chapter 4 running trough airports
The city stretched out below him, endless and alive.
From the floor-to-ceiling window, Hideki could see the pulse of Berlin—traffic moving like veins, headlights cutting through the early morning mist, the Fernsehturm piercing the sky. It was beautiful in the way that only something vast and detached could be.
Like watching a world he wasn’t really part of.
He stood there for a long time, one hand resting lightly on the glass, breathing in the hotel air—filtered, expensive, just sterile enough to remind him he wasn’t home.
Not that home meant anything anymore.
Behind him, his suitcase was still half-unpacked. His in-ear monitors sat on the nightstand next to a bottle of painkillers, a pack of cigarettes, and an untouched bottle of water. The room was luxurious, but cold—like it belonged to someone who was only ever passing through.
Like he was not suposed to stay for too long.
His fingers tapped lightly against the windowpane, keeping time with a song that wasn’t playing anywhere but his head.
A habit. A distraction.
But still, the thought surfaced—slow, quiet, like something drifting up from deep water.
Anna.
He wasn’t sure why he thought of her just then.
It wasn’t the usual way a woman stayed in his mind. It wasn’t the way a fan’s lipstick would stain his collar, or how a name would blur after a few drinks.
Anna was different.
Not because he liked her. Not because he didn’t.
But because she had already positioned herself somewhere in the periphery.
Always watching. .
The way she spoke, the way she moved—it was too careful, too precise, like someone laying down a chess piece three moves ahead.
He should’ve cared. Should’ve found it exhausting, or annoying, or not worth his time.
But instead, he found himself wondering what she wanted.
And whether or not he cared enough to stop her from getting it.
He exhaled slowly, watching how his breath ghosted the glass before vanishing.
His body was aching in that familiar way. Not exhaustion, not yet—just a deep, steady pressure, like something inside him was waiting.
His feet hurt. Not from walking. From standing still for to long then he rolled his shoulders, flexed his fingers.
When he placed two fingers to the side of his neck, his pulse was fast.
Not racing. Just… off. A fraction too quick, a little too forceful—like a drum that was trying to stay on tempo but was just slightly behind the beat.
He ignored it.
Just like he ignored the fact that Anna had already taken up space in his head.
He pressed his forehead lightly against the glass.
Below, Berlin kept moving. People were living, running, chasing something.
Tomorrow, he’d be up there—on stage at the Mercedes-Benz Arena, larger than life, untouchable.
It always felt that way in the moment. Like he could keep going forever. Like nothing could catch up to him.
But right now?
He felt it.
Just for a second, in the quiet of a hotel room too clean to belong to him, with a city moving below him like it would long after he was gone.
And somewhere, at the edges of his mind—Anna was still there, watching. He sighed setting his feet down from the window still going over to the bathroom to shower.
Berlin, Germany – Mercedes-Benz Arena
Their last show in Germany before moving on.
The city felt different this time. More awake, more crowded, the streets near Alexanderplatz buzzing with morning commuters and street musicians, taxis cutting sharp turns onto Unter den Linden.
Hideki stood by the hotel window, sipping his coffee—black, no sugar—watching the skyline shift.
Tonight was a big deal.
The label was here. So were investors, press, industry bigwigs—all ready to watch WØF prove they could keep up with global expectations.
“Not feeling it?”
Hideki didn’t turn. He didn’t have to.
Mamoru.
He exhaled, setting the coffee down on the windowsill. “Not in the mood to play puppet.”
Mamoru leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. Sharp, controlled, unreadable.
“This is the job.”
Hideki chuckled under his breath. “Is it?”
A long silence.
Then Mamoru spoke, voice quieter. “You need to be careful.”
Hideki finally turned, tilting his head. “Worried about me?”
Mamoru didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
Because they both knew the truth.
Tonight’s show had to be perfect.
No cracks. No slips. No mistakes.
than he let on.
It wasn’t romantic like Paris. Wasn’t flashy like London. But it was sharp. Clean. No bullshit. The kind of place where people minded their business but would still push past you on the U-Bahn like you personally offended them.
They had the whole afternoon off before the show.
✔ Nachi wanted beer.
✔ Takao wanted coffee.
✔ Mamoru wanted to do something “educational.”
So, naturally, they ended up at Brandenburg Gate first.
