The Poison in the Cup

The celebration still hummed in Senri’s veins like a fading, sweet chord. The memory of the jar in his hands was a tangible piece of happiness.

Each careful observation burned into his mind like constellations he could navigate by.

She saw him.

And if she saw all those small, private things, if she'd been paying that much attention, then surely, surely she felt the same way he did.

The certainty of it made him feel invincible.

Senri sat in his designated seat, the familiar arrangement: boys on one side, girls on the other, Takeshi holding court in the center like a ringmaster. The host was in peak form tonight, his gestures animated, his smile wide enough to show every tooth.

It was still jarring, this version of Takeshi. After that brutal week where he'd systematically attacked everyone's character, dissecting their flaws and insecurities for entertainment, the man had pivoted to positivity. All smiles and encouragement, like the previous cruelty had never happened.

Nataria and the others seemed to believe it was due to their plan, the one where they'd consciously ramped up engagement, given the producers the drama and chemistry they craved.

"Keep the engagement high, keep them satisfied, and they'll ease off,"

Nataria had explained with the weary wisdom of someone who'd learned to play this game young.

Maybe she was right. Maybe the producers' thirst for content had been quenched, at least temporarily.

Senri still didn't like the man. Still felt his shoulders tense whenever Takeshi sat in front of them. But tonight, wrapped in the lingering warmth of Nataria's gift, of her careful attention and unspoken affection, he couldn't bring himself to care.

He glanced across the divide between their seats.

Nataria sat with perfect posture, back straight in that way that made her look regal and untouchable. The crimson dress she wore caught the light like liquid rubies. Her expression was serene, the mask firmly in place.

It was fascinating, the transformation she underwent in front of cameras. Like watching someone step into armor, every vulnerable piece of herself carefully locked away. But Senri had seen beneath it now. Had seen her laugh with a snort, had watched her blush that pretty shade of pink, had witnessed the softness she kept hidden from the world.

And she'd chosen to show him that softness. Chosen him.

The thought made his chest feel too small to contain his heart.

Nataria must have felt his gaze because her eyes flickered toward him, just briefly. Their gazes met for a heartbeat before she looked back toward Takeshi, but Senri caught the subtle curve at the corner of her mouth. A secret smile, meant only for him.

His heart performed a slow, happy somersault.

“And now!” Takeshi announced, his voice dropping into a stage whisper that signaled a ‘moment’ was being manufactured. A staffer hurried out with a small lacquered tray. On it sat a single, delicate ceramic cup and a bottle of clear sake.

“A little rite of passage for our birthday boy! Twenty years old! A full-fledged adult!”

The studio audience cooed and applauded. Senri’s smile froze.

No.

The world tilted slightly. Senri's hands, resting on his knees, clenched into fists.

"Come on, don't be shy!" Takeshi's grin was wide. "Your first legal drink on camera! What a milestone!"

The smell hit him as soon as the bottle was opened, that sharp, chemical sweetness that lived permanently in his memory. His father's breath, hot and sour. The apartment reeking of it, bottles scattered like evidence of a crime scene. The way the smell clung to everything: furniture, clothes, him.

Don't look at me like that, boy.

His father's voice, slurred and mean. Angry at nothing and everything.

I'm a drunk. My father was a drunk. His father before him. It's in our blood, Senri. You'll understand when you're older.

"Amano-san?" Takeshi's voice had taken on that edge of false concern that he had come to understand always preceded drama. A tone that suggested he sensed blood in the water. "Is something wrong?"

Senri couldn't move. Couldn't speak. The shot glass sat on the small table between them, innocuous.

Memories crashed over him in waves:

His father's hands, knuckles bloody.

The police sirens wailing outside their apartment at 2 AM.

His sisters crying in the next room, terrified and confused.

The smell. Always the smell.

"We cleared it with your agency," Takeshi pressed, and now there was definitely an edge to it. The cameras were rolling. This was content. "It won't affect restrictions on your contract. It's completely fine."

The discomfort around him became palpable. Momo’s giggle died. Sachiko’s encouraging grin looked faint. Shou shifted in his seat. Hibiki’s silver eyes narrowed slightly, flicking between Takeshi and Senri.

Senri’s frantic mind scrabbled for purchase.

Don’t make a scene. Don’t cause problems.

His eyes, against his will, darted to Nataria.

Her brows were drawn together in worry. She was leaning forward slightly, her body coiled as if ready to spring. He knew that look. It was the same fierce determination she’d worn before stepping in for him last time.

No.

If he dragged this out, if Takeshi mined this moment for another second of awkward drama, she would speak. She would draw that sharp, intelligent tongue and the host’s full, hungry attention onto herself. To shield him. Again.

