The Story Forms Anyway

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.”

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 a miracle, to see him, to see his animated face, his broad shoulders and long legs sprawling over the tiny metal chair he’s contained in. Hakaze feels something a tension in the back of her shoulders roll, slowly, away, a smile tugging at her before she can think of how rude she’s being.

“Good evening, prince. This time it’s my turn to ask if I’m disturbing.”

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

“Can’t argue with that logic.” She cheerfully 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 doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “I’m most productive at this time. And I’m close by if someone’s practicing and needs help. Harua handles the mornings.”

So mundane, for someone who looks like he stepped out of a fantasy book. He’s eating ramen between breaks in writing, squinting at his notes like his eyesight’s not that great, and it’s all so achingly 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 man with tired eyes, eating ramen and waiting for someone to need him. Maybe part of being wanted so desperately was to wait, patiently, until 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 seriousness and his single-minded drive.

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

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

Again, Hakaze has to duck her head to hide a smile. Sitting here, even when he clearly disliked her, wasn’t a mistake after all; he’s delightful. So incredibly refreshing. 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?”

Straight out of the small talk playbook. Hakaze has to fight to keep the fondness out of her voice when she replies, “Forgot to send a few emails, and tomorrow would be too late.”

He nods. There’s a sharpness in his gaze that belies the droop of his shoulders, the lateness of the hour. Not searching, but as if he’s already found something on her face that’s worthy of a second look. She feels it on her skin like the lightest of touches; it makes her aware of the scant gap between their legs under the small metal table.

She opens her laptop abruptly, clearing her throat. He turns back to his writing.

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 makes sure to accept, eyes skimming down the meeting agenda. One of the bullets outlines risk management for Neonite, and she hums under her breath. She would never get used to the business precision of how they referred to idols.

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 of pine disinfectant.

Hakaze stands and scoops the fallen chopsticks into the big trashcan by the drink case. Then she heads to the station, the vending machine blinking its menu in slow, patient intervals.

She returns with another pair.

He accepts them with a quiet murmur, eyes flicking up. That sharp, almost-too-attentive gaze is soft, melting like honey, and Hakaze inhales, and thinks there’s the prince. That’s the moneymaker.

He accepts it with a murmur of thanks.

“You must enjoy taking care of people. Harua said he’s always asking you for advice.”

She sighs. Fucking Harua. She shifts away from the topic, nodding at his 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 staring at her very intently, as if by intensity alone she would believe 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 as she grins at him. “I’m spending time with your beloved leader.”

He bristles further this, a corner of his lip downturned as if she’d disappointed him somehow. Whoa.

“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, easily. “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.

The thought comes to her like a distant wind chime: so he thought about things like this, too.

She didn’t have him figured out after all.

“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, 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.”

It’s because it’s so empty—the hour late enough—the music tinny enough—that she says, quietly, “You don’t seem like you’re ready for things to end.”

That image of him walking that quiet path through a city maybe isn’t as real after all. Things did affect him; things like the snow gathering on his shoulders, the wind through the rooftops. And he hears them because he’s still listening for footsteps behind him, as if part of him can’t help checking if the people he once ran with are keeping up.

He doesn’t look at her as he adds, voice flatter:

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

Hakaze wonders why she thought, even for an instant, that he didn’t care. He cared so much it hurt.

“That’s a really leader-like thing to say.”

Ren exhales—quiet, controlled, more annoyed at himself than anything. 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, but his rhythm feels natural to keep up with.

“Almost the opposite.”

“But it makes it easy for Harua to lead the rest of the group when you’re out there blazing a path.”

He looks flustered again—taken aback, instinctive anger clamped down by something that dampens it, as he scans the look on her face and finds her totally sincere, too sincere, perhaps, something in her heart reluctantly stirring, and it’s as if he, too, remembers who he’s talking to, his face changing into an expression that on anyone else would look like—

Awe.

“Listen to me, Junior,” she says, and only part of it is the glittery laugh she uses when she’s trying to hide that she’s saying something she wants him, desperately, to hear. “Nothing you’ll ever do is going to save your leader as much as you being yourself. It’s his job to make the rest of the pieces fall to place.”

Then she grins. “Or something like that, anyway.”

He’s still staring up at her. Glittering dark eyes, face laid open like an open highway. His stupidly beautiful face gives every moment a touch of gravity she doesn’t quite understand; she knows, somehow, that she’ll never forget this, when she gave advice to a troubled young man that made him look like this.

He quickly looks down the next instant. The headlights pass on the street behind him, playing on the side of his face. “You don’t know anything about this.”

“But I promised Harua I’d help, and that means helping you, too. Good luck, Prince!” she picks up her laptop and slides it into her backpack. “Your senior’s rooting for you!”

He clicks his tongue and pointedly looks away from her thumbs-up. Something must be wrong with her; she finds even this endearing. With that lethal face card and his strange cuteness, it really was no doubt he was the country’s top idol. She feels that post-meet-and-greet joy again as she says goodbye, and turns to leave. He’s framed by the greenery, his notebook in his hand.

She might be becoming a fan.