Work Text:
Yamato sneezed pathetically just as he was about to take a spoonful of soup.
The broth spilled back onto the bowl with a soft splash. Yamato groaned. He gave up. He let the spoon fall, ignoring the way it clattered against the bowl, and his hand flew to his throbbing head. Of course he was sick on his day off. He’d wanted to spend today peacefully, a day of leisure with only him, the TV, and a few good cans of beer. That plan had long been thrown straight out of the window.
How did this even happen in the first place?
“Good work today!”
“Thank you for your hard work!”
Yamato’s shoulders slumped down as soon as he stepped out of the recording studio. He groaned and cracked his neck slightly. There was no one out here. Yamato let himself sigh.
Even when he’d finished early, he was dead exhausted. Being an idol was exhausting. Being the leader of six chaotic children disguised as idols—even more so. All he wanted was to go home, crack open a beer (or three), and exist horizontally on the couch for the foreseeable future.
Simple dreams. Humble aspirations.
Yamato adjusted his glasses and took another deep breath. Should he go straight to the station, or should he wait here for a moment to take a breather? The station wasn’t exactly close by, and walking felt like such a hassle.
The doors slid open behind him, and he turned his head out of reflex.
“Oh, Kujo.”
Kujo, as always, looked like he had stepped out of a fashion magazine. He wore a smile, probably leftover from thanking a staff member on his way out. He turned, and those pink eyes found green. The warmth in his eyes immediately dimmed at the sight of him. Ouch.
“Nikaido Yamato.”
Yamato’s full name. Kujo had a habit of addressing people by their full names, and Yamato never really understood why. He never called him ‘Nikaido’ or ‘Yamato’ or, god forbid, anything resembling a nickname, the way Tama would do it. It had always felt a little odd for someone younger than him to address him in such a rigid way, but honestly, Yamato didn’t really care about that. He just wished that Kujo would talk to him more familiarly.
…nevermind. Why would Yamato even wish for something like that?
“Heading home already?” Yamato asked casually. He found himself trying for conversation in spite of how tired he was, and he had no idea why.
“Yes. My recording finished earlier than expected.” Kujo tilted his head ever so slightly. The longer strands of his hair gently kissed his cheek. “I assume it’s the same for you?”
“Yeah. Wrapped up early for once.” Yamato jerked his thumb in the direction of the studio. “Where’s Yaotome and Tsunashi-san? Not with them?”
“They still have work.” Kujo’s eyes flickered with a look that Yamato couldn’t quite read. “Besides, I don’t need to be with them every moment. You’re alone too, aren’t you?”
Touché.
“Fair enough.” Yamato shrugged, already turning towards the station. “Well, I’m heading out. Be careful on your way—”
Whoooosh.
All of a sudden, it was raining. And, no, it wasn’t a gentle one. It was pouring.
Yamato stood there for a second, blinking stupidly at the sudden downpour, before his survival instincts kicked in. He stumbled backward under the studio’s entrance canopy. Kujo was already there, of course.
They both stared at the rain together.
“Well,” Yamato said.
“Indeed,” was Kujo’s only reply.
Neither of them said anything after that. In the silence that fell between them, Yamato took the opportunity to look at the younger man. Kujo was wearing a black trench coat. It seemed expensive—probably cost more than most people’s rent—and he also wore leather boots. A face mask covered the lower half of his face. He was pulling out his phone, and his expression—what Yamato could see of it, at least—was decidedly unimpressed.
Yamato used to find it exhausting just watching him. Kujo was always performing. Even during Yamato’s first meeting with him—he remembered it full well, Kujo collapsing, begging them to take him to the concert despite being sick. And Yamato distinctly remembered how Kujo performed that day—that charming smile never faltering even for a second, the paleness of his complexion completely eradicated, as if their meeting beforehand was an illusion. But Yamato knew it was real; after all, the sheer warmth of Kujo’s skin when he’d caught him was still planted deep in his mind.
