

Chishiya says nothing. He stands there, still.

Arisu laughs. Bitter. Cold. Like he’s running on fumes. “You were just part of the package. Just something I agreed to deal with. You think I wanted this? You think I wanted you?”

That’s when Chishiya’s eyes flicker. Wet around the edges. But still he doesn’t speak.

“I was assigned to you, Chishiya. I literally work for you. You were a goddamn task. A walking problem I had to keep on a leash.”

He turns, voice raw now. “You were never anything more than a job. And I’m done clocking in.”

He leaves without another word. Chishiya stays frozen.

He doesn’t look back. 

Chapter Text

Arisu’s screaming.

The room is neon. Blinding pinks. Sickly blues. Saturated yellows. Like a children’s party designed by someone who never met a child. Like a breakdown on acid.

He’s clawing at the walls.

The wallpaper writhes. It pulses. Like it's breathing with him.

He sees his mother across the room, dressed in white.

She tilts her head. Smiles. Then slits her throat.

But it’s not blood that comes out.

It’s roots.

Gnarled, choking, growing too fast. They twist up her face, coil around her eyes, and burrow through her skull like ivy.

He screams louder.

His father’s face flickers into the corner of his vision—click.

Then again. Click.

And again.

Like a faulty slideshow. The mouth open in a silent scold. The eyes pixelating.

Clickclickclickclick—

He shuts his eyes, covers his ears. But he hears his brother sobbing. The sound is soaked in guilt, layered over regret, like audio corrupted by grief.

“Make it stop,” he whispers. “Please—”

The ground cracks.

The walls ripple.

His chest seizes — not metaphorically. Actually. Physically. The pressure builds like a scream that never makes it out—

Then turbulence.

Just turbulence.

His eyes snap open.

The overhead light is sterile. The man next to him is asleep, mouth slightly open, earbuds in. A crying baby somewhere behind him. Nothing is on fire. No one is bleeding. No one’s looking.

Arisu adjusts the tray table. Places his hands in his lap. They’re trembling.

He doesn't ask for water.

He doesn't ask for help.

He lands in Japan.

The customs officer doesn’t look at him twice. No one does.

He slings his bag over his shoulder—too heavy, but he pretends it's not—and walks through the arrival gates like he’s done this before. Like he didn’t just die in his sleep.

He doesn’t text anyone.

Not his friends.

Not Chishiya.

Not even himself.

The airport smells like coffee and floor polish and something deeply impersonal.

His throat tastes like copper. His lips are still a little blue.

Outside, Tokyo is gray.

Not metaphorical-gray. Just… rainy. Cloudy. The kind of day that looks like someone desaturated the world on Photoshop and forgot to click undo.

He walks down the sidewalk. Shoulders hunched. Face blank. There’s an ache in his chest he pretends is from his posture.

There’s a cough he swallows like guilt.

There’s a feeling like he’s forgotten something—like someone should’ve been here to stop him. To say “don’t go.”

No one did.

He keeps walking.

The rain starts.

Arisu doesn’t bother with an umbrella. His hoodie is already damp. His sneakers are already ruined. One more thing falling apart won't make a difference.

He takes out his phone.

Block.

Reika.

She always texts in soft, lowercase reminders.

have you eaten?
 you can come back.
 he’s not as angry anymore.

Block.

Karube. His check-ins have too much warmth in them. Like he's still hoping Arisu will say “hey, let’s meet up. Let’s go back to that ramen place.”

Block.

Chota. Chota never says anything important. Just dumb memes and "you alive?" texts at 3am. But somehow those are the hardest to ignore.

Block.

Chishiya.

He doesn’t even hesitate here. He doesn’t let himself scroll. He doesn’t reread the last message. He doesn’t let himself want.

Block.

 Mr. Kuroo.

Block.

Silence now.

He stares at the phone a little longer.

Then, quietly, he calls.

The line rings twice.

“...Ryouhei?”

His brother's voice is too soft. Too worried.

“Which hospital?”

A pause. Static.

“We’re at St. Arka’s. Why?”

Arisu clears his throat. Feels a rasp in his lungs that tastes like rot.

“I’m coming.”

That’s it. No explanation. No small talk. He ends the call.

He flags the first cab he sees.

The driver asks, “Where to?”

Arisu says, “St. Arka Hospital.”

The driver gives a glance—the wet hoodie, the vacant stare—but says nothing.

As the car pulls away from the curb, Arisu leans his head against the window.

Tokyo blurs. Neon signs drag across the glass like smeared paint. The rain makes everything look like it’s melting.

He closes his eyes. He doesn't sleep.

The cab drops him off at the emergency wing.

The fluorescent lights hum. The hallway smells like rubbing alcohol and regret. A nurse glances at him, then back to her clipboard. He’s just another body in the hall.

He checks his phone.

Hajime: Room 319. ICU floor. She’s stable.

Stable. The word means nothing.

He takes the elevator up.

The walls feel too white. Too bright. The light’s buzzing is almost screaming.

His hands are still cold.

Room 319.

He turns the corner.

Sees them before they see him.

His father is talking to a doctor outside the room. Sharp suit. Straight posture. Voice low. Controlled. He always has that controlled tone, like even sorrow should be delivered with a resume and a handshake.

Arisu stops.

And suddenly he feels it.

That crawling. That thing.

Rising in his throat like bile—

but not bile. Something else. Something worse.

It’s thick. Rotting. Alive. It coils under his tongue like it wants to speak for him.

He swallows it down. Hard.

He walks forward.

He doesn’t even look at his father.

“How is she?” he asks the doctor. Voice flat. Deadened.

The doctor hesitates, flicking eyes between father and son like there’s a protocol for emotional minefields.

“We stabilized her vitals,” the doctor says carefully. “The bleeding stopped. She’s unconscious, but… the damage wasn’t irreversible.”

Arisu nods once. The thing in his throat thrashes.

His father finally speaks.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

Arisu still doesn’t look at him.

“I didn’t come for you.”

The silence after is enough to crack the tile under their feet.

The door creaks as he enters.

His mother lies still on the bed, like a painting half-erased. Pale skin. Oxygen tube. Wrist wrapped in white bandages that feel louder than the monitor’s beeping.

Arisu stops.

His heart stutters.

Something about the wires… the IV drip… the stillness—it all tugs at something deep and irrational.

Like the fear of shadows at night.

Like monsters in closets and under beds.

Like if he blinks too long, she might disappear.

But he smiles anyway. Soft. Gentle. Tired.

“Hi, mom.”

He walks to her side and bends down, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Her skin is cold.

For a terrifying moment, she doesn’t respond. Then—

She gasps, small and quiet, blinking up at him like she’s been pulled out of a fog.

“Ryouhei…? When did you get here?”

“Just now.”

“You came back.” She smiles—it’s warm, and terrifying.

“Are you hungry?”

Arisu shakes his head.

He pulls the visitor’s chair closer, sits on the edge. His knees are bouncing. He presses his palms into them to make it stop.