Hideki leaned against the railing, watching as tourists took pictures under the massive neoclassical monument.
Takao checked the time. “We could go to the East Side Gallery after this.”
Mamoru nodded. “Might as well see the Berlin Wall before we leave.”
Nachi stretched, looking bored. “Man, this is too serious. Let’s get some beer after.”
Hideki grinned. “Now you’re talking.”
They ended up at a biergarten, tucking into massive plates of schnitzel, pretzels, and more Currywurst.
Hideki watched the way Mamoru kept glancing at him, like he was waiting for something.
Like he was checking for signs.
Hideki smirked, taking a slow sip of his water. “Relax, Ma. I’m fine.”
Hamburg, Germany – Barclays Arena
Germany had its own rhythm.
Unlike the restless pulse of New York or the slow, sleepy mornings of Paris, Hamburg felt steady. Controlled. A port city that had seen everything and kept moving anyway. The Elbe River shimmered under the morning sun, cargo ships sliding through the harbor, seagulls cutting across the gray sky.
Hideki leaned against the tour bus window, watching it all blur past.
Their second German show—Barclays Arena, 16,000 seats, sold out.
The press was calling WØF’s tour an unstoppable machine.
Funny. He didn’t feel unstoppable.
Mamoru sat across from him, flipping through setlists and venue notes, occasionally checking his phone. He was calm, professional, focused—but Hideki could feel the tension under his skin.
Mamoru didn’t like repeating himself. But Hideki also knew he would.
“You’re not sleeping.”
Hideki exhaled through his nose. “And?”
“And you have two more shows in Germany before we even leave the country.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Berlin , Hamburg. Cologne. A little music sightsing in Vienna Then Paris. Then the real stretch—Scandinavia.
Hideki hummed, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”
Mamoru didn’t smile.
Neither of them did
The Elbe River stretched out below them, cargo ships slicing through the gray morning mist, cranes looming over the harbor like silent sentinels. The wind was sharp, the sky an endless sheet of silver.
Hideki stood on the deck of the Elbphilharmonie Plaza, hands shoved into his coat pockets, watching as tourists took pictures near the glass-paneled concert hall. Modern and old smashed together, the city carrying its past like an old scar.
Behind him, Nachi stretched, yawning dramatically.
I’m telling you, boys. This is the kind of place where you just wanna kick back, drink a beer, and people-watch for a few hours.”
Takao glanced up from his phone. “So do that.”
“Can’t.” Nachi grinned, throwing an arm around Hideki’s shoulders. “Gotta babysit this guy.”
Hideki shrugged him off. “I can walk by myself, old man.”
Nachi snorted. “Debatable.”
Mamoru wasn’t looking at them. He was scanning the docks below, watching how tourists lined up for the St. Pauli boat tours. His posture was relaxed, but his grip on his phone was tight.
Hideki knew the look.
He sighed, stepping beside him. “Spit it out.”
Mamoru didn’t turn. “You should eat.”
Hideki groaned. “Oh my god—”
“Last night, you barely touched dinner. You also slept for maybe three hours. And don’t think I didn’t see you take painkillers on the bus this morning.”
Hideki rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Ma. Let me enjoy the view before you turn this into a TED Talk on my health.”
Mamoru exhaled slowly. “I’m just saying—”
“I get it.” Hideki turned to him, smirking. “I’m a fragile little flower. So let’s go eat before I collapse in front of German tourists and ruin your day.”
Mamoru sighed. But he didn’t argue.
The streets of Reeperbahn were still waking up. By night, it was neon-drenched, loud, packed with clubs and live music. But in the afternoon, it was quieter—bars still closed, sidewalks littered with last night’s remnants.
Takao looked around, unimpressed. “This is it?”
Nachi smirked. “What, expecting something fancier?”
Takao checked the tour itinerary again. “No, just… surprised you guys picked a street that looks like a crime scene for sightseeing.”
Hideki snorted. “Oh, you’d love it here at night.”
Mamoru was barely listening. He had already veered off, spotting a tiny Imbiss stand near a side alley.
A minute later, they were standing around a greasy, metal counter, waiting for their food.
✔ Hideki ordered Currywurst. Extra spicy.
✔ Mamoru, predictably, got Bratwurst. Plain, no sauce.
✔ Nachi, without hesitation, got two massive Döner kebabs.