Kujo always performee, but he did it for the sake of his fans. Kujo was always working so hard, Yamato noted, for such a young age. In every single performance, Kujo was always giving. He gave, and gave, and gave. He had someone—he had a lot of people—his fans—to work hard for.
Yamato cleared his throat.
“What are you doing?” Yamato found himself asking, careful enough to keep his tone casual.
“Calling a taxi,” Kujo muttered flatly.
“Seriously? You’re one spoiled kid.” The words left Yamato’s mouth before he could stop them.
Kujo’s eyes narrowed above his mask. Okay, maybe saying that was a bad call. Well, there was no turning back now. Why did he even say that? Yamato had no idea, but he found that he quite enjoyed poking at Kujo. Maybe it was because he was easy to rile up, despite his professionalism. Maybe Yamato enjoyed Kujo’s comebacks. Maybe there was something satisfying about watching his mask of perfection crack, even just a little.
Or maybe Yamato just liked talking to him. But he wasn’t going to examine that thought too closely.
Yamato lazily jerked his chin toward the station (but his eyes darted everywhere but at Kujo’s face), which was maybe fifteen away on foot. He had an umbrella tucked into his bag, the cheap one from the convenience store. Clear plastic, nothing fancy. “Just walk. It’s healthy. Romantic, even.”
Kujo stared at Yamato like he was crazy. Perhaps he was a little crazy, because normally, Yamato would readily agree with Kujo—he’d call a taxi himself, and he’d be able to sit comfortably and go straight home without getting wet, instead of taking that walk to the station while actively avoiding puddles with every step he took. But here he was, egging Kujo on, trying to get him to walk together with him. Seriously, what was Yamato doing?
“Do you see that puddle?” Kujo pointed at the flooded asphalt where water was pooling in small lakes. “I’m wearing leather shoes. And this isn’t exactly a small drizzle.”
“Scared of a little rain, Kujo?” Yamato grinned behind his fake nonchalance. But he was nervous—god, he was so nervous. His heart was audibly beating right out of his chest, thundering in his ears.
Kujo’s eyes narrowed further than they already were. Yamato could count the exact seconds where the corner of Kujo’s mouth twitched slightly. He definitely recognized the trap Yamato was laying.
He stepped right into it anyway.
Yamato’s grin widened. He may not know Kujo well, but he knew him enough to notice by now that Kujo hated being called weak, or spoiled, or anything less than capable. Kujo shoved his phone back into his pocket with more force than necessary, and his eyes were sharp enough to cut glass, but Yamato found that he wasn’t scared.
It reminded him of Riku’s glare whenever Yamato would tease him, or, well, his attempt at a glare. It was… cute.
“I’m not afraid of the rain,” Kujo hissed. “I just don’t want to get sick.”
“Colds are caused by viruses, not rain,” Yamato said overly cheerfully in a way that he knew would annoy Kujo. He took great victory in that. He shifted the umbrella slightly, making room beside him. “Come on, then, before I change my mind and leave you here.”
Kujo huffed, rolling his eyes. “If you left, I’d just call a taxi.” Even then, Kujo stepped out from under the canopy, ducked under Yamato’s umbrella, and stood beside him. The rain immediately surrounded them, drops of water hammering against the thin plastic. Yamato vaguely hoped the umbrella wouldn’t break on them.
“Go on, walk,” Kujo commanded.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Yamato replied cheekily.
They started walking through the rain.
Here’s the thing about sharing an umbrella with someone: it’s far more intimate than people give it credit for. You’re forced into each other’s space. Your shoulders would brush at any given moment. Your steps have to sync; otherwise, you’ll trip over each other or leave the other without an umbrella above their head. You become aware of the little things—the way they breathe, the way they smell, and their warmth next to you.
Not that Yamato was experiencing any of that, though.