“What happened?”

She looks at the window.

The rain is still tapping against the glass.

“Oh, that.” She waves her hand like she’s brushing dust off the air. “It was nothing. I was just tired. I missed you too much.”

Arisu’s throat tightens.

“I was just so sad,” she says. “I missed my little Ryouhei so, so much. You’re still at school, right?”

Arisu hesitates.

“I transferred… somewhere else.”

She doesn’t ask where.

She just nods and smiles and says, “That’s good.” 

Arisu nods back.

She’s smiling again.

That same gentle, flickering expression she used to wear when he came home with scraped knees and forgot his umbrella.

Only now she’s in a hospital gown, her wrists bandaged like paper she tried to tear herself out of.

She turns her head on the pillow.

“Hajime said you got a job,” she says quietly. “Something about… hired companionship?”

Arisu stiffens.

His breath catches in his throat for a second too long.

He doesn’t look at her.

He doesn’t want to talk about Chishiya. About what it meant. About what it did to him.

But she’s looking at him with those soft, post-storm eyes. The ones that say, “You don’t have to say everything. Just say enough.”

So he gives up a little.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “One of the richest families in Japan. Their only son was… lonely.”

The words feel fragile. Like ice cracking underfoot.

“He didn’t really have anyone. No friends. No one close. I was just… there.”

His mother nods slowly. Her eyes flutter closed, just for a moment Like she’s memorizing the version of the story he’s allowing.

“That’s kindness,” she whispers. “Not many people know how to do that anymore. Just… be there.”

Arisu blinks hard.

Suddenly, the door opens.

Hajime stands in the doorway. His eyes are red. He’s wiping at them with his sleeve like he’s trying to hide the fact that he’s been crying.

He stops when he sees Arisu. Breath catches. Face pulls tight like he’s relieved and pissed off and wrecked all at once.

“You’re here.”

Arisu just nods.

His mother sighs gently.

“Both my boys. Together.”

For a second, the room feels like home. And a funeral.

Arisu then stands and tells her to go to sleep, voice soft, almost childish. His mother nods, her eyes already fluttering closed, as if his presence was enough to let her rest. He fixes her blanket before stepping out.

Hajime is waiting just outside the door, wiping the remnants of tears from his face with the back of his hand like he’s mad at himself for crying. Arisu doesn’t say anything. They both just stand there, side by side, staring at a beige hospital wall.

After a long beat, Hajime says something stupid and normal, like, “Did you eat?”

Arisu answers just as normally, “No.”

Silence again.

Really, there’s nothing to say.

Hajime’s eyes flick downward, then frown slightly. “What’s that?”

“Hm?”

“On your neck.”

Arisu frowns and raises his hand to touch the base of his neck, near his collarbone. His fingers press against something faintly raised. His skin feels tight there, but not painful. 

He pulls the collar of his shirt down slightly to check—and yeah. It looks like veins, but the color’s off. Darker. Bluish. Like bruised roots crawling under the skin, thin and sharp, coiling in odd directions.

He shrugs.

“Nothing.”

Hajime stares. “That doesn’t look like nothing. Are you sick?”

“No,” Arisu replies, a little too fast. Then, slower: “I mean. I don’t think so.”

Hajime's expression folds into worry again, gentler this time. “You’re not sleeping, are you?”

“I am.”

“Eating?”

Arisu doesn’t answer.

“Are you...okay?”

Arisu scoffs faintly, amused in the worst way. “Define okay.”

Hajime doesn’t laugh. He watches his brother like he’s seeing something unspooling inside him. “You look like something’s eating you alive.”

“Maybe it is.”

“Ryohei.”

But Arisu’s already turning, walking back down the hallway.

“I’m fine,” he says over his shoulder. “Tell Mom I’ll visit again tomorrow.”

He doesn’t look back.

As Arisu turns the corner, one hand still curled in his coat pocket, steps light and careful like the floor might betray him, he doesn’t expect to see him.

But there he is.

His father.

Leaning against the wall just past the elevator, arms crossed like a judge behind a podium, head down like he's contemplating something serious. But the moment Arisu appears, his eyes flick up. Heavy. Sharp.

He exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, the way he does when he's trying not to explode.

“You really have the nerve to show up. After running away.”

Arisu freezes in place. For a second, his pulse stutters—but his expression doesn’t.

“Yeah,” Arisu says flatly. “Guess I do.”

His voice is low. Void of tone. He makes no move to approach. Doesn’t bother pretending this is a conversation.

“You disappear without a word, leave your mother sick and me—” His father cuts himself off, shaking his head. “—and now you think you can just stroll in here like you care?”

Arisu’s mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not exactly. “I do care. I just care better from far away.”

His father pushes off the wall, a vein ticking in his temple now. “Don’t be cute with me. You’ve always been like this. Always so damn smug. Too proud to say sorry, too weak to stay when it matters.”

The blow doesn’t land like it used to. Arisu's learned to brace for it now.

He hums, slow and biting. “Proud and weak. Cool combo. Sounds like the gene pool did me dirty.”

That’s when his father really snaps.

“You’re nothing but a burden. You think I don’t see right through you? That lost little act you pull. You’re just like your grandfather—couldn’t handle life so he drank himself into a stroke. What’s your excuse, huh? Panic? Sadness? Boohoo, poor little boy can’t breathe sometimes?”

Arisu swallows it whole. Doesn’t even flinch. He feels it lodge somewhere between his ribs and stay there.

He smiles. Sharp and hollow.

“Wow,” he says softly. “You’ve been rehearsing that one, huh?”

Then he tilts his head, steps slightly to the side—still not closer, still not smaller.

“You done? Or do you want me to cry for you so it really hits?”

His father’s voice cracks, but the anger masks it before it can be mistaken for grief.

“If you were man enough and didn’t let this stupid mental health bullshit get to you, we’d be happy. We were happy once, and you just had to ruin it. Why can’t you be grateful for anything? We gave you everything. And you threw it back in our faces like some self-absorbed victim.”

He steps closer, like his disappointment needs less distance to hit harder.

“You think the world cares that you’re tired? That your feelings are hurt? Get over it. Everyone’s suffering, Ryouhei. You’re not special. You just made everything harder for everyone. You made me hate coming home. You made your mother cry herself to sleep. And for what? Because life wasn’t soft enough for you?”

His voice drops, colder than before.

“You let it get to you. That’s the problem. You let it win. And now we all have to pay for it.”

Arisu shrugs, lazy and hollow, like someone who’s already died a little in the silence before speaking.

“Well,” he says, voice soft and mocking in the same breath, “thank god I could finally give you a reason to hate me. Must be such a relief after all those years of pretending.”

He lets out a short laugh—too dry to be real.

“You win, Dad. I’m the problem. I’m the disappointment. The broken one. The one who ruined your golden little fantasy of a perfect son. You want to add anything else, or can I go back to being invisible now?”