✔ Takao? A black coffee. Because of course.
“You eat like a child,” Mamoru muttered as Hideki dumped way too much chili powder on his Currywurst.
Hideki grinned. “You eat like a senior citizen.”
Takao took a sip of his coffee, ignoring them.
They ate in comfortable silence, steam curling in the cold air, the streets of Hamburg moving around them.
For a second—just a second—it felt like a normal day.
Cologne, Germany – Lanxess Arena
The air smelled like rain and cigarette smoke, the streets slick with last night’s downpour. Cologne was quieter than Berlin—more spread out, less frantic—but the fans waiting outside Lanxess Arena didn’t seem to care.
Takao definitely cared.
“This city is freezing,” he muttered, pulling his coat tighter around himself. “How are you not cold?”
Hideki smirked, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “I’m built different.”
Takao rolled his eyes. “You’re built like a fucking disaster.”
They both knew it wasn’t about the weather.
Hideki felt off today. More than usual. The weight in his chest was heavier, like his body was running on fumes and didn’t know when to stop.
Takao noticed it too. Glancing over him worried
Instead, he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Just don’t die before we get to London.”
Hideki grinned, stepping ahead toward the venue doors. “No promises.”
Hideki grinned. “Plenty of time.”
Takao narrowed his eyes. “For what?”
“The Cathedral, obviously.”
Kölner Dom loomed over them—massive, dark, gothic. More than 700 years old, towering against the gray sky like something straight out of a fantasy novel.
Hideki stood at the base, tilting his head back. “Not bad.”
Takao raised an eyebrow. “Not bad?”
“I mean…” Hideki exhaled. “A little dramatic.”
Mamoru sighed. “So, you’re saying you’d do better?”
“Of course.” Hideki smirked, gesturing at the massive structure. “Give me a thousand years and unlimited funding, and I’ll make something cooler.”
Takao shook his head. “This is why people hate musicians.”
Mamoru ignored them, stepping inside first.
The interior was cavernous—high vaulted ceilings, massive stained glass, the air thick with centuries of incense and whispered prayers. Even with the tourists, it felt… still.
Hideki lingered near a candle stand, hands stuffed in his pockets.
“Not gonna light one?” Nachi asked casually.
Hideki’s smirk twitched. “What, you think I need divine intervention?”
Nachi chuckled. “Not you. Maybe the poor bastard stuck watching over you.”
Mamoru, from a few feet away, rolled his eyes.
They didn’t stay long.
But when Hideki stepped outside, he glanced back—just for a second. stretching his arms, feeling that deep, familiar ache settle in his bones, wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep up the act.
Because after Berlin, the tour moved west. And the stakes only got higher.
After the intense final show in Berlin, the band had one full day off before heading to London.
Takao insisted on making the most of it.
So they found themselves in Vienna, Austria—the city of composers, imperial history, and enough classical music to make Takao roll his eyes at least five times before lunch..
✔ St. Stephen’s Cathedral—Mamoru loved it. Hideki called it “gothic on steroids.”
✔ Café Central—Nachi tried to order an Eiskaffee with beer. They denied him.
✔ Schönbrunn Palace—Takao barely tolerated it.
✔ **Mozart’s grave—**the real reason they came.
It wasn’t as grand as the others.
The grave sat quietly in St. Marx Cemetery, tucked between winding stone paths and old trees, the city just far enough away to make the air feel still. A white columned monument, simple but elegant, marked the site where one of the most famous composers of all time was buried.
It was almost too quiet.
Mamoru adjusted his glasses. “This is it.”
Hideki tilted his head. “Huh.”
Takao raised an eyebrow. “That’s all you have to say?”
Hideki smirked. “What, you want me to start crying?”
Nachi grinned. “You should. Dude got buried in an unmarked grave, and now tourists throw flowers at a stone that may or may not even be his.”
Mamoru shot him a look. “Don’t be disrespectful.”
“Relax.” Nachi stretched his arms, yawning. “I’m just saying, it’s wild how time changes things. Nobody gave a shit about him when he died, and now he’s one of the most famous musicians in the world.”
Hideki hummed. “Sounds familiar.”
They all knew what he meant.
For a second, no one spoke.
Then, Hideki took a slow step forward.
And sat down.
Right in front of the grave.