That decided it. The protectiveness he felt for her flared, burning through the panic.

He forced his arm to move. His fingers closed around the cup. The ceramic was cool. “Thank you,” he heard himself say. He tipped his head back and swallowed the sake in one go.

It was a line of fire, a disgusting warmth that spread like a stain through his gut. The studio erupted in relieved, riotous applause. Takeshi clapped him on the shoulder, his curiosity satisfied, the moment neatly packaged.

“There we go! Welcome to adulthood!”

°❀°❀°❀°❀

The moment passed. The show continued its forward momentum.

But Senri felt like he was underwater.

Everything sounded muffled. Takeshi asked him something about being away from home on his birthday. Senri's mouth moved, forming words he didn't remember choosing. The correct responses delivered on autopilot while his mind reeled.

A clip played on the screen, his commercial, then a transition into internet speculation. Screenshots of fan posts, wild theories about him and Shou, romantic edits set to love songs. Any other time, it would have been mortifying. Funny even.

But Senri barely registered it.

He felt the alcohol spreading through his system like contamination. It wasn't enough to make him drunk; one shot shouldn't affect him this strongly, but the psychological weight of it crushed down on him.

He felt sick. Dizzy. Wrong in his own skin.

All he could think about was escape.

°❀°❀°❀°❀

The show ended in a blur of closing remarks and enthusiastic goodbyes.

Senri stood mechanically when the cameras cut, his body moving through the familiar post-show routine on pure muscle memory. He should thank the crew. Should make small talk with the others, laugh off the awkward moment.

He fled instead.

He moved through the backstage maze, past crew members calling “Great show!”, his hearing muffled as if underwater.

He turned down a narrower corridor, then another, seeking the deepest, most forgotten vein of the building.

He found it: a storage hallway lined with forgotten lighting rigs and dusty set pieces from past shows. The air was cool and still, smelling of old wood and dust. A single safety bulb cast a sickly yellow puddle of light.

His knees gave out. He slid down the rough concrete wall, the impact jarring up his spine. The tremors started then, uncontrollable, rattling his hands and his very core. The memories were rupturing the dam.

“You have your father’s face, Senri-kun.”

“Spitting image, isn’t he?”

The cruel, triumphant gleam in his father’s bloodshot eyes. “You can’t escape it. It’s in the blood.”

"Senri-kun."

He jerked his head up.

Nataria stood at the entrance to the corridor, backlit by the brighter hallway beyond. Behind her, he caught glimpses of Sachiko's worried face, and further back, Hibiki's distinctive form.

They'd followed him. Of course they had.

"Go away." The words came out harsher than he intended. "Please. I don't…" His voice cracked. "I don't want you seeing me like this."

Nataria stepped into the corridor. The click of her heels echoed loud in the confined space.

"I said go…"

"No." Her voice was calm. She moved closer, and he could see the determination in the set of her shoulders. "You didn't leave after seeing my worst moments. After witnessing the entire nation hate me for my mistake."

The words hit like a punch to the chest. He remembered that conference, the brutal comments, her pale, frightened face from the sight of that milk cup. How he'd wanted nothing more than to shield her from it all.

"That's not the same." A small spark of anger flared in his chest, anger at the world that had hurt her, anger at himself for being another person who hurt her then, anger at the unfairness of it all.

"That wasn't your fault. You didn't deserve…"

"And you deserve this?" She cut him off, her own anger rising to match his. "You deserve to torture yourself over whatever this is?"

Nataria sank down beside him on the dusty floor without hesitation. The beautiful crimson dress pooled around her like spilled wine, getting dirty, and she didn't seem to care at all.

"What's wrong?" Her voice had gentled, but the steel underneath remained. "Talk to me, Senri-kun, please."

He couldn't. Couldn't find the words to explain the poison spreading through his veins, the memories crawling up his throat like bile. The fear that lived in his bones.

Through the haze, he saw Hibiki take position at the corridor entrance, standing guard. Saw Sachiko place a water bottle on the floor near Nataria before both of them retreated, giving him space.

Covering for him. Protecting him.

The knowledge made everything worse. He was being a burden, causing them trouble, disrupting the careful equilibrium they'd all worked so hard to maintain. Pathetic. Just like…

"Senri-kun." Nataria's voice cut through the spiral. "Are you alright?"

The question was so gentle, so genuinely concerned, that something in him cracked.

"My father." The words spilled out before he could stop them. "He drank all the time. Every day, every night. The smell of it… God, I can't stand the smell."

Nataria stayed quiet, listening with that intense focus that should have been frightening but felt encouraging instead.