Yamato was taller than Kujo, not by much—only by a few centimeters, really—but enough for Yamato to be the one holding the umbrella. Yamato found himself, without really meaning to, tilting it slightly toward the younger, letting his left shoulder get wet. It was an old habit of his. Or maybe it wasn’t at all. Maybe just… instinct.
Yamato stole a glance at him—he has, admittedly, been stealing glances for a while. How could he not? It was impossible not to think about how strange this was; the two of them walking through the rain together in silence. TRIGGER and IDOLiSH7 were rivals in the public’s eye, constantly competing against each other to be the next idol group to surpass Re:vale, and even further heights than that. However, in private, they were… whatever this was.
Kujo’s profile was… pleasant to the eye, from the angle Yamato was looking at him. His face was still half-hidden by his mask, even more so by the dim grey light, but it did nothing to conceal his beauty. His gaze was focused on the road in front of him, and those pink eyes seemed strangely… serene. Softer. What was Kujo thinking about? Yamato couldn’t help but wonder. But he wasn’t going to ask that aloud. He definitely was not going to say any of that out loud, ever, because he had a reputation to maintain, and also because emotional vulnerability was only for people who didn’t have six children to wrangle.
“You’re holding it wrong.”
Kujo’s voice cut through Yamato’s thoughts.
“Huh?”
“The umbrella.” Those pink eyes shifted to glance at Yamato’s left shoulder, where rain had soaked through his denim jacket. “Your shoulder is wet. Hold the umbrella properly. I’m not so fragile that you need to protect me like I’m made of glass.” There was something in Kujo’s voice, but Yamato couldn’t quite tell what it was. It almost sounded… concerned?
Nah. He was probably just annoyed.
Yamato smiled despite himself.
“Let it be,” Yamato said lazily. “As a good leader, I have to protect my younger juniors. Especially a center like you.”
“I’m TRIGGER’s center, not IDOLiSH7’s. And I’m your senior.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Haha.”
Kujo sighed, but he didn’t move away. Rather, he shifted slightly closer to close the gap between us. Was he trying to make sure he was fully under the umbrella’s protection too?
Yamato grinned.
“It’s cramped,” Kujo complained, even as he pressed closer.
“That’s because you’re too small.”
“You’re the one who’s too big. You’re taking up too much space.”
“Come on, just enjoy it. How often do we get to walk together in the rain like this? Feels like we’re filming a drama together, doesn’t it?”
“A thriller, perhaps,” Kujo muttered.
“Ouch, harsh,” Yamato said, chuckling.
The sidewalk ahead sloped upward slightly, and it was dotted with puddles that reflected blurred glows of the streetlamps. The rain hadn’t let up at all; if anything, it was only getting heavier. Yamato glanced at Kujo. His face was still hidden by the mask, and his eyes were fixed forward once again. For some reason, he seemed… stiff. Kujo was always stiff, always so serious and stoic; but right now, it looked like he was holding something back.
Something in Yamato—the mischievous part of himself that he usually reserved for teasing the four youngest members of IDOLiSH7—started to itch.
As they passed under a tree whose leaves were dripping fat droplets of rain, Yamato tilted the umbrella ever so slightly to the left, only for a few seconds, the gesture very much intentional.
Drip. Drip.
Drops of rainwater landed directly on Kujo’s bucket hat, trickling down to his nose.
Kujo abruptly stopped walking.
Yamato stopped as well, feigning surprise. “Whoops,” he said in a tone that contained absolutely zero remorse. “Wind’s really strong, huh? Sorry, my hand slipped.”
Kujo didn’t move a single muscle. He just stood there, frozen in the middle of the rain, keeping his head slightly bowed. The water kept dripping from the brim of his hat.
Yamato’s grin wavered. Oh crap. Did I go too far? This is Kujo Tenn I’m dealing with! I’m going to be exiled from the industry. The fans will burn down our agency. Or worse, he’ll tell Yaotome, and then I’d have to deal with that lecture for ‘hurting TRIGGER’s center.’