Takao sighed. “Seriously? First you compare yourself to dings Mozart then you sitt on his grave?”
Hideki leaned back on his palms, tilting his face toward the sky. “What? Might as well make the most of it.”
Mamoru crossed his arms. “You know you’re sitting on a famous composer’s resting place.”
Hideki closed his eyes, grinning. “And if he has a problem with it, he can haunt me.”
Nachi laughed.
Then—without warning—he sat down too.
Then Takao.
Then Mamoru, muttering under his breath the whole time.
Four musicians. At the grave of one of the greatest musicians in history.
For a long moment, none of them spoke.
The wind rustled through the old trees. The city breathed quietly in the distance.
It wasn’t a joke anymore.
They were all thinking it.
How many times had they pushed themselves too far? How many times had Hideki teetered on the edge?
How many times had they all wondered—how much longer will we last?
Hideki sighed, stretching his arms over his head. “Guess this is what normal tourists do, huh?”
Mamoru adjusted his glasses. “Not really.”
Takao checked his watch. “We should head back soon.”
Nachi grinned, pulling out his phone. “Hold up. One last thing.”
He lifted the phone, snapping a picture.
Four musicians, sitting at Mozart’s grave, looking like the most unserious tourists in the world.
He showed them the screen.
Hideki snorted. “That’s so stupid.”
Nachi smirked. “Exactly.”
Takao rolled his eyes. Mamoru sighed.
But when they stood up, the weight on their shoulders felt just a little lighter.
Tomorrow, they’d be on stage again.
Tomorrow, the show would go on.
But for now—**just for today—**they had been normal tourists.
And somehow, that was enough. They whent on to see all the different museums on Brahms to Bethoven , Arnold shonsberg center ,operas and other musical ivent before jumping on the last plane to Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport.
10:52 PM – Sprinting to Gate F12
The airport echoed with their footsteps.
Takao was dying, Mamoru was holding Hideki’s weight against his side, and Nachi—
Nachi was watching Mamoru struggle.
And, in the last second, he stepped in.
Because Mamoru couldn’t carry Hideki fast enough.
So Nachi did.
And that’s how Hideki ended up being princess-carried through Vienna International Airport, bridal-style, in the arms of the biggest guy in the band.
And the worst part?
He didn’t even protest.
10:45 PM – Security Checkpoint (Seven Minutes Ago)
The second they cleared security, Mamoru grabbed Hideki’s wrist.
“Come on. Get on my back.” Mamoru knelt down crouching . But Hideki didn’t move he just dug his heels in.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t even pretend.
Mamoru stiffened. “Hideki.”
Hideki exhaled through his nose, too slow, too controlled.
Takao barely glanced up, already scanning the flight boards.
“Final call,” he muttered. “If we don’t—”
He caught it.
The way Hideki’s fingers twitched against his sleeve.
The way his breathing was just slightly too deep, like he was trying to regulate it.
Takao narrowed his eyes.
“Hey.” He finally looked at him. “Are you okay?”
Hideki grinned. Gathering himself
“Define okay .’”
Mamoru’s jaw clenched. “You jogged here now get on” he adjusted his glasses and turned to Hideki.
Takao glanced around. Wheelchairs were right there. Accessible. A staff member was standing next to them, watching passengers pass by.
It would have been so easy to just grab one.
But before he could say anything, Mamoru moved first.
He just grabbed Hideki’s arm and crouched again. “Less talking. More getting on.”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Takao rubbed his temples. “This is the stupidest—”
But Hideki actually cooperated.
Maybe it was because he was tired. Maybe it was because he knew Mamoru was right.
Or maybe he just wanted to see how far Mamoru could go before breaking.
Didn’t ask. Didn’t think. Just bent down and lifted Hideki up, throwing one arm under his legs and the other behind his back.
10:47 PM – Sprinting Through the Terminal
At first? It worked.
Mamoru had strong legs. Good form. The weight was manageable. Hideki was tall but thin, barely adding strain at first.
For the first minute or two, they moved quickly, the sound of their footsteps blending into the terminal noise.
But then—
Mamoru’s breathing got heavier.
His steps got slightly less even.
His arms tightened, fingers curling too hard against Hideki’s leg.
He let out a slow, mocking hum. “Tired already, Ma?”
Mamoru said nothing.