He tilts his head, gaze flat. “Or maybe you’d prefer if I just disappeared for real this time?”

His father scoffs. “Go ahead. Do whatever you want. We wouldn’t care if you died at all. Better do it right. We won’t pay for your hospital bills if it goes wrong.”

Then he walks past him—no, barrels through him—shoulder slamming into Arisu’s like he wants it to bruise. Like he wants it to echo louder than the words already stuck in Arisu’s head.

He just stands there, staring ahead, not really seeing the hallway. The wallpaper. The shoe rack. His own hands.

That sentence plays again. We wouldn’t care if you died at all. It loops. Sticks. It doesn't even hurt at first—it just exists. Like a fact. Like gravity. Like rain.

Maybe he's heard it before. Maybe not in those exact words, but in the pauses. In the silence at dinner. In the way no one ever asks if he's okay.

Better do it right.

He closes his eyes. Tries to breathe. Wonders how it still surprises him.

He adjusts the strap of his bag and steps out. The rain has turned violent, pounding against his skin like it's trying to wash him off the earth.

He walks. The streets blur past, headlights slicing through the wet haze, but none of it really reaches him. His apartment—the one he got just to escape—appears like a checkpoint in a game he doesn’t care about winning. He’s relieved it still exists. The key is still where he left it, hidden under the loose tile near the stairs. Predictable. Unchanging. Like nothing ever happened.

He lets himself in for only the second time. Doesn’t text Karube. Doesn’t call Chota. Doesn’t want to hear them say you okay? in that voice like they already know the answer.

He drops to the floor with a wet thud, soaked from head to toe, knees pulled close like he’s trying to fold himself into something smaller. Something ignorable.

He doesn’t do anything.

He thinks about punching the walls until his fists split open, until the drywall caves in, until the whole apartment is wrecked and worthless. And maybe then, maybe then, he could laugh at how pathetic it all is. How hilariously stupid he was to think anything could be different.

But he doesn’t punch the walls. So he just laughs.

And when it doesn’t sound like laughing anymore, he wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket and pretends it never happened.

God. He’s such a terrible person.

He left everyone—just like that. Vanished like he always does when things get hard.

He left Chishiya. He left his family. And now he's pushing Karube and Chota away too.

Every decision, every moment—it’s always about him.

What he wants.

What he needs.

What hurts him.

It’s always him. Always. 

Perfect. Painfully perfect.

Arisu laughs, and something wet trails down his face. He wipes at it with the back of his hand and hugs his knees tighter. His chest hurts, but he doesn’t care. He could drop dead right there and honestly? He’d like that.

Selfish.

God, he’s so selfish.

It’s his fault his mother was even there. His fault. All of it.

He ruined everything.

He presses a hand over his mouth as the sobs start clawing up his throat. But he swallows them down. Smothers the sound. Muffles it all.

His hands are shaking too hard to type properly. The screen blurs in and out, but he blinks and forces himself to focus. He can’t stop coughing—short, shallow, wracking his whole body—and when he pulls his hand away from his mouth, it’s streaked with red. Wet. Fresh.

Okay. Okay.

He tells himself to breathe, but the air feels thick. Like trying to inhale through fabric. Like something's lodged in his throat, coiling and growing. His heart won’t slow down. His whole chest burns.

Still. He grabs his phone.

“Blood in cough. Chest pain. Can’t breathe. Cold lips,” he types. “Can’t move. What’s wrong with me.”

Dozens of results come up. Pneumonia. Lung infection. Maybe TB, oh god. Then something about autoimmune diseases.

Then—

Blue rot. A nickname. Not the actual term. He tries to remember what the doctor had said during that stupid school check-up a few days ago. Blue...something.

"Psychosomatic autoimmune reactivity," he vaguely remembers. It was brushed off. Stress-induced symptoms. Unexplained fatigue, low immunity, bruising, coughing fits. Something about "psychogenic factors." He disregarded it. But now?

Now he’s rereading every damn word with his face buried in his knees and blood drying on his lips.

Symptoms vary. Triggers are emotional. Onset is gradual. Treatment is psychological and environmental.

Avoid stress. Avoid overexertion. Avoid trauma.

He huffs out a soundless laugh. Avoid trauma? That’s hilarious.

He wipes his mouth again. Another smear of red. His lips are tingling. His fingers are cold.

And suddenly it hits him: no one’s coming to check on him. He could collapse right here on the bathroom tiles and be found days later. If they bother checking. If they even notice he’s gone.

His body aches like it’s shutting down on purpose. Like it’s trying to escape with or without his permission.

He presses his forehead to his knees. He bites down on the fabric of his sleeve to muffle the choking sounds coming out of him. And waits for it to pass. Or not.

He stands. Legs barely steady under him. The metallic taste still lingers in his mouth, thick and bitter. He spits red into the sink, wipes it with the back of his sleeve, and doesn’t look back.

He walks to the hospital alone.

The same one he went to before. The same corridors. The same receptionist, maybe. He doesn’t care. Doesn’t speak. He just mutters, “Doctor. I need a doctor,” and waits until someone comes for him.

When a physician finally leads him into a sterile white room, Arisu sits with his fists clenched.

“I need to know about Blue Rot,” he says, his voice a rasp. “Is there a pill? Something. Anything.”

The doctor—older, tired, used to bad news—gives a long sigh.

“The research is still ongoing,” they say, pulling up something on the computer screen. “There’s no cure yet. No confirmed treatments. It’s… as of now, it’s considered terminal.”

Arisu hears that word like it was thrown through him.

Terminal.

The room seems to dim, like someone’s slowly turning off the lights inside his skull.

The doctor is saying something else—“Can you tell me your symptoms?”—but Arisu is stuck. Drowning.

Terminal.

It loops in his head like a song he hates but can’t forget.

Terminal.

Like this is it. Like the ticking in his chest was counting down this whole time and he just didn’t notice.

He blinks. Tries to speak, but his mouth stays shut.

The doctor’s voice fades to background noise.

Terminal.

His chest seizes. Not from panic this time, not just that. It’s heavier. Something physical, something mechanical winding down.

His hands shake. His throat’s dry.

So this is how it ends.

The doctor snaps him out of it.

“Hey. You still with me?”

Arisu blinks rapidly, the buzzing in his ears dulling just enough to let the doctor’s voice through.

“It’s alright. You can go through the trials, if you want.”

Trials.

That sounds like something out of a sci-fi movie. Like something people agree to when they’ve got nothing left to lose. He doesn’t say that, just nods.

The doctor stands. “Come with me.”

He leads Arisu down the corridor—white walls, sharp antiseptic scent, too many bright lights. It feels like they’re walking him to his own autopsy.

Finally, they stop in front of a door with a plaque that reads:

Dr. Takashiro Minami – Psychosomatic Immunology Department.

“She’s leading the research on the condition,” the doctor says, giving a vague motion to the door. “Formally, it’s called Systemic Psychogenic Floracinosis.”

Arisu stares.