"Our apartment always reeked of it. Sake, mostly. Sometimes beer. He'd come home already drunk, get drunker, and then..." Senri's hands were shaking. He clenched them into fists. "Everything fell apart. Nothing worked. Bills didn't get paid. Food ran out. My sisters cried constantly, and I didn't know how to fix it. Didn't know how to make it better. And he just kept drinking."

The memories were vivid now in their horror: His father ranting at shadows. His mother, the last reassuring presence, gone. The night the police came, sirens wailing, lights flashing red and blue through the thin curtains.

"I was sixteen when he was finally gone." Senri's voice had gone flat. Easier to say it without emotion, like he was reciting someone else's story. "He'd hurt someone and taken by the police. And it was just me and Hana, and Yuki. My sisters were so young. They didn't understand why he was the way he was."

"Senri-kun..." Nataria's voice was thick with emotion.

"Everyone says I look just like him." The words tasted like ash. "Same eyes, same smile. 'You're the spitting image of your father,' they say, like it's a compliment. Like they don't know what that means."

He finally turned to look at her, this girl who'd somehow become the center of his world. Her eyes were wide and glistening, her expression caught between fury and heartbreak.

"He used to tell me that it was in our blood. His father was a drunk, and his father before him. That I'd understand when I was older, that I'd become just like him. That it was inevitable." Senri's voice broke on the last word. "And tonight, when I took that drink, all I could think was that he was right. That I'm…"

"No." The word came out sharp, almost violent. Nataria's hands clenched into fists on her lap. "You are nothing like your father."

"You can't know…"

"I do know." The heat in her voice made him stop, stunned into silence. "I've seen you, Senri-kun. I told you what I saw. I can tell you again if you don't believe me."

The notes. The jar full of careful observations, of moments he thought no one noticed.

"You always take care of everyone first," Nataria said, her voice fierce and certain. "You love music because it helps you connect with others. You help people instinctively, without thinking, without expecting anything back. You saved children from fire. You defended me when you barely knew me. You look at people when they talk like what they're saying actually matters to you."

Each word hit like light breaking through darkness.

"That's who you are. That's what I see when I look at you." Her eyes blazed with absolute conviction. "You are kind, and genuine, and so impossibly good that it terrifies me sometimes because the world doesn't deserve you. And you are nothing, nothing, like a man who hurt his family and drowned his problems in alcohol."

The warmth of her words spread through him, pushing back the darkness, the poison, the fear. Senri turned to really look at her face.

There she was: chin up the way she did when squaring up for a fight. Eyes full of concern and warmth and something deeper, something he could no longer unsee.

Maybe, impossibly, miraculously, maybe she saw him the same way he saw her.

He watched her reach for his hand, saw the movement begin before uncertainty crept in. Her fingers hesitated in the space between them, the protective anger softening into worry. Is this okay? Am I allowed?

Senri took her hand in his, answering the question she hadn't spoken aloud.

Her fingers were warm and delicate, trembling slightly. When she didn't pull away, when she instead curled her fingers around his and held on tight, something in his chest unlocked.

He drew their joined hands to his chest, pressing her palm against the place where his heart hammered beneath his ribs. Needed her to feel it, the way it raced when she was near, the way her presence steadied him even when everything else fell apart.

The world narrowed to this: her hand against his heart, her eyes on his face, the dust-streaked corridor becoming the only place that mattered.

"I love you." The words fell from his lips like a prayer, like the truest thing he'd ever said. "More than anything. I don't want this show to end. With you, I've never felt happier."

Nataria's breath caught audibly. Her eyes went wide, then glistened with tears that caught the dim light like stars.

"I'm glad I met you," she whispered, her voice breaking on the words. "I love you too. You make me feel brave."

The admission hung between them, impossibly precious. All the things they'd been dancing around, all the feelings they'd been too afraid to name, finally spoken aloud in a dusty corridor behind the stage where no cameras could find them.

Senri felt the last of the adrenaline drain from his system, taking with it the artificial strength that had kept him upright. The exhaustion crashed over him in waves, emotional, physical, the single shot of alcohol he'd taken hitting harder than it should because he'd never built up any tolerance, had actively avoided drinking for exactly this reason.

"Tired," he mumbled, the word slurring slightly. Everything felt heavy: his limbs, his eyelids, the weight of the confession still settling between them.

She moved with him, guiding his head down to rest on her shoulder. The rough concrete was beneath him, the scent of dust in his nose mixed with her flowery scent, and her hand was already in his hair, her fingers beginning a slow, soothing rhythm against his scalp.

“It is going to be alright,” she murmured, her voice the last clear thing he heard.