Kaleidoscope

She has her laptop open already as she trudges back inside. It’s a heavy, heavy piece of shit she got as a gift from Nao when she first announced her plans to switch careers; she can barely balance it on her hand as she’s walking. She opens her calendar and squints at her appointments before her laptop threatens to wobble off her grip, and, annoyed, she snaps it back closed, pivoting on her heel to the first floor convenience store instead.

It's a dinky little thing, half-built then abandoned during the tumultuous years of ECLIPSE’s disbandment—later, Neonite made enough money to turn the entire fourth floor into a shopping complex, so none of the employees really went here anymore. She trails through rows of no-name generic protein bars and seaweed snacks all nearing expiration, the machine to scan your employee ID instead of a cashier. The wifi’s always been reliable, however, so that’s really the only coherent thought in Hakaze’s head as she rounds the corner towards the singular metal table and awful chairs, only to find—

Oh.

Ashy hair. A thoughtful frown that deepens, melts into wide-eyed shock, then forcibly back to neutral. “Good evening, Senior.”

The music they’re piping into the store is quiet, some remix of one of her songs. The fake plants are vivid splashes of color in the overhead lights. It feels like magic, to see him, to see his animated face, his broad shoulders and long legs sprawling over the tiny metal chair he’s contained in, in this shitty relic of her past. Hakaze feels a different kind of energy snap her spine straight; something that makes her teeth ache with the urge to needle him.

“Good evening, Prince. It’s my turn to ask if I’m disturbing.”

Ren Mikazuki taps his pen against the notebook on the table, once, twice, before steadying it. His expression is carefully neutral when he says, “It’s the only table here.”

“Can’t argue with that logic.” She pastes a big smile on her face and sits across from him, setting her laptop on the table. The chair makes a discordant noise on the tile as she pushes it back, in tune with how his back goes straight, sharp. She’s considerate enough to give him space. “You’re working late.”

He meets her eyes, haughty. “I’m most productive at this time. And I’m close by if someone’s practicing and needs help. Harua handles the mornings.”

It’s so mundane it stops the catty reply she was cooking up in its tracks. He’s eating ramen between breaks in writing, squinting at his notes like his eyesight’s not that great, and it’s all painfully human. There were label execs that threw endless money at figuring out the building blocks of a top idol, but maybe it was this: a proud man with tired eyes, sneaking in bites of ramen while he waited for someone to need him. Maybe the secret of being a perfect idol was to wait, patiently, to be called—and then emerging, the perfect shape of a heart’s desire.

It wasn’t easy, to be such a convenient object of everyone’s want. Most buckled under the weight of it. Hakaze’s always been fascinated by the ones who don’t. What gave them the strength, to stay, and wait, and not know who was on the other end of the leash? Even this one. Especially this one, with his pride and his ambition.

“That’s kind of you,” is all she says. “You must be a good senior.”

His frown gets a little deeper, uncertain. “It’s expected. Once they debut we’ll be doing joint appearances, and I refuse to promote alongside undertrained amateurs.”

Gruesomely, Hakaze finds that she has to duck her head to hide a smile. Sitting here, even when he clearly disliked her, this heartthrob’s bluntness is incredibly refreshing compared to the polite corporate prattle and the media-trained polish of the other idols. Did the world know that their top idol’s personality was this terrible?

The world’s top idol is shifting now, uncomfortable. “And yourself, Senior?”

His forced politeness makes her a little regretful about her own instinct to needle at him. Hakaze says, softening her tone, “Forgot to send a few emails, and tomorrow would be too late. My wifi at home isn’t the best.”

He nods. There’s a sharpness in his gaze that belies the droop of his shoulders, the lateness of the hour. Searching again, like she’s a puzzle that’s been set before him that he’s set upon with single-minded focus. She feels it on her skin with the heaviness of a touch; it makes her aware of the scant gap between their legs under the small metal table.

She opens her laptop abruptly, clearing her throat. His gaze flicks to the screen, then back to her face. That heavy focus again, tingling along her cheekbones, the dip of her lashes, her mouth.

“Prince,” she murmurs.

He hmm’s an acknowledgement. He returns to scribbling.

She makes herself stop studying him under her lashes as well, and turns to her miserable mailbox. It turns out that she doesn’t need to schedule a meeting, after all; she’s invited to a meeting with some of the directors tomorrow. She accepts and skims the meeting agenda. One of the bullets outlines risk management for Neonite, which could mean anything. Still, she has a bad feeling. Neonite was a fuse begging to be lit. It would only take one stupid executive initiative to make all of Harua’s grueling hard work –and he laughed it off, but it was thankless work, to lead an idol group—mean nothing.

Or he could break up with his girlfriend, and this would all be over. She still doesn’t understand how the choice isn’t clear.

In the emptiness of the convenience store, a noise: Ren’s chopsticks have clattered across the table. He startles, shoulders hitching, a soft flush rising as if the noise itself had betrayed him. The ramen cup trembles slightly when he reaches for them; in a split second, he winces. His left arm.

The overhead lights hum on, indifferent. Outside the glass storefront, the night drags by in long, blue strokes, buses huffing past like tired animals. Inside, the air smells faintly of broth and disinfectant.

Hakaze quietly stands up and scoops the fallen chopsticks into the big trashcan by the drink case. Then she heads to the station, the vending machine flickering its menu sluggish and sporadic.

She returns with another pair.