“Otherwise known as blue rot,” the doctor continues. “Almost a literal flower blooming in your lungs and heart. Emotional suppression triggers the immune system into attacking itself, and the body, in retaliation, starts to grow… tissue masses that resemble vascular flower growth. Think fibrous petals, rooted right into you.”

Like he's some kind of cursed garden. A walking grave blooming from the inside out.

“It’s autoimmune. And psychological,” the doctor adds, more gently now. “You didn’t make it up. You didn’t imagine the pain. It's real.”

Of course it’s real.

It’s all he ever feels.

Doctor Takashiro Minami looks at him carefully, clipboard held loosely in one hand, her other pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. Her eyes aren’t cold. But they are clinical. Experienced. Like she’s seen too many kids come in asking if they’re dying.

And too many times, the answer has been yes.

She gestures for Arisu to sit on the examination bed. The air smells like rubbing alcohol and something faintly floral.

She doesn’t speak at first—just checks his vitals. Heart rate: unstable. Oxygen level: low. Skin temp: slightly hypothermic. She frowns as she lightly presses fingers against the underside of his jaw, checking his lymph nodes. Arisu flinches.

“You’ve had a panic attack recently,” she notes, flatly but not unkindly.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, eyes on the floor.

She pauses, then sets the clipboard down. “There’s no point lying in here. You wouldn’t be in this room if you were fine.”

That shuts him up.

After a silence, she finally says it. “Systemic Psychogenic Floracinosis. Otherwise known as Blue Rot. It's not an official term yet, but it's what the patients call it.”

Arisu blinks. “So… it’s real?”

“It’s very real,” she replies. “And rare. It’s a psychosomatic-autoimmune hybrid, originally misdiagnosed as either lupus or a cardiac disorder. But the main distinction is this: it doesn’t start in the body. It starts in the mind.”

She grabs a nearby tablet and swipes through scans—images of flowerlike growths in MRI readings. Petal-shaped scarring in lungs. Arteries tangled like roots.

“It’s caused by long-term emotional suppression. Resentment. Repressed grief. Psychological damage that never had a place to go. And instead of expressing it, your body… blooms.”

Arisu stares at the screen, horrified.

Doctor Minami turns to him. “We believe your immune system treats emotional trauma like an infection. It tries to isolate it. Kill it. But instead, it turns inward. The ‘blooms’ are actually growths caused by white blood cell clusters around inflamed tissues. They're trying to ‘contain’ feelings.”

“And it’s terminal?”

She hesitates. “We don’t have a cure yet. But we’re testing interventions. Psychological trials. Regenerative cell therapy. Neuroadaptive treatments. All very experimental.”

He swallows hard.

“I want in.”

Doctor Minami doesn’t answer immediately. She studies him like a rare plant herself.

“You know what this means, don’t you? You’ll have to confront what caused it. Not just suppress it like you’ve always done.”

Arisu’s voice is thin. “What if I don’t remember?”

“You will. Eventually. The body doesn’t forget.”

She picks up a form from her clipboard. “Sign this. It’s consent to begin psychological trials. You’ll be staying here a few nights for monitoring.”

His hand shakes as he signs. He’s not sure if he’s scared or if this is the bravest thing he’s ever done.

Maybe both.

And as he hands the clipboard back, he wonders faintly.

What kind of hell grows inside someone when they try too hard to be okay?

__

Azami arrives at the hotel late—of course. The revolving doors sigh around her like even the building is tired of her dramatics. She breezes in, trailing Dior and disapproval, muttering something snide in French to the concierge and handing off a wilting bouquet of flowers like it offends her fingers.

“You missed Shuntarō’s show,” Reika says quietly. Not a greeting. Just a report. Like she’s clocking in.

Azami doesn’t even look at her. “Ah,” she murmurs, voice smooth and clipped. “Well. I had a lovely visit with an old friend. Far more stimulating than watching my grandson toss around his pretty little braincells for an audience.”

She drops the bouquet straight into the nearest trash bin, the petals bruising on impact. “Where is he, anyway?”

Reika inhales slowly. “He’s been missing. Since Ryouhei fainted.”

That makes Azami pause—just a flicker. She turns her head like a falcon spotting something pathetic twitching in the grass. “Fainted?”

“Yes,” Reika says. “They took him to the hospital. He collapsed. Shuntarō followed. Then he… didn’t come back.”

Azami’s lashes barely move. “So he’s clingy now? How charming. Can’t go five minutes without his little rented emotional support project—”

“That’s enough,” Reika snaps.

It comes out sharper than intended. Or maybe not. Maybe exactly how it should. Maybe something inside her finally cracks like glass beneath a heel.

Azami blinks. Once. Twice. Then raises her hand and slaps her daughter clean across the cheek.

The sound echoes.

Reika doesn’t respond. She just looks back, cheek stinging, eyes dry.

Azami adjusts the cuff of her sleeve like nothing happened. “Honestly, Reika. You’re far too emotional.”

Then she tuts—like this whole mess is just something Reika spilled on the rug.

Azami flicks her wrist like she's dusting off the conversation. “Have you even tried contacting him?”

Reika nods, jaw tight. “His phone’s been offline. Dead.”

Azami arches a brow. “Then a search party, at the very least?”

Reika exhales, too fast. “It’s too much. He’s probably just... sneaking out. Like he always does.”

Azami clicks her tongue, like Reika just dropped a fork at a dinner party. “Sneaking out. At his age. With a child missing from the hospital.” She leans back, unimpressed. “You really haven't changed.”

Reika doesn't answer this time. Her fingers dig into her wrist, her mouth a thin line.

Azami sighs as she unclasps the brooch from her coat, inspecting it for a missing stone that isn’t there. Her voice softens—not out of warmth, but calculation.

“Remember who you used to be?”

Reika doesn’t answer. She knows exactly where this is going.

Azami continues, almost reverently, like she’s offering a prayer to a god she invented. “You were brilliance. Raw, pure, terrifying brilliance. The way they begged for encores. The Vienna orchestra still asks about you.” She hums a tune, one of Reika’s old concertos, just to twist the knife. “And then you vanished. Like all of it was nothing.”

Reika stares at the carpet, the same geometric pattern she’s memorized after years of hotels and competitions. “I didn’t vanish. I had a son.”

Azami scoffs, turning toward her. “Yes. And then you became some porcelain doll that plays the piano at charity events and lets a boy ruin her spine.”

Silence.

Azami smiles. “You were supposed to be better than me.”

And Reika—Reika just swallows it, like she always does. Like a good daughter. Like a prized possession that still remembers it was once loved for being perfect.

__

Chishiya made the mistake of collapsing near a bar.

He wasn’t planning on drinking. But impulse walks louder than reason, and he was already in the goddamn door before he could hear himself say no. The place didn’t even card him. He lied. Said twenty-three. Maybe twenty-four. They didn’t ask questions—not to someone wearing that name. That face.

So now he’s nursing a glass of something that tastes like burnt gold and old decisions. Top-shelf. Probably stolen from some politician’s mistress or grandfather’s tomb. Either way, it burns good. Makes his teeth ache in a way that feels honest.

He’s drank before. Of course he has. Controlled sips at controlled parties in controlled rooms. Liquor was a prop back then. Now it’s a goddamn lifeline.

They all leave.

They always fucking leave.

And now Arisu’s gone too.

He called it. Knew it in his gut before the bastard even left a shadow behind. People like Arisu weren’t meant to stay. They crash into you like a fever and vanish before the cure.

Chishiya downs another glass.

The bar’s full of whispers. He can feel it—eyes glued to the back of his skull, like he’s a walking headline. Of course they’re staring. He’s Chishiya fucking Shuntaro. Prodigy. Psycho. Poster boy of moral ambiguity.

He knows exactly what they see: a kid with platinum hair, hands too steady for someone drinking this much, and a look in his eyes like he’s solved every problem but can’t survive a breakup.

Let them stare. Let them rot.

They always want a front-row seat.

Fine.

He’ll give them a show.

As soon as the band wraps up—some half-decent jazz-fusion group with a saxophonist who clearly fucks—the stage lights dim and the crowd does that pretentious clap-laugh that screams, We’re drunk enough to think this is art. Chishiya sees his window.

He doesn’t wait. He slinks up like a ghost in vintage leather and unhinged regret, snatches the mic from the next performer like it was owed to him in a past life, and taps it once.

TAP. TAP.

“Bonsoir, mes putains,” he slurs, French rolling off his tongue like he was born to offend in multiple languages. (Good evening, my bitches.)

A few people blink. Someone cheers. A drunk girl squeals, “Is that Chishiya?”

Yes, yes it fucking is.

“Reprenons depuis le début, hein?” he says, grinning sharp and crooked. (Let’s take it from the top, yeah?)

“Vous me connaissez tous. Et vous devriez.” (You all know me. And you should.)

“Chishiya. Putain de. Shuntarō.” (Chishiya. Fucking. Shuntarō.)

There’s a laugh from somewhere in the back, the kind that sounds a little scared.

“Non, je ne suis pas une salope.” He winks. (No, I’m not a slut.)

“Oui, je veux baiser des hommes.” (Yes, I want to fuck men.)

The room breaks. It’s like someone cracked the ceiling open and let the chaos pour in. Some laugh because they’re drunk, some because they don’t know if it’s a joke or a breakdown, and some because it’s Chishiya and of course he’d do this.

He paces like a TED Talk host with too many unresolved mother issues. Which, spoiler alert.

“Used to be perfect, you know?” he says, half to them, half to the ceiling lights. “Like, legit clinically organized. My closet? Color-coded. My brain? Alphabetized. Emotions? Filed under ‘Do Not Open Unless Emergencies.’”

He spreads his arms. “Now look at me. I wear mismatched socks on purpose and I think about death when brushing my teeth.”

A whistle. Applause. He bows sarcastically.

“Turns out,” he continues, slurring slightly, “if you ignore all your feelings for seventeen years, your psyche eventually goes, ‘Actually, no,’ and just—” he mimes an explosion with his fingers. “Boom. Full-scale neurological coup d’état.”

He leans into the mic, conspiratorial. “So now my parents are freaking out. All of a sudden they give a shit, now that their golden boy's mentally cooked like a microwave lasagna. So what do they do?”

Beat. He raises a single eyebrow. “They get me a friend.”

He actually does air quotes, the drama queen.

“Un ami embauché. Ryohei. Arisu. Literal human emotional support Tamagotchi.”

And the crowd, oh they lose it.

“Yeah,” Chishiya says, deadpan. “He's cute. He journals. He probably cries during Pixar movies. Five stars. Would recommend to other rich, unhinged gays in denial.”

He winks. Somehow it’s both ironic and deeply, deeply sad.

Chishiya quiets, but only for a breath. A flicker of real silence, the kind that hurts your teeth if you sit in it too long. The kind that makes everyone think, Oh no. He’s about to get emotional.

“He’s my first friend ever,” he says, slurring a little. “No joke. First. Fucking. Friend. And it’s not like I had standards, okay? I would’ve taken a raccoon in a school uniform if it sat next to me at lunch. But no. I get him. Arisu fucking Ryohei.”

Some people laugh. Someone in the back yells, "Il est mignon, ton pote!" (Your buddy's cute!)

Chishiya raises a lazy hand in agreement. “Yeah. He is. That’s the problem.”

He exhales like he’s trying to blow the feelings off-stage. He sways, gestures with the mic like it’s a weapon.

“I told him to stay. I told him he could leave. And what does he do? That bastard leaves. Like it was an option.”

Laughter breaks out again, because the way he says it is borderline tragic and sitcom-tier ridiculous. Like he's doing stand-up about abandonment trauma.

“I told him—don’t make promises you can’t keep. You know what he said to me?”

He waits, blinking dramatically at the ceiling like it might hold subtitles. “He said: ‘I’ll make you happy.’”

Chishiya lets that hang in the air like he’s just quoted scripture. Then he snorts.

“He said that with a straight face. You believe that shit? Who the hell says that to a guy who’s clearly mentally unstable? Like I’m not already doing laps in the psych ward pool?”

A few people are nearly crying from laughter. One girl screams, “Preach!”

Chishiya smirks, barely able to hold the mic.

“I’m so fucked up. Not in a quirky 'I collect bones' way. No. Clinically. Like, my parents brought me Arisu like he was a fucking therapy dog. ‘Here, Shuntarō. This is your new emotional support twink.’”

The mic is shaking in his hand because he’s laughing now too.

“And the worst part? The worst fucking part?”

He points to the crowd, hand wobbling.

“I liked it.”

They erupt. He shrugs helplessly.

“I liked the dog. Now he’s gone. I’ve gone feral again. Somebody give me a fucking shot.”

A guy in the second row practically throws one onto the stage like it's a sacred offering.

Chishiya raises it in salute. “To Arisu Ryohei. May your taste in men improve, or at least land you one who doesn’t spiral into emotional diarrhea in front of a live audience.”

He downs the shot, grimaces like a man in pain, and still has the audacity to wink.

“Also, call me. I’m emotionally available for the next ten minutes.”

The crowd howls.

The spotlight’s still warm on his skin. He turns to leave, wobble-limping toward stage left, but someone yells out from the crowd—

“Wait! What do you think about love?”

It’s half a joke. Someone's drunk and dramatic and wants to hear him say something insane again. But Chishiya stops. He tips the mic back to his mouth like it’s a cigarette he forgot he was smoking.

“What do I think about love?” he repeats, and already the crowd is snickering.

Then he laughs. One of those slow, breathy ones that’s all disbelief and nothing cute.

“Oh. Oh, you poor horny fools.”