He was too focused, too stubborn, too exhausted to waste breath on a response.
Takao glanced at him, frowning. “Hey. If you’re gonna collapse, say something now.”
Mamoru ignored him.
But Hideki, annoyingly perceptive even when being carried like a spoiled prince, leaned slightly forward, lowering his voice.
“Mamo.”
Mamoru kept going.
Mamoru **felt it—**that same deep, dull pressure behind his eyes, the kind that came from too many sleepless nights, too much stress, too many things piling up at once.
The kind that made his limbs feel heavier than they should.
The kind that meant he was going to give out soon.
Hideki sighed dramatically. “See, this is why I don’t let you carry me.”
Mamoru barely had time to react before—
Nachi moved first.
10:49 PM – The Switch
Full bridal carry. Takao blinked.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”
Without a word, Nachi had grabbed Hideki and yanked him off Mamoru’s back like he was stealing a princess from a lesser knight.
Hideki didn’t even touch the floor before he was being adjusted into Nachi’s arms
Mamoru was catching his breath.
Nachi grinned. “Nice try, Ma. You get an A for effort.”
Mamoru pushed his glasses up. “He’s heavier than he looks.”
Hideki smirked. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Nachi shrugged, bouncing Hideki’s weight slightly. “Eh. He’s fine. Built like a goddamn noodle, but I got him.”
And just like that—Nachi took off running.
With Hideki in his arms.
Like some absolute unit of a hero saving the day.
Mamoru exhaled slowly, forcing himself to keep moving.
Nachi grinned, adjusting Hideki’s weight. “See? This is teamwork.”
Hideki sighed dramatically, draping an arm over Nachi’s shoulder. “Honestly? I don’t hate this.”
Takao pinched the bridge of his nose. “I hate this band.” He huffed
Takao fell into step beside him, watching as Nachi sprinted ahead like this was some kind of Olympic event.
“…Just let him have this,” Mamoru muttered.
Takao shook his head. “This is the dumbest shit I’ve ever seen.”
Mamoru didn’t disagree.
But at least they were still making their flight.
10:52 PM – Sprinting to Gate F12 (Now)
Seconds away from missing the flight.
Takao was still recovering. Mamoru was regaining his composure.
And Nachi?
Nachi was walking with with Hideki in his arms like they were reenacting a goddamn romance drama.
The flight attendant stared.
“Wait—are you—”
“YES,” Mamoru snapped, shoving their tickets forward. “LET US ON.”
She blinked. “But—”
“DON’T ASK.”
They stumbled onto the plane—the last passengers like a goddamn walk of shame after a night drinking and partying.
11:10 PM – Somewhere Over Europe
Takao was still trying to process.
Mamoru was pretending none of that had happened.
Nachi was looking extremely pleased with himself.
And Hideki?
Hideki was lounging in his seat, sipping water like a pampered prince.
Takao finally exhaled through his nose.
“You,” he muttered, “are a menace.”
Hideki grinned. “And yet? I’m on this plane. While you almost died back there.”
Takao glared.
Because, unfortunately, Hideki was right.
They made it.
Somehow.
7:15 AM – The Metropolitan Hotel, Paris
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
Takao sat at the small desk by the window, staring blankly at his laptop screen. His morning meeting was in less than an hour, and he was not ready.
Not mentally. Not emotionally. And definitely not physically.
He hadn’t slept well. Too much on his mind. The industry. The contracts. The tour schedule.
And, of course—Hideki.
Takao glanced over his shoulder.
✔ Hideki was still asleep. A rare sight. Curled on his side, his breathing even, hair a mess.
✔ Nachi was sprawled on the other bed, snoring like a damn chainsaw.
✔ Mamoru…
Takao squinted.
Mamoru looked like he had just crawled out of the grave.
Blank expression. Disheveled hair. Eyes barely open. He was sitting on the edge of his bed like a zombie that hadn’t finished rebooting yet.
Takao exhaled. At least I’m not the only one suffering.
“Morning,” he muttered.
Mamoru just grunted.
Takao rubbed his temples. “You look like hell.”
Mamoru did not respond.
Nachi, still unconscious, let out a particularly loud snore.
Takao’s eye twitched. This is my life. 7:45 AM – Stepping Out
Mamoru and Takao quietly grabbed their stuff and headed for the door.
✔ Takao had his laptop.
✔ Mamoru had his coffee. (Black. No sugar. Pure survival.)
✔ Both looked like they hadn’t seen true rest in years.
The second the door clicked shut behind them—
“Mnnnnhhh.”
Takao froze.
Mamoru stopped mid-step.
They both turned.
Behind them—
Hideki stirred.
Then blinked.
And just like that—he was awake.
Not groggy. Not slow.
Just—awake.
Like his body had been waiting for them to leave.
Takao stared. “Are you serious.”
Hideki stretched lazily, smirking. “You guys leaving already?”
Mamoru rubbed his eyes. “You were asleep. Actually asleep.”
Hideki grinned, voice still drowsy. “Yeah. It was nice. But you two are loud as hell.”
Takao looked at Mamoru. Mamoru looked at Takao.
Mamoru exhaled through his nose. “I’m leaving before I throw something.”
Takao shook his head, muttering something about demons.
Hideki just grinned, stretching his arms over his head.
“Enjoy your meeting, Takao,” he called after them. “Don’t mess it up~.”
Takao flipped him off as the door swung shut.
Hideki laughed to himself, then flopped back onto his pillows.
Paris was gonna be interesting.
The conference room was cold, impersonal—glass walls, sleek white furniture, a view of the Eiffel Tower stretching out behind them like a reminder of how high well of fortune had climbed.
Takao sat across from Mimmi and Mamoru, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded. His face was blank, but his pulse was already picking up.
Because he knew.
This wasn’t a discussion.
And he wasn’t sure if Mamoru even realized that Mimmi had already won.
She sat with perfect posture, back straight, hands resting loosely on the table. Not a single wasted movement. She had the expression of someone who had already calculated every possible outcome and was just waiting for the opposition to exhaust themselves.
Mamoru, on the other hand, looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He wasn’t slouching, but his body held a different kind of tension—not defiance, not confidence. Just exhaustion.
Takao let the silence sit for a second too long before speaking.
“This tour schedule is bonkkers.”
Mimmi didn’t react. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move.
Takao He leaned forward slightly, voice smooth, measured, controlled. “You know what this is, right? It’s artist exploitation.”
Mimmi’s lips twitched—not a smile. Just a flicker of amusement, like she was indulging a child who thought they understood the world.
“You think this is exploitation?” she mused. “Cute. You grew up with lawyers, didn’t you?” she said smoothly. “Didn’t they teach you about this? You think law dictates business. But here’s the truth—business dictates law.”
Takao’s eyes darkened. How did she know?
Mamoru hasn’t said a word yet. His fingers are tight around the folder in front of him, knuckles white.
Mimmi? She’s calm. She’s always calm. Leaning back in her chair, effortlessly in control. The kind of woman who doesn’t need to raise her voice to win a fight.
And Takao hates that he already knows he’s losing this one.
He drops the document onto the table with a soft, decisive slap.
“What the hell is this?” He tried to sound firm
The words are sharp, but controlled. He’s not blowing up yet. But he’s close.
Mimmi tilts her head, barely sparing the papers a glance. “I don’t know, Suzuki. You’re holding it. Why don’t you enlighten us?”
Takao’s jaw tightens. He’s not here for games. Not this time.
He taps the bold print on the first page.
Artist-Specific Accommodations (AA) – WØF’s Europe . Tour Amendments
Subject: Yano, Hideki
Status: Medical Clearance Pending
Evaluation: Ongoing
Risk Level: TBD
He doesn’t look at Mamoru. Not yet.
“Medical clearance pending?” His voice is deadly quiet now. “An ongoing evaluation? What the fuck is going on?”
Mamoru finally speaks, voice clipped. “It’s just standard paperwork.”
Takao’s laugh is sharp, humorless. “Bullshit.”
He flicks the pages over, letting them spread out on the table.
“This isn’t standard. This is a fucking liability report.”
Mamoru presses his fingertips against his temples, inhaling slowly.
Mimmi doesn’t even blink. “It’s a precaution.”
Takao leans forward. His heartbeat is in his throat now. He knows how these things work. He grew up around legal contracts.
“A precaution for what?” His voice drops lower. “Is Hideki sick?”
Silence.
Mamoru’s fingers twitch against the table.
Mimmi smiles.
Not wide. Not dramatic. Just a small, sharp victory smile.
persistent anemia that wasn’t responding to iron supplements…
Aplastic anemia. The words flashed through Takao’s mind, unspoken but loud. No I couldn’t be, right?
He had been hearing it more and more. Iron deficiency. Fatigue. Susceptibility to bruising. Hideki had been wearing long sleeves more often, even under the hot stage lights. At first, Takao thought it was just a fashion choice, but now… now he wasn’t so sure.
Mamoru had been stocking iron supplements in their shared suite. Hideki had cut back on alcohol, barely touching the champagne at the last press event.
Takao ran his thumb over the edges of the medical reports, his mind racing as he skimmed through the latest bloodwork, bone marrow biopsies, and specialist consultations.
“If you think a few clauses about overwork are going to scare the money out of this room, you’re adorable ”
Takao exhaled slowly, hands pressing into the table.his mind races.
The little things. The food. The exhaustion. The way Hideki sat too still at the last rehearsal, like he was forcing himself to breathe normally.
And now this.
“No.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You’re hiding something.”
Mimmi’s expression doesn’t shift.
“Oh, Takao, sweetie.” She folds her arms, voice smooth as silk. “Hiding would imply there’s something to reveal. This?” She gestures lazily at the documents. “This is transparency.”
Mamoru doesn’t meet Takao’s eyes.
And that’s what does it.
That’s what pushes Takao over the edge.
“Jesus Christ.” His hands slam against the table. “Does Hideki even know about this?”
Mamoru finally looks at him, something sharp in his eyes.
“Of course he knows.”
“Oh yeah?” Takao’s voice is practically a growl now. “Then why hasn’t he said anything?”
“Because it’s nothing,” Mamoru snaps.
A mistake.
Takao seizes it.
“Nothing?” He gestures wildly at the documents. “Nothing is when we don’t have an artist on a medical watchlist.” His pulse is pounding now. “Nothing is when we’re not flagging risk levels on a fucking insurance report.”
Mimmi sighs like she’s dealing with a difficult child.
“Takao. The industry moves fast. And you, of all people, should know that when something isn’t working, we… adjust.”
Takao’s stomach twists.
“Adjust?” he repeats. His voice is hoarse.
Mimmi nods, like she’s explaining something obvious. “There’s a reason the term ‘Artist-Specific Accommodations’ exists.”
Takao doesn’t move.
Mamoru doesn’t move.
Mimmi leans in slightly, her voice dropping to something almost sympathetic.
“You really think Hideki can keep up with the standard schedule?”
Takao’s breath catches.
persistent anemia that wasn’t responding to iron supplements—
His head is spinning. He doesn’t know what’s real anymore.
He looks at Mamoru—waiting for a denial. Waiting for his best friend to tell him this is all some overblown misunderstanding.
But Mamoru just looks away.
That’s it.
That’s all it takes.
Takao believes it. Aplastic anemia. It made sense. The tour schedule. The travel. The increased blood tests.
“You’re playing a dangerous game.” He pushed out trough .
Mimmi’s smirk widened slightly.
Mamoru hadn’t said a word.
Not yet.
Because this wasn’t a fight he could afford to get emotional about.
He knew Mimmi. He knew how she worked. She wasn’t cruel—cruelty required unnecessary emotion.
She was simply efficient. Brutal, but efficient.
Takao, on the other hand—he was emotional.
Not reckless, but deeply, deeply unwilling to accept that the world worked this way.
Takao’s jaw tightened. “There are laws in place—”
“There are also contracts,” Mimmi cut in smoothly.
Takao wasn’t fazed. “Contracts don’t override federal labor protections.”
“Of course not,” Mimmi said. “But they do define the parameters of expectation. WØF agreed to this tour. No one forced them.“Illegal? Don’t make me laugh” She exhaled lightly, amused. “Please. I’ve worked with artists who would kill to have a contract like this.”
Takao let out a short breathless laugh, sharp and humorless. “Right. Like they had a choice.”
Now, Mimmi did smile. It wasn’t warm. It was a blade glinting in the light.
“Choice is an illusion,” she said simply.
It wasn’t immediately terminal, but it was still a slow, insidious time bomb. One that could get worse. One that might never get better.
And the worst part? The industry wouldn’t stop for him.
The label would keep pushing Hideki, squeezing out every last ounce of value before he physically couldn’t continue. Immunosuppressants would weaken his immune system further. A bone marrow transplant, if he even qualified for one, would require months of isolation and recovery—time that Well of Fortune didn’t have.
Mamoru stiffened.
Takao’s fingers curled against the table.
Mimmi leaned back slightly, tapping a manicured nail against the table. “I get it, Suzuki. You grew up in a family of lawyers. You have this moralistic sense of justice, this deep-seated need to ‘fix’ things. It’s cute, really. But let me ask you something.”
The band was locked into an eight-week European tour, followed by Scandinavia, followed by a final U.S. leg. The schedule was ruthless. It didn’t allow for a sick lead singer, let alone one whose immune system was about to be systematically destroyed by his own treatment.
Takao gritted his teeth, his nails digging into the edge of the report. “We need to stop this tour,” he said.
Mamoru’s head snapped up instantly. “No.”
Takao narrowed his eyes. “He’s sick, Mamoru. You just admitted it.”
Mamoru’s gaze hardened. “Stopping the tour won’t fix that.”
Mimmi sighed, rubbing at her temple. “We can’t cancel, Takao. The contracts are airtight. If we try, the label will bury us.”
Takao shook his head, his frustration growing. “Then what? We just let him keep going until his body gives out?”
“We manage it,” Mamoru said, voice cold. “He’s been sick for a long time. This don’t change anything “
“Do you honestly think anyone in this room is naive enough to believe this industry is fair?” Mimmi gave Takao an amused look like he where an adorable newborn.
Takao’s stomach twisted.
Because the answer to his question was obvious.
Mamoru didn’t look at him.
Takao pushed forward anyway. “Even if we set aside ethics—which you clearly have—this is a financial risk. You think investors won’t care when WØF collapses from burnout? If Hideki—”
The door creaked opened.
And just like that, the entire room shifted.
Oh, come oh,,” Hideki’s voice was light, careless, almost bored. “Don’t fight over me. It’s embarrassing”
Hideki stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with too much ease, like he had been listening the whole time. his black Yohji Yamamoto shirt still damp from the shower, clinging to his frame. His black jeans hung low on his hips, the fabric just slightly wrinkled from where he had pulled them on carelessly. His hair, still wet, dripped faintly onto the collar of his shirt.
For a moment, Takao could only stare at him—noticing the subtle exhaustion in his posture, the paleness of his skin, the way he absently wiped a drop of water from his neck like it took more effort than it should.
He looked—
Takao hesitated.
He looked fine. But only if you weren’t looking too closely.
A little too pale. A little too thin. His breathing too controlled, like someone who had been practicing. His gaze flicked to the table, scanning the mess of medical records before his lips curled into a smirk.
“Wow, I take one shower and suddenly you’re planing my funeral?”
Takao’s jaw clenched. “This isn’t funny.”
Hideki tilted his head, stepping further inside. “That depends. Am I actually dying this time, or are we still playing roulette?” He smiled tired toward him.
Takao exhaled sharply. “We’re not talking about a broken contract. We’re talking about your life.”
Hideki laughed softly, tilting his head at Takao like he was amused by his concern. “I hate to break it to you, Takao, but I don’t have leukemia. I have a fancy blood disorder that makes me tired. Big deal.”
Takao’s fists clenched. “If you don’t take this seriously—”
“I am taking it seriously,” Hideki interrupted, his voice quieter now. “I know exactly what this is.”
Takao stared at him, feeling a chill creep up his spine.
Hideki’s smirk never wavered.
Mamoru didn’t flinch.
Takao expected him to back him up.
He didn’t.
Instead, he was already plucking the top sheet from the pile, his gaze scanning the medical reports with an unreadable expression.
For a moment, Takao thought he saw it—a flicker of something real, something uncertain, something that wasn’t just his usual smug deflection.But it was gone before he could place it.
Takao swallowed, his gaze flicking to Mamoru. “And you—?”
Hideki tossed the paper back onto the table and leaned against the edge of it, arms crossed.
And then he spoke.
“Look, Takao,” Hideki sighed, tone easy, but his next words cut like glass.
“I’m fine with dying on stage.”
The silence was immediate.
Takao’s breath caught.
Mamoru’s entire body went rigid. His expression was unreadