Out on the Verge of the Rest of Our Lives, Part One

The afterparty for Harua’s comeback feels stiflingly corporate the moment Hakaze’s heels click off the elevator (nobody will admit those carpets are velvet). Black-draped cocktail tables swallow themselves in shadow, uplights bleed crimson and indigo over a dismal crowd in suits and blazers. Bland, neutered instrumental arrangements of Harua’s new album play through the speakers. The Astreon logo flickers on one wall, which Hakaze finds tacky as hell.

Still. Even the fact that Corporate organized this means that this was a decisive victory.

One of the waiters –waiters! They ordered catering for this?—materializes at her side and offers her a flute of something. She knocks it back happily, and takes one more for the road.

There’s about fifty people milling about the rooftop. There’s a few reps from advertisers and sponsors, looking pleased with themselves. The rest of Neonite, and some nervous-looking trainees that follow them around like ducklings. Almost all the execs from the Strategy meeting a month ago.

She hasn’t taken two sips before someone collides into her shoulder.

“Hakaze,” slurs a familiar voice, breath warm with champagne. It’s one of the baddies from PR, hair loosened from its usual severe bun, colorful jacket already abandoned. “You’re a menace.”

“That sounds bad,” Hakaze says, giving her the most cool and unaffected smile she can. If she can put in a good word for Hakaze, she's one step closer to being friends with Fukunaga and Hakaze can die happy.

The woman laughs. “Hardly! Do you know what I spent all afternoon doing?”

"What was it?"

“I had to stop people from being supportive.” She gestures vaguely with her glass. “Do you know how insane that sounds? ‘Please don’t tweet that you’re happy for them yet, we haven't officially confirmed anything yet.’”

Hakaze arches an eyebrow. “For who.”

She leans in conspiratorially. “You and Ren! But mostly Ren. He polls well across most demographics, but even the terminally online ones that hate everything seem to be drowned out by how happy everyone else is."

Hakaze takes a sip of her champagne, which tastes like dogwater and does nothing to calm the sudden spike of panic she feels. Nao would have snuck in whiskey. “What do you mean, everyone else is happy?”

The PR manager grins. “Oh, they’re being insufferable. There’s this one comment that keeps getting screenshot and reposted. Some older fan account. It’s says something like, ‘Isn’t Ren too old to not have a girlfriend? This is embarrassing. Let him live.’”

Hakaze almost chokes. She tries to hide her laugh in her champagne flute but ends up doing an impression of a cat hacking up a hairball instead.

“I know!” the woman cackles. “A male idol with mature, reasonable fans. There's no precedent."

“And you’re… happy about this?” Hakaze asks.

The PR manager straightens, suddenly earnest. “Of course. You’re like, the model scandal. Because I don’t have to lie to make people happy, I just make bad edits of the two of you in matching outfits and our followers go wild.”

She clinks their champagne flutes together and stumbles off before Hakaze can respond.

*

At the bar Mamoru nurses what looks a lot like whiskey, which is decidedly not on the drinks menu, checking his phone with a pained expression. “Whoa,” she says in greeting. “They gave you real drinks?”

“Oh, yeah. Hey,” he raps on the counter to get the bored bartender’s attention. “Another whiskey sour for the lady here.”

She accepts it gratefully, and Mamoru knocks his glass against hers. It feels nice to sit in the back, drinking old man drinks with somebody’s uncle. He lets out a long, contented sigh as he watches Harua dart around the room, hobnobbing with big names. “Glad that shitshow’s over.”

“Hey, I worked on that album.”

“Eh, you know what I mean. Now I don’t have to worry about the higher ups busting my balls if all the sponsors demand a Harua appearance for the survival show.”

“That’s still happening?”

“Oh yeah. Kirishima’s big play to nullify Neonite might not have worked, but there’s going to be a new group either way. They’re just not going to try to make it Diet Neonite, I think."

“So for the time being, Neonite’s irreplaceable. Till they’re replaced.”

Mamoru shrugs. “That’s baseball.”

He’s not wrong. Even if, five years ago, Eclipse survived, they would have faded into the background eventually, let their juniors outshine them. They weren’t in an industry known for longevity. The trick, she supposes, is to find what could last beyond their short, brilliant shelf lives.

Across the room, Ren meets her eyes. His charming public persona melts into a familiar scowl when he notices what she’s drinking, and she grins.

A strange, alien sense of peace is suffusing her. Director Kirishima isn’t fired, or arrested, or painfully dead; her ghosts feel at rest nonetheless. That core of anger she’s held tight, tight to her chest has melted and dissipated, and she can feel the shrapnel in her bloodstream, but it’s not a constant, unbearable weight anymore.

“Say,” she says to Mamoru, straightening. “Thanks for all your help. I’ve been kind of intense, lately. Sorry if it shattered your perception of Eclipse, I know you were a fan.”

He laughs. “What are you talking about? You’re exactly the way you used to be when you were an idol. You used to go viral for the way you take care of your fans and your group. Astreon lucked out when you decided to take Harua under your wing.”

Maybe she’s been too used to thinking of herself as a faded shadow of her old self. Maybe her capacity for love hasn’t lessened at all.

“Be right back,” she murmurs, meeting Ren’s eyes from across the room. She has to tell him something.

But before that, she bumps into someone. Even recognizing who it is doesn't dissolve the core of warmth in her stomach.

“You’re enjoying yourself,” says Director Kirishima, eyeing her glass.

“Ecstatic,” she replies, smiling brightly. “Astreon really knows how to throw a party! It’s been a while since I’ve been to one of these, since I’m just a washed-up senior now.”

His jaw clenches in a way that indicates he’s not buying it; but she’s playing ball, so he has to play too. “Your involvement in the decisions surrounding Harua’s album launch has proved itself critical. If I’d noticed the pattern earlier, I would have tried to mitigate your interference.”

“Why?” she says, curious now. “Harua’s album looks like it’s going to be a massive success. Neonite is more popular than ever. Doesn’t all that make your job easier?”

“Chaos only needs the smallest foothold, Shinomiya, and I prefer to run a tight ship.” His voice dips. “Idols need reins. You should have known that better than anyone. Even with your talent, you couldn’t control Reina.”

“Do you still think that?” and she’s calmer than she thought she’d be; measured. “Do you still think it was a better plan to cut us loose than help me?”

His mouth flattens. “Girl groups don’t last as long as boy groups. Eclipse had maybe two years of relevance left, being generous. That was simply how the math worked out. The industry is cyclical, Shinomiya. I’ll always gamble on something new than hold on to the risky old.”

She lets go of a breath she’s been holding for years. She grins, because it’s so stupid she doesn’t know why she didn’t think of it; doesn’t know why she convinced herself that Kirishima saw something she didn’t, that made her and the rest of Eclipse flawed in some fundamental way.

“Except this time,” she points out.

“Except this time,” he admits, sour.

It’s so stupid. All this time, he just hated to lose. It’s so disgustingly banal. The anger loosens its grip further, and she feels almost unmoored without it; but then she spots a head of ashy-dark hair, and can’t think of anyone she wants to share this dumb revelation with more, the end of her five-year penance.

“That’s baseball, Director,” she says, and she even smiles. “If you’ll excuse me.”

When she looks around again, Ren is caught in conversation with some advertisers. His eyes keep darting to her, however; when he spots that she’s free, he raises a worried eyebrow.

She grins, gives him a thumbs-up.

His severe expression softens.

When he dips his head back into his conversation, Hakaze goes to find Fuma. He's at the other bar in a corner of the room, and he hands her a tequila soda without asking. “They approved the jacket for the repackage!”

“That was fast.”

“Harua’s album is the company’s golden child right now. Everyone’s terrified of fucking it up.”

They clink their glasses together in a grimly satisfied toast.

“Hello hello~” a voice sings. “How are my favorite dungeon dwellers.”

Harua bounces up to them. He’s glowing, his hair mussed and eyes shining under the chandeliers. His excitement seems to bring a wash of bright light with him, like he's the sun: Hakaze shields her eyes and hisses, and even Fuma smiles.

“Congrats on the successful comeback stage, twerp,” Fuma says, ruffling his hair. “Hope the rest of promo season goes this well. Come see us when you’re ready to figure out the repackage. I have to go.”

“Old man, it’s barely ten.”

Fuma waves this off. “I need to take some time away from everyone here, if one more person asks me about the album I’ll hurl. I don’t have either of your stamina for this shit. See ya, Hakaze, Harua.”

“This is weird,” Harua says happily once Fuma’s gone. “Everyone’s being nice to me.”

“Enjoy it, scrub,” Hakaze says. “You earned it.”

He laughs. “Oh wait, I haven't introduced you yet! Let me go find him."

He bounces back into the crowd, too fast for Hakaze to react. She sips at her tequila soda and gets pleasantly buzzed: distantly, she misses Eclipse, but it's a familiar ache like her life has finally grown around it.

She slips her phone out of her jacket pocket, and scrolls down to an unread chat.

Hey, she types. What was the name of that place with the spiked milkshakes? You always got salted caramel with tequila and I never got to try it.

She stares at the text for a few beats that stretch like taffy. 

Then:

"Hakaze!" Harua calls. "There's someone I want you to meet! C'mere!"

She looks up, grins. Presses Send, and steps out of the corner.

Harua has fished out a man from a conversation, and he comes, rolling his eyes. He’s taller than Harua and Hakaze both—almost as tall as Ren, a serious face with a stern expression that’s lightened by fondness.  

Harua says, "This is my childhood friend! Be nice to him, he’s not used to our city folk ways.”

“Harua, I was talking to someone important,” he chides. “You can’t just drag me—ah.”

His eyes widen when they land on hers. “Hello, Hakaze,” he breathes. “Harua talks about you a lot.”

Hakaze bows. “Thank you for saying that. But I’m just a—”

“Washed-up senior,” Harua and his friend echo, though the latter seems apologetic. “Sorry. He said you kept saying that.”

Hakaze sighs. It seems that she’s pretty much cursed to never be able to pull that particular mask on again. “And what’s your name?”

Before he can reply, a familiar voice says, warm and low, “Yuta. You made it. It’s good to see you.”

Ren slides next to Hakaze, his hands in his pockets. He looks incredible—Hakaze will never get tired of seeing him in a suit, though it seems fairly suspect that he lost his jacket and his hair got mussed so soon. It takes his look from polished to sexy without missing a beat.

He seems to sense her ogling, because his ears go red. “Hakaze,” he says, and it’s almost a protest. “I see you met Yuta.”

She gives him a slow grin before she turns back to Harua and Yuta, both of whom have gone slightly red. “It’s nice to meet you, Yuta. You have to tell us what Harua was like when he was a kid.”

“Oh, about the same. Annoying. Really bad grades. He tried to lie to our principal once about his grandma passing because he forgot that we were all from the same small town and everyone knew each other.”

“That’s incredible,” Hakaze says, just as Harua whines, “Come on, I knew I shouldn’t let you two meet! Shoo, shoo, you can talk more when Hakaze’s hammered!”

They walk away bickering, Yuta turning halfway to give Ren and Hakaze a quick bow. Harua’s hand stays hooked in Yuta’s sleeve.

Hakaze hums as she watches them go. Something stirs in the back of her mind."Huh."

Ren makes a questioning noise. She shakes her head and says, “Ren. Hold my drink?”

He takes it from her without thinking. She leans down to examine her shoe. “Ah, the strap’s fucked.” It's been a while since she wore heels, and she wishes she'd thought to buy a new pair. 

The hall is crowded enough that someone bumps into her and walks away apologizing, and her balance is thrown enough that she has to hop around till Ren’s hand comes to rest against her back, steadying. She shivers.

“It’s quiet out in the balcony,” he murmurs, dipping low near her ear to be heard over the music. “We’re in the way.”

“Lead the way, then.”

Ren shoulders the balcony door open, and the noise of the party dies behind them like a door closing on another life. Hakaze hesitates on the threshold—just long enough to feel how final this night suddenly feels—before stepping out into the cold with him.