He paces, the cord of the mic dragging behind him like a noose or a leash or maybe a dead snake, who knows. The band’s guitarist from earlier leans against an amp, eyes wide, visibly amused. The bartender stops mid-pour. Everyone knows shit’s about to go down.

“You ever seen a cat try to eat its own tail? That’s what love is,” he says, in that faux-philosophical tone people use when they’re too drunk to lie. “It’s a snake. Or like—like a brain parasite, except sexy.”

Laughter.

“Don’t ‘aww’ me. You know what love did? Love made me beg a guy who barely knew me to stay. And then told him it was fine if he didn’t. And then I meant it when I said he could go. But now I’m the one crying into a karaoke mic at a dive bar on a Tuesday. C’est la fucking vie.” (That's fucking life.)

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and turns a little quieter.

“I told him don’t make promises you can’t keep. He said he wouldn’t leave. He did. He said he’d make me happy. He didn’t. And honestly, I should’ve just fucked his dad instead.”

Huge laughter. Someone chokes on their drink.

“I could have. Have you seen that man’s jawline? Man looks like a Greek tragedy with a credit score.”

He downs the shot someone hands him, zero hesitation, all muscle memory.

“So what do I think about love?” He waves the mic, head tipped back like he’s praying to the beer-stained ceiling.

“I think it’s stupid. But also... it’s the only thing that makes me feel like I’m not a simulation with a superiority complex. So fuck it. I want it. I’ll take it. Even if it ruins me. Again.”

He bows. Unnecessarily. Dramatically. They cheer like he just saved comedy.

He staggers offstage and immediately says to no one in particular, “Someone get me a kebab or I’m eating drywall.”

Chishiya is still mid-rant, halfway through a slurred anecdote about losing his virginity to a French waiter and a box of macarons, when someone grabs his wrist like they mean it.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

His eyes snap to the hand, then to the face it’s attached to.

Niragi.

Oh.

Niragi.

Chishiya blinks, takes a lazy drag of breath, and stares at him pointedly, like he’s trying to make Niragi’s face combust on sight. “What are you doing here? Didn’t your ego already sell out the venue next door?”

Niragi, in full leather-drenched rockstar mode—ripped tank, multiple chains, eyeliner smugness—rolls his eyes. “I’m on tour, dumbass. You’d know that if you ever answered your damn phone.”

There’s an odd beat between them.

Chishiya’s fingers twitch like they’re about to spark a cigarette that doesn’t exist. “Yeah, well. I’m on stage. I’m the main character now.”

“Right,” Niragi mutters, eyes flicking toward the still-cheering audience who doesn’t realize this awkward dramatic cutscene isn’t part of the act. “What, is this your new thing? Stand-up spiral? Emotional nudity hour?”

Chishiya steps closer, mic still in one hand, half-lowered, but loud enough for the front rows to hear. “It’s called free therapy, Niragi. Sorry not all of us can afford weekly coke-fueled soundbaths and a fanbase to lick our trauma clean.”

Well yeah, he could, but the point still stands.

Niragi doesn’t flinch. He smirks.

“You’re drunk.”

“And you’re overdressed.”

“You’re still a piece of shit.”

“Likewise.”

They stand there, a breath apart, both of them pretending this isn’t flirting and failing miserably.

“You planning to out me next?” Chishiya asks lowly, eyes daring. “Say ‘hey guys, this pathetic twink here is NoFace, our anonymous mystery guitarist.’ See if the crowd riots or claps?”

Niragi raises a brow. “No. I like NoFace. NoFace doesn’t talk this much.”
 “And Niragi doesn’t listen this much.”

Silence.

Then, very softly, Niragi says, “You looked lonely.”

It isn’t mean. That’s the worst part. He means it.

Chishiya blinks too fast. “I’m not.”

“Right.”

Another silence.

Someone from the crowd yells, “Encore!” followed by, “Tell us about the blonde!”

Chishiya coughs out a laugh, turns back to the mic. “Oh, you wanna talk about my ex now?” He leans in, voice suddenly syrupy venom. “He hired me. Like—literally paid me to be his friend. Cute, right? Daddy issues and disposable income. My favorite combo.”

Niragi grabs him by the wrist and drags him out the bar like some pissed-off older brother in a teenage drama. Chishiya doesn’t resist—just sort of floats along, mildly amused, like he’s being kidnapped by a fashionably violent stray dog.

They round the corner to some side alley lit with neon signs and existential dread.

Niragi lets go. “Where the hell is your babysitter?”

Chishiya tilts his head. “Oh. Arisu?”

Niragi crosses his arms, unimpressed.

Chishiya shrugs. “He left. His mom tried to kill herself. Big mess. Lots of blood, not enough towels. He’s traumatized. He cried like four times. Real Greek tragedy stuff.”

Niragi just… stares. Dead-on. Waiting. Like this is some sick setup to a terrible joke. Any second now, Chishiya’s gonna smirk, say kidding, and the laugh track’ll roll in.

But Chishiya just blinks.

“…That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Chishiya confirms, then adds, “Pretty sure he thinks it’s his fault. Classic eldest son syndrome.”

“Jesus f—" Niragi rubs a hand down his face. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Chishiya says sweetly. “I’m mentally ill too. We’re twinsies.”

And before Niragi can even respond, Chishiya looks at him with the dead-eyed calm of someone about to start a fire for warmth and asks, “Wanna have sex?”

…

“…Excuse me?”

Chishiya blinks innocently. “What? I figured since we’re both here. And emotionally unavailable. And mildly suicidal. Like, it checks all the boxes.”

Niragi’s mouth opens, then closes, then opens again like a broken animatronic. “You’re drunk.”

“Not that drunk,” Chishiya says. “Only one of my eyes is seeing double. Besides, wouldn’t it be hilarious?”

“Hilarious??”

Chishiya nods solemnly. “Tragic sex is always funny in hindsight.”

“Are you seriously asking me to—”

“I mean, unless you’re scared I’ll cry,” Chishiya interrupts, poking at Niragi’s chest with one finger. “Or worse—catch feelings.”

He says it like a death sentence. Like he just accused Niragi of tax fraud.

Niragi’s eye twitches. “You are—so—fucking—”

“Hot? Thank you.”

“—insane. I was going to say insane.”

Chishiya shrugs. “Close enough.”

And Niragi doesn’t know whether to slap him or kiss him or both. Probably both. At the same time. Maybe throw him into a dumpster just to be safe.

Instead, he backs away like he’s allergic.

“I’m going back to my hotel,” Niragi mutters. “You need therapy. Or rehab. Or—exorcism.”

“Cool,” Chishiya calls after him, already lighting a cigarette. “Call me if you change your mind about the sex thing!”

Niragi flips him off without turning around.

Chishiya grins and exhales smoke like it’s the only thing keeping him anchored.

He never smokes.

He thinks it’s stupid, honestly. The act, the aesthetic, the desperation. It’s never appealed to him. He knows it won’t solve anything. He knows he shouldn’t be turning to vices like this. Shouldn't be wandering the streets. Shouldn’t be loitering near neon-lit convenience stores while the world blurs around the edges like a watercolor left in the rain.

