Chapter Text
“Thank you again for watching!” Kiku Honda smiled, a practiced, gentle curve of his lips as he ended the stream. The screen went dark, leaving him in the quiet of his modest apartment. It was another small online gig, an invitation to a YouTube drinking show where the conversation was light and the expectations low. While it had little traction in Japan, the loose, informal format resonated with a handful of viewers overseas. Their comments in broken Japanese or fluent English were a small, steady warmth. Kiku’s finances were tight, his earnings were sporadic and barely covered rent, but in this space, where comparison faded, he found a fragile contentment.
A few years earlier, Kiku had stood on very different stages as part of EAST. The unit had crackled with potential, quickly amassing a dedicated international fanbase. But the spotlight curved toward his teammates. Yong Soo was the all-rounder and choreographer, a performer whose very presence seemed to recalibrate the energy in a room. Leon, the youngest, possessed a quiet, creative intensity that spilled over into acting roles and self-produced music, captivating audiences with his depth. On the other hand, as EAST’s “most reliable leader”, he led meetings, memorized schedules, and stayed up late reviewing performances. He did all of this to ensure no one else stumbled on his behalf. The leadership title felt less like an honor. He felt that he was the functional piece, the glue, not the star of the group.
It's a given, they all had exceptional talent. I felt like I was dragging them down... I don't even have a special talent. These thoughts carried onto him beyond their disbandment.
EAST, however, was a business experiment with an expiration date. Forged in the crucible of a survival show, their contract was a one-year gamble to capture the public’s fleeting attention. When the clock ran out, the momentum dissolved. Yong Soo went back to South Korea, debuting as the main dancer in yet another one of Korea’s survival shows; whereas Leon, he has established his name as an independent songwriter, famous for his unique techno-like style compositions worldwide.
For Kiku, the end was his finality. He took a year of hiatus that felt less like rest and more like a slow dissolution of identity. Streaming emerged not as a passion but a necessity, a way to fill the silence and the empty space in his bank account. The true fracture, however, preceded the contract's end. The group’s abrupt disbandment was triggered by the disappearance of a member, not some external scandal.
“Wang Yao.” Kiku uttered the name again, letting it hang in the quiet room. The fourth member of EAST, and the one Kiku could only ever define as his mentor.
Yao had been an enigma not even within EAST, but the entire idol industry. His age was a constant subject of endless, fruitless speculation, by fans, and even fellow idols. He carried an air of timelessness that felt ageless rather than young. More strikingly, he was pristine. In an industry that thrived on manufactured drama and exposed secrets, Yao had zero scandals. Not a whisper of impropriety, not a single grainy photo from a questionable past. His history was a blank page, literally. It's as if someone had deliberately and perfectly erased everything. It has gone to a point where Paparazzi and obsessive fans alike hit a wall of polite silence and utter absence. He had simply materialized, fully formed, to step onto the stage, under the bright spotlight.
To Kiku specifically, he wasn't just a good idol, he was the archetype. His voice held a calibrated warmth, his dance moves were both precise and effortlessly fluid, and his stage presence was a gentle command. He was kind without being familiar, professional without being cold. It felt like it was Yao’s fundamental nature to be an idol. To Kiku and the others, it was sometimes unnerving. It didn't feel like performance, but like essence. Yao had been created, it seemed, not by a company, but by the collective desire for what an idol should be: flawless, untouchable, and eternally steady.
His disappearance, therefore, wasn't just a loss. It was the impossible failing of a perfect system. If someone like Yao could vanish, then nothing in their constructed world was stable. His absence was the most profound mystery of all, undermining the very image he had so perfectly embodied.
“Wang Yao.” Kiku uttered his name again. “…Where have you been?”
The name was a litany, a prayer, and a wound to Kiku. Kiku didn't just miss him; he was haunted by him. Yao’s absence was not only an empty space, but a silhouette carved so perfectly into Kiku’s life that everything else now failed to fill it. The grief was a quiet, daily rot. It wasn't the loud anguish of loss, but the terrible silence of a conversation left forever mid-sentence. His regret was a specific, gnawing torture. He regretted every unasked question, every moment he’d accepted Yao’s serene answers at face value. Why had he never pushed past that perfect smile to find the man who wore it? He’d been so grateful for Yao’s guidance, so soothed by his stability, that he’d committed the ultimate sin: he had worshipped the idol, and neglected the human. Now, he was left with only the ghost of the icon, and a desperate, aching need for the man he never truly knew.
If I had been braver, he thought. if I had reached for his hand instead of his advice, would he have stayed? Would I have been enough to anchor him to this world?
He yearned not just for Yao’s return, but for a version of the past where he had been the central mystery in Yao’s life, instead of a devoted bystander.
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Every night was a courtroom of his own making, a session of relentless questioning and heavy regret. Just last night had been one of the worst: a sleepless span of hours dissecting every remembered glance, every ambiguous word from Yao. He had finally given up on sleep just before dawn, the decision crystallizing in the gray light: he would need a strong coffee, maybe two, to survive today’s modeling gig. His body felt like a hollowed-out instrument, as he treaded over to a nearby cafe that conveniently opened at 7am.
The bell above the door chimed with a cheap, cheerful sound. This cafe wasn’t on Kiku’s usual route. He’d come here precisely because it held no memories, because its generic, warm-toned decor and smell of roasted beans bore no trace of the past. It was a place to be anonymous, to think of nothing.
And then he saw the name.
It was handwritten on a small, elegant placard beside the register: Wang Yao, founder. Beside the name was a small chibi art with a wide smile, a cheeky one even.
His breath hitched, a sharp, physical pain in his sternum. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, narrowing to those two familiar characters. It couldn’t be. It was a common name. A coincidence? But his body knew before his mind conceded, every cell humming with a terrible, electric recognition.
He forced himself to look up, and the second violation was far worse than the first.
The man behind the counter was… Yao. The slope of his shoulders, the specific fall of dark hair, the elegant line of his jaw…it was him. Definitely him. But he was very different from the Yao he knew–The oh-so-mysterious and calm Wang Yao he definitely knew a lot about.
This Wang Yao moved with a languid, almost insolent grace as he polished a porcelain cup. His expression, once a mask of serene benevolence, was now animated with a sharp, knowing amusement as he chatted with a regular. He said something, his voice carrying the same timber but a completely new melody, laced with a teasing, sarcastic edge. The customer laughed, shaking their head as if to say, you’re impossible.
Kiku stood frozen, a ghost haunting the wrong life. This wasn’t the mentor who spoke in measured, perfect cadences. This man’s smile was a quick, flashy thing, closer to a smirk. There was an arrogance in the tilt of his head, a confidence that felt showy, not innate. Where was the calming stillness? The depth that felt like gazing into a still lake? This man was a sparking wire, vibrant and slightly dangerous.
A storm of contradictions tore through Kiku. A hot, bitter resentment surged first.
So this is where you went. To a cafe. You let us shatter, let me drown in your absence, and you just… opened a coffee shop?
The grief that had been a sacred, private altar now felt cheapened, ridiculous. He had built a shrine to a phantom, and the real thing was here, serving lattes with a side of snark.
Is that really you, or am I just seeing ghosts in a stranger’s face?
But under the resentment coiled an uneasy, terrifying hope. It fizzed in his veins, sickly sweet. He had found him. After all the searching in the shadows, he had simply… walked into the right building. It felt obscenely easy, an anticlimax that undermined years of quiet suffering. He wanted to stride forward, to demand answers.
Was any of it real? The calm, the wisdom, the perfect patience—was that all a performance?
He wanted to turn and flee, to preserve the perfect, painful memory he’d clung to. But his feet were rooted to the spot, caught between the icon he had loved and the infuriating, living man who had stolen his face.
Have you ever thought of us? Of me?
Did you know how completely you ruined me?
Before he could corral his whirling thoughts into a coherent lie or retreat, the barista, Yao, leaned forward across the counter. The movement was fluid, intrusive, breaking the last of Kiku’s personal space. Amber eyes, the same impossible shade Kiku had stared at on a thousand pixelated screens, now widened with a lively, merciless curiosity.
“A new customer?” Yao asked, his voice a melody of faux-innocent delight. It was a performance of welcome, but one laced with a teasing, proprietary air. “What would you like to order? A hot mocha to brave this cold weather? An Americano to scour away the sleepiness?” He tilted his head, a glint of playful challenge in his gaze. “Or would you like to randomize your order today? I’m feeling inspired.”
His smile was nothing like the serene, closed-lipped curve of memory. This was a grin. Open, cheeky, verging on impudent. It reminded Kiku of a cat that had not only got the cream but was considering batting the saucer off the table for fun. A bizarre, hysterical wave of cuteness-aggression hit Kiku. He had a violent urge to squeeze something, to disrupt that infuriating, adorable composure.
But the darker tide washed over it instantly. Resentment, sour and familiar, clamped his throat shut. This man was a vandal, defiling a sacred portrait with every smirk. The cognitive dissonance was a physical pressure behind his eyes. He couldn’t process the menu, the options, the casual chatter. All that escaped, raw and stripped bare, was the one word that anchored both his past and this surreal present.
“Wang Yao.” Kiku uttered as he held his breath.
“Hm? Yes, that is my name!” Yao responded, slightly confused, but his cheerful smile remained.
“Though my regulars like to call me Lao Da–”
“Why did you leave us? Leave me?”