Yamato broke out of his thought bubble when he realized that Kujo’s shoulders were shaking. Yamato swallowed. Was he crying?
“Uh… Kujo?” Yamato called cautiously. “Sorry, I was just joki—”
Kujo slowly raised his hand, and Yamato watched as he pulled his mask down, letting it hang from his chin.
“Pfft… ahaha…!”
Laughter.
Kujo was laughing.
Yamato couldn’t keep his eyes off him. Kujo, with drops of water dripping from his hat, was laughing. And Yamato did that? He couldn’t process anything, even as Kujo looked up at him, with his eyes crinkled with genuine amusement and his face slightly wet from the rain.
“You…” Kujo shook his head. He’d stopped laughing, but the smile that carved on his lips stayed put, warm and genuine. “Are you really twenty-two years old? You act like you’re in kindergarten.”
Yamato was still staring. Rarely did he ever see Kujo laugh like that. Sure, he laughed on TV a lot, but that was different. Those were professional, with the intention to please his fans or whoever was watching. It was an image he always upheld. This was something else. This was real. Yamato wondered if anyone else had ever seen it. Had Yaotome and Tsunashi-san witnessed this side of him before? Was it only reserved for moments like these?
“I’m a leader with a youthful spirit,” Yamato defended himself, but his grin was back on his face.
Kujo didn’t say anything to that, but his body did. Without warning, his foot moved. He stomped his expensive leather boot into the puddle right next to Yamato’s feet.
SPLASH!
Dirty water sprayed up, soaking Yamato’s jeans to the knee. It was wet, and it was cold.
“What the hell—that’s cold—!” Yamato jumped back, genuinely startled.
“Oops,” Kujo said, perfectly mimicking Yamato from earlier. “My foot slipped. It’s slippery, isn’t it?”
Yamato looked down at his soaked pants, then his gaze slid up towards Kujo, who seemed satisfied with himself. He met Kujo’s challenging smirk with a mischievous one of his own.
“Oh, so that’s how we’re playing this game?” Yamato closed his plastic umbrella with a dramatic flourish, then tossed it aside toward the nearby bushes.
“Nikaido Yamato!” Kujo exclaimed in shock, eyes going wide as their protection disappeared, just like that. “The umbrella!”
“Who cares about the umbrella?” Yamato asked, stepping forward. Rain immediately drenched them both, not sparing them a single second, merciless. Yamato’s hair went flat in seconds, and his glasses were basically useless, blurring completely from water droplets. “You wanted to play, didn’t you? So let’s play for real.”
Yamato kicked an even larger puddle toward Kujo.
“Take that!”
“You—!” Kujo dodged, because of course he did, and he was laughing as he kicked water right back. “You crazy old man!”
“You ungrateful brat!”
And so, on a deserted sidewalk near the station, two of Japan’s top idols acted like children seeing rain for the first time. They splashed each other, shoved each other, and laughed at each other. Yamato found that he didn’t care if anyone were to spot them at that moment. Maybe it was the same for Kujo. No longer was he the cold senior who lectured them numerous times. He was now only an eighteen-year-old who just wanted to have fun with…
With Yamato. Whatever he was to him.
Yamato might never forget the way Kujo looked, right then. His hair was plastered to his forehead, completely soaked. His coat was probably really heavy from how wet it was. But he was laughing. He laughed like he hadn’t laughed freely in years. Perhaps he hadn’t. Maybe this was a side of him that he kept locked away, protected from the need to be perfect at all times.
It was… something. Something that Yamato didn’t have the words for.
Their breaths mingled in the cold air, creating small puffs of white steam that immediately vanished in the downpour. Kujo’s laughter slowly subsided, but he was still smiling.
“Hah…” Kujo let out a long breath. Suddenly, his body jerked.
“Achoo!”
Yamato stopped laughing. He wiped the rain from his face. Kujo’s shoulders rose and fell, and his teeth were beginning to chatter softly. He was shivering. Yamato realized how cold it was. He was having too much fun that he didn’t notice.
“See, now you’re cold,” Yamato said, letting his voice shift back into the ‘concerned big brother’ mode. He still kept it casual—he couldn’t let Kujo know how much he actually cared. “That’s what happens when you play in the rain.”
“Who started it?” Kujo snapped back, though his voice held a tremble that was nearly as bad as his whole body. He hugged himself to find warmth, but his expensive coat was just as soaked as he was.
“Me,” Yamato said innocently.
He stepped closer, closing the distance between them. Without the umbrella, nothing could protect them from the rain. Rain poured over them both equally. With his jacket and whole body completely soaked, Yamato opened his arms.
“Come here,” he said.
Kujo stared pointedly at his soaked chest. “You’re soaked too, Nikaido Yamato. This is pointless.”
“At least it’d be a little warmer because of friction,” Yamato said, grinning. Then, without waiting for permission—because he knew Kujo was too proud to move forward himself—Yamato pulled him into his arms with a courage that he never even knew he had. He held his smaller frame tightly and pressed his cheek to his wet hair, uncaring about the cold water that continued to run down his neck.
“Sorry,” Yamato whispered in Kujo’s ears, entirely genuine.
Kujo snorted against his chest. Yamato could tell that Kujo was hesitating, judging from the way his arms hovered slightly behind Yamato’s back, but he eventually returned the hug, wrapping his arms around Yamato’s waist. They were both soaked, but Kujo’s arms somehow felt warm beneath the wet clothes.
“Too late for that,” Kujo mumbled, but he leaned his head more comfortably on Yamato’s shoulder. “Besides… I don’t mind getting sick. As long as someone takes care of me.”
That was definitely a lie. He knew Kujo. Well, okay, maybe he didn’t, but he knew that Kujo was the type to avoid potentially getting sick at all costs. But Yamato decided to believe him.
“Is that a heavy-handed hint? Do you want me to take care of you, Kujo?”
“I’m asking you to take responsibility.”
Yamato chuckled and released the hug slightly, only to take Kujo’s hand.
“Let’s walk. The station’s close enough, and we look like two drowned cats.”
They walked again toward the station. This time, there was no distance between them. Their shoulders were touching, their hands were clasped tightly, and they didn’t need an umbrella to force them into that proximity. Ah. Where could that umbrella be right now? Mitsu might come at his throat once he realizes that Yamato had lost the cheap plastic thing, but Yamato couldn’t care less.
He took off his glasses, which had long since become useless with all the water droplets clinging to their lenses, and shoved them into his pocket. It was blurry, but it was honestly better than having to have his vision completely obscured by the rainwater. Besides, Yamato could see well enough to notice that Kujo had turned to look at him.
“You…” he said suddenly.
“What?” Yamato tried to gauge his expression, squinting his eyes in an attempt to see better, but there was no luck.
“You… don’t look so bad without your glasses.” And then Kujo quickly turned his head away.
Yamato was actually stunned. “Kujo…” He couldn’t even tease him right then. “Did you just… did you just compliment me—”
“I said ‘not bad.’ Don’t get cocky.”
In spite of the way the world blurred in his vision, Yamato could see the red that was beginning to creep across Kujo’s cheeks. And he was pretty sure his own face matched him perfectly. He managed a crooked smile anyway.
“Same thing. Aww, your cheeks are red. Are you cold or are you embarrassed?”
“Shut up, or I’ll push you into the gutter.”
“Whoa, so scary.”
Yamato laughed despite his words, and he pulled Kujo into a light jog toward the warm glow of the station, eager to dry his lenses so he could witness the blush on Kujo’s cheeks a second time, leaving the transparent plastic umbrella behind, lost and forgotten.
The TV was too loud.
Or, maybe, Yamato’s head was just too foggy—kind of hard to tell when you’re running a fever and your sinuses feel like they’ve been packed with cotton balls. He was lying in his bed—had been lying in his bed for the past several hours, actually. He had finished his soup long ago, having left the empty bowl on the table. He was watching TRIGGER’s live performance on the screen across the room. The volume was at a reasonable level. The problem, however, was Yamato himself.
“Fantastic job as always, TRIGGER!” the host was saying brightly. “Tenn-kun, you seem to be in especially good spirits today!”
The camera panned to Kujo, and there was the angel smile again, the one that made the teenage girls swoon. It was, admittedly, radiant. Yamato applauded him for that. And, the thing that Yamato noticed the most was that Kujo seemed completely healthy. He showed not a single sign of yesterday’s rain adventure, despite being the one to shiver first. Meanwhile, Yamato was wrapped in approximately seventeen blankets, surrounded by used tissues, and contemplating whether it was possible to die of irony.
A knock on his door interrupted his staring.
“Yamato-san?” It was Mitsu.
“Yeah, come in.”
As soon as the door opened, Mitsu’s eyes immediately flew to the TV screen. “Oh, are you watching TRIGGER?” Yamato couldn’t see Mitsu’s expression when the younger leaned down to replace the empty bowl on his table with a glass of water and cold medicine, but he could hear the smile in his voice. “That’s new. How are you only getting productive now that you’re sick?”
“Hey, I’m not that lazy,” Yamato said, feeling the urgent need to defend himself.
“Sure thing. Anyway, here’s the cold medicine. Don’t forget to take it, okay? Or I’ll force it down your throat myself.”
“Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Mom,” Yamato rasped.
“Don’t call me Mom!” But Mitsu was smiling. “Seriously though, what were you even up to yesterday? You were soaking wet when you came home. Didn’t you bring an umbrella with you?”
Yamato thought about the umbrella. The cheap plastic thing was probably buried in some bush near the station now. Was it biodegrading? It probably was, slowly.
“I had one,” Yamato said carefully.
“And? What happened to it?”
“The wind took it.”
Mitsu raised an eyebrow. “The wind.”
“Very strong wind. Freak weather event. Nothing I could do about it, Mitsu.”
Mitsu stared at Yamato for a long moment, enough for him to begin feeling scrutinized and uncomfortable. He could tell that Mitsu was deciding whether to push further or let it go. Mitsu was perceptive, after all—more perceptive than people gave him credit for—but unlike Nagi, he was also kind enough to know when not to pry.
“Right,” Mitsu said, though he didn’t sound convinced one bit. “Well, okay then. Drink your medicine. Call me if you need anything.”
“Will do.” It took Yamato so much just to keep the relief from showing in his voice.
“And actually rest, okay? Don’t just watch TV all day!”
“Okay~”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Yamato turned back to the TV, only to find that the performance was ending. TRIGGER bowed, and they looked picture-perfect as always. Yamato thought about IDOLiSH7’s clumsy endings in comparison—they were nowhere near as elegant as TRIGGER was, but Yamato wouldn’t trade that for the world. Kujo’s smile was angelic under the stage lights, and the camera loved him, zooming in for a close-up that will probably end up as someone’s phone wallpaper by today.
Watching that smile, Yamato couldn’t help but think about the one he had seen yesterday. Unlike this one—professional and perfect—Kujo’s smile, soaked from the rainwater, was wide, unguarded, and real. Yamato found himself smiling too, despite the soreness of his throat.
If it meant he got to see Kujo smile like that—even just for a moment—then getting sick was absolutely worth it.
Yamato was still smiling when he turned off the TV. He quickly took his medicine, gulping down the entire glass of water greedily in seconds before lying back down on his bed. And he was still smiling, even as he slowly drifted off.
That was the first time Yamato had ever seen Kujo smile like that, and Yamato would make sure that it wouldn’t be the last.