He knows he should tell his mom where he's been.

But he doesn’t care.

He’s tired of pretending to be alive in a body everyone else keeps trying to fix.

So he lights the cigarette like he's done it a hundred times. The truth is, he hasn’t. He’s just memorized the choreography. He’s watched his father do it enough—knuckles trembling, jaw clenched, breath always a little uneven like he was never really breathing to begin with. Maybe Chishiya thought he could understand his dad better if he smoked like him. Maybe he just wants to burn something.

The smoke stings. His lungs revolt. He does it anyway.

He walks, with no plan and no reason, until he sees a building glowing like a neon wound in the middle of the city: a casino.

It's sleazy. He can tell. There’s something off about the lighting—too purple, too fake. But he decides, yeah. That’ll be his new playground.

Somewhere between the smell of whiskey-stained carpet and the clink of poker chips, he figures: If he can’t gamble on his own happiness, maybe he can gamble on something else.

Like how long it takes before anyone finds out where he’s gone.

Or how long he can go without feeling anything at all.

__

Arisu wakes up before the sun does.

The light in the room is dim. He doesn’t bother turning it on. He just sits up, back hunched, staring at nothing. His lungs feel like they’re tight again, like something’s clinging to the inside of his ribs. But he breathes through it. He doesn’t panic. He just breathes.

He’s made up his mind.

He’s not going to high school.

Not anymore. Not when everything in that building reminds him of how much he used to care. How much he tried to be good, and how stupid that turned out to be. He doesn’t want to be good. He wants to be fine.

He’ll take at least seven part-time jobs. Random ones. Barista, cashier, flyer-boy, lab rat, whatever. But none of them too time-consuming. If one drains him too much, he’ll quit and find another. He doesn’t owe anyone longevity.

He’ll stay in the apartment. He’ll clean it when he feels like it. Eat when he feels like it. Sleep on the couch if his bed gets annoying. He’ll live there like a ghost with rent.

He won’t reach out to anyone.

If his friends want to talk, they’ll message him. If they don’t, that’s fine. No drama. No chasing. No fighting.

He’s going to live simple.

A plain, quiet, meaningless life.

It sounds easy.

Arisu sighs. His shoulders shake a little. Not from sadness. Just exhaustion.

Even if he does die because of this stupid blue rot eating his insides, at least he did it his way.

Not his father's way. Not his teachers’. Not Chishiya’s.

His.

He lies back down and stares at the ceiling, wide awake.

He feels like shit.

But at least it’s his own kind of shit.

The first job interview is stupidly easy.

Some fast food place near the station. The manager’s a balding guy who talks like he’s reading from a script. “We’re just looking for someone reliable, someone who doesn’t bring drama, y’know? Someone with a good attitude.”

Arisu nods. Smiles a little. Says all the right things.

As long as you’re not aggressive, or have anger issues, you’re basically in.

(Oops. Arisu lied.)

But he’s good at it. Pretending, that is. People think he’s quiet, so they fill in the blanks for him. Respectful. Obedient. Stable.

Next job interview? Same. The one after that? Even easier. He rotates masks like outfits. Makes up fake “dreams” on the spot. Tells one he’s interested in customer service. Tells another he just likes keeping busy. One lady calls him mature for his age.

That makes him want to laugh. But he doesn’t.

He gets hired by three places within two days. One morning shift, one weekend-only, one that's basically paying him to sit behind a counter and say "Welcome" five times a day. It’s fine. He doesn’t care. He just wants the money.

By the end of the third day, he walks out of a convenience store gig and starts heading toward the hospital.

It’s quiet on the street. The air smells like rain, even though it hasn’t fallen yet. Everything feels tired. Like him.

He takes the elevator up. Walks through the hall like he’s been doing it forever.

His mother’s room hasn’t changed. She hasn’t changed.

She’s still asleep when he walks in. Machines beep quietly. Her chest rises and falls, slow and soft, like she’s dreaming of something far away.

He sits down in the chair next to her bed.

He doesn’t say anything. He just… sits.

Stares at her face. Counts the freckles. Notices the grey in her hair that wasn’t there before.

He doesn't touch her. Doesn’t want to wake her. Or maybe he doesn’t know what he’d even say if she opened her eyes.

It’s better like this. Quiet. Simple.

Her eyelids flutter, slow at first. Then she turns her head slightly, as if sensing him in the room.

When her eyes open fully, they land on him instantly.

And she smiles.

“Ryouhei…” Her voice is hoarse, cracked from sleep, but warm. Like always. “You came again.”

Arisu swallows the tightness in his throat. “Yeah. Couldn’t let you get bored in here.”

She lets out the smallest laugh. “You’re too good to me.”

He shifts awkwardly in the chair, looking around the room. “How’re you feeling today?”

“Mm. The nurses say I’m doing better.” She blinks slowly. “Though I think they just say that to keep me cheerful.”

He smiles weakly. “You don’t look too terrible.”

“Gee, thanks.” Her mouth twitches with another smile. “And you? Are you sleeping at all?”

“Enough.” He shrugs. “Been… busy. Had a couple job interviews.”

“That’s great.” Her voice brightens just a little. “Really, Ryouhei. I’m proud of you.”

That’s when she notices it.

Her smile falters just a little as her eyes linger on his neck.

“...What’s that?”

Arisu stiffens. “What’s what?”

“Your neck.” She motions slightly, weak fingers curling toward the faint, spidering black lines crawling just under the skin. They look like bruised veins, or worse—like roots trying to climb their way out. “It looks… strange.”

He tugs at his collar quickly, casual. “It’s nothing. Just a rash or something. Maybe from stress. I’m fine.”

Her eyes narrow. She’s always been good at telling when he lies.

“Ryō—”

“I said I’m fine.” His voice is too fast, too sharp. He forces it calm. “It’s not serious.”

There’s a long pause. Her expression doesn’t change. But something about her voice does—

It softens.

Painfully soft. Like she’s talking to a child again. Like she’s remembering the little boy who used to get fevers and hide in her blankets because he didn’t want to miss school.

“You don’t have to pretend with me, sweetheart,” she says. So gently it hurts.

His breath shudders. Then he blinks fast. Faster. His hand comes up to rub his eyes like it’s nothing.

“I’m okay,” he says, barely holding the smile. “I’m okay, Mom.”

But the tears spill anyway. Silent, slow.

She watches him with so much love it makes his chest feel like it’s caving in.

“Ryouhei,” she whispers, “what’s wrong?”

He lets out a shaky breath. Wipes his face on his sleeve.

“Nothing,” he says with that same crooked smile. “I just missed you.”

He doesn’t say he’s scared. He doesn’t say it hurts.

But she squeezes his hand anyway. And for once, he lets her.

Chapter Text

The first thing Chishiya registers is that his tongue tastes like something died on it.

Second: the ceiling isn’t his.

Third: someone is strumming a bass with the subtlety of a chainsaw.

Then bam—a pillow slams into his face.

“WAKE UP, Princess Bitchface!” Kuina hollers like a rockstar announcing world war. She’s cross-legged on the floor, hair still wrapped in a towel, casually playing scales on her bass like this is the most normal morning ever. “Guess who got emotional and made out with the stage last night!”

Chishiya blinks. His head pounds like a lawsuit. “Where the hell—”

“You’re in our place,” Kuina says sweetly, smacking the strings. “Because you decided hotels are for cowards and heartbreak looks hotter when you're vomiting out the sunroof of Niragi’s rental.”

Ann walks in then, deadpan goddess of discipline, holding a konbini bag and two trays of water bottles like she’s done this too many times before. She places one next to Chishiya with the kind of clinical sympathy that makes him want to melt into the floor and never return.

“Eat something,” she says. “You looked like a dying moth on the sidewalk when Niragi found you.”

Speaking of—Niragi walks out from the bathroom, towel slung low and smugness even lower. Steam rolls off his chest like he’s on tour, which, to be fair, he is. Chishiya does not look. Not directly.

“Why am I here?” he asks the room, not anyone in particular.

Kuina perks up, flipping a new chord. “Ooooh. Do you want the play-by-play?”

“No.”

“You got onstage, hijacked the mic, confessed your soul in French, said you were ‘Chishiya fucking Shuntarō, slut of the year,’ and then cried about Arisu for a full ten minutes before requesting casual head from the bartender.”

Ann coughs lightly. “You also tried to tip the bouncer with your wallet and your shoe.”

“You’re welcome for stopping that,” Niragi says, towel still very much an outfit.

Chishiya groans into the pillow. “This is why I don’t open up.”

Kuina grins, absolutely evil. “You called him your first friend ever. You said, and I quote, ‘He promised to make me happy, the stupid fuck.’”

“That was private emotional devastation.”

“You delivered it to a crowd. With a mic.”

“I’m never drinking again.”

“You say that every time.”

He shoots her a glare.

And he knows he's fucked the second Kuina starts laughing before she opens her mouth.

 “Also…guess who made it to the French internet?” she says, eyes glittering.

“I’ll kill you,” Chishiya says, flatly.

She ignores him—of course—and shoves her phone in his face. It's a screenshot of a tweet. Then another. Then five. Niragi and Chishiya. Niragi holding his wrist. Chishiya swaying in a drunken blur outside a bar. And then—

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he groans. There’s a video. He knows what it is before he even hears it. “Mais ouais, je veux coucher avec des hommes—”

Kuina wheezes. “Poetry, Shuntarō. Fucking slam poetry.”

He snatches the phone. “Why are you even following these accounts?”

“Why are you performing a breakdown in French at a gay bar in Montmartre?”

Ann walks in with tea and doesn't even blink. “You still haven’t told your mom where you are, right?”

Chishiya stares at the cup like it’s poisoned.

“Technically,” Ann continues, “you’re missing.”

Kuina scrolls again. “Oh, this one’s good. You’re lighting a cigarette. Yo, aren't you a bit underaged?”

Chishiya glares at her. “Burn yourself.”

“I pay rent,” she says sweetly.

Niragi grabs a shirt from his closet. “Should we send a ransom note or let your family sweat a little longer?”

Chishiya flips him off. Useless gesture at this point.

“Oh wait,” Kuina pipes up, “there’s a TikTok edit. Summertime Sadness is playing.”

He shuts his eyes.

__

Reika is annoyed.

And Reika does not do annoyed. It’s beneath her. It’s what other mothers do when the wrong sushi order arrives or when the chauffeur is five minutes late. Not her. Not when she’s built an entire reputation on quiet elegance, on never flinching.

But her son is missing.

Her son.

Her internationally recognized, award-winning, precious little bastard of a son is missing. And no one—not the police, not her overpaid assistant, not even that useless concierge at the hotel—has any idea where he is.

Because of that stupid hired companion. That emotionally constipated boy who probably thinks disappearing into the Parisian mist is some sort of poetic gesture. Reika doesn't care if he was poor, tragic, lonely, or whatever sob story made Shuntaro bring him around in the first place. All she knows is that he was the last one seen with her son.

She wants to scream into the abyss. Really—just scream. Let her hair come undone and claw at the wallpaper like some deranged opera widow. But no. No, she won't give anyone the satisfaction.

Instead, she presses her lips together in a single immovable line and says, “Prepare the luggage. We’re going back to Japan.”

Her assistant freezes mid-email. The staff begins to scatter.

Her husband, meanwhile, is halfway across the room, too busy yelling into his headset. Something about another surgery, another shareholder crisis, another thing that isn't their missing son.

Reika smooths down her blouse. Her hands are shaking. She tucks them behind her back. Let no one see.

She is not annoyed.

She is done.

__

Chishiya's hands are cold. 

They’re parked on some half-lit stretch of road, the van idling low, soft music playing from Niragi’s cracked phone. One of the others is asleep in the back, snoring faintly. There’s a smell of instant ramen and laundry that hasn’t quite dried right. 

It’s not comfortable. But it feels safer than anything else he’s had in a while.

Niragi's legs are hanging out the door, one boot untied. He lights another cigarette he probably shouldn’t be smoking. “You wanna come with us?” he says, like he’s asking if Chishiya wants fries with that. “On tour. I mean. You’re basically a runaway now, right?”

“I’m not a runaway,” Chishiya mutters, too fast, too practiced. He doesn’t even believe himself. It’s more of a reflex at this point—deny, distance, deflect. Rinse. Repeat.

Niragi shrugs, flicks ash into the dark. “Sure. You just happen to be missing. And on another continent. With zero contact with your family. But hey. Not a runaway.” 

He exhales smoke through his nose, turns slightly to glance at Chishiya. “You just look unhappy with everything. Like the whole world’s a bad inside joke and you’re stuck as the punchline.”

Chishiya doesn’t answer right away. He shifts, knuckles pressing into the side of the van.

“Can I stay here?”

Quiet. 

“I don’t wanna go back to…” he trails off. 

Niragi shrugs again, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Yeah.”

That’s it.

Chishiya looks out the window.

Niragi picks up his phone without glancing at the screen, already sighing like it’s muscle memory. 

“Yeah?” His voice slips into that half-professional, half-bored tone he only uses for people who sign his checks. “No, we’re not late. We’re just—breathing. Chill.”

Chishiya tunes him out.

Outside, the streets of Marseille blur into golds and blues, chipped paint, and graffiti-tagged shutters. This neighborhood’s not rich, but it’s alive. 

There’s a group of teens across the road, laughing too loudly over nothing. One of them’s walking behind, nose deep in his phone, but even then—someone reaches back and pulls him into the circle. Like it’s automatic. Like belonging doesn’t have to be earned, just assumed.

Chishiya stares blankly.

He’s trying to remember the last time someone reached back for him like that.