He accepts them with another frown, eyes flicking up. That too-sharp glance doesn’t soften for a second. She almost says, you’d be prettier if you smiled, just to see how he’d react.

“You still don’t think before you try to help.”

She rolls her eyes. How could she forget.

He bristles. “It’s a fair concern. You have a reputation for involving yourself over-much with problems.”

This time, she can’t help blurting it out: “We met last week, dude.”

He flushes but doubles down. “To pretend you weren’t dominating the public eye for five years is your illusion, not mine.”

She breathes. Finds that her voice has gone low and cold when she says, “Watch it, Prince,” and has no idea where that came from.

He looks dissatisfied, but obediently shuts up.

She clears her throat and nods at his injured arm instead. “Shouldn’t that be in a cast?”

“I had to take it off for a shoot. I’m getting it back tomorrow, but the doctors didn’t seem to think it would be a big deal.”

Maybe, maybe not. She doesn’t trust someone as single-minded as him to be upfront about an injury. His expression seems to suggest she should; he’s scowling at her as if he’s daring her to contradict him.

Again, that urge to tease: “Did they tell you to multitask, too?”

His frown is back. “It’s more efficient this way. Being injured doesn’t mean I can slack off.”

This, Hakaze can see. Someone who walks a silent, sure path through an empty city, never straying. Empty streets, abandoned rooftops and fire escapes and back exits, hardly noticing how alone he is. Anyone who wanted to keep up would need to find a shortcut, force a collision or brush a shoulder, make those burning eyes focus in on the moment.

Reina was the same way.

She’s overcome, suddenly, by curiosity. “It sounds like you and Harua are as close as ever.”

“Not as much as we used to be. He’s busy with his new album. You must see him more than I do.”

“Jealous?” his eyes widen when she waggles her eyebrows. “I’m spending time with your beloved leader.”

He bristles further this, the corners of his lips downturned as if she’d kicked a puppy again.

“Keep him,” he says, back to scratching on his notebook. Then, he pauses. “Truly, I don’t understand it. Were you close when he was a trainee? I don’t remember.”

“Hm? He didn’t tell you? We only met after I came back to work at the studio. We worked on his first solo together.”

“And do you think he’s talented?”

Hakaze tilts her head. His eyes are burning into hers. “Of course,” she says, easy. “Not as much as you, though, Prince.”

He scowls again, though the tips of his ears redden. “Good,” he says. “That’ll mean a lot to him. He worries too much.”

“Is that why he’s been extra annoying lately?”

She watches him scratch at his notebook, fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary before he speaks again.

“He’s always made fun of me for taking things seriously, but he doesn’t take things seriously enough.” His voice is low, frustrated. Hakaze can’t figure him out yet, can’t play along because she can’t quite tell what he wants from her. The equation is too unbalanced.

Still, Hakaze leans forward slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Harua’s always said that we were good enough to never have to stop doing this,” Ren says. “But really, that’s unrealistic. Everything ends eventually.”

He pauses, jaw tightening. The music tinkles softly, like snowflakes on their shoulders, and Hakaze hums along as she waits for him to finish calculating what he wants to say.

“Part of achieving something incredible is knowing when you’ve outstayed your welcome.”

Hakaze watches the shift happen: his shoulders angling back, posture sharpening, as if he’s quietly bracing against something.

“You don’t seem like you’re ready for things to end.”

“If Harua believes that the current Neonite will last forever, that’s his problem. I’m not adjusting my trajectory for anyone.”

Hakaze wonders how he goes about his day without getting punched.

“Your arrogance knows no bounds, Prince.”

Ren snorts, like he can hear the asshole that goes unsaid. He flicks to a new page in his notebook with unnecessary force. In response, she leans back in her chair, deliberately casual. It feels like the steps of a choreography that she hasn’t learned yet; a back and forth that sketches out in her mind.

“You should know that you need to be selfish to survive in this industry.”

“I wouldn’t, actually.” Her voice is hard. “As you can see, I didn’t survive.”

He looks shattered at this. Hakaze’s heart lurches at the unexpectedness of it; did she kick his dog without noticing again? And did he just navigate life letting every emotion he felt rattle him to his core?

“You didn’t,” he agrees, and a muscle ticks in his jaw. “You took a side without thinking, and it ruined you.”

This time she doesn’t even try to stop herself. “Asshole,” she says, almost wondering. "Do you hear yourself? You don't pick a winning side, your team is your side. Not that you'd get it, the way you're holding Harua's relationship over his head," she says, unhurried as she gathers her things to leave, relishing how white his face has gone. “For the record, endings aren't as poetic as you're describing them. You're just lucky you haven't had to face that many yet."

He’s still staring up at her. Cloudy dark eyes, face laid open like an open highway. His stupidly beautiful face gives his look of abject horror and sadness a gravity that she appreciates; she knows, somehow, that as deep as the knife he twisted in her, it lay just as deep in him.

She's too mad at him, at herself, for letting him get so far under her skin, that she can't quite focus enough to close the janky zipper of her backpack. She glares at him when he reaches out to help; he sighs, and closes it for her anyway.

"For what it's worth," he says, soft, tired, "I would never tell anyone about Harua's partner. He has nothing to be afraid of. I-- didn't realize that that would be troubling him." 

She sighs. "Get some sleep, Prince. Tell him that in the morning. Good night."

He opens his mouth. Shuts it, and nods. 

She can feel him watching the whole time as she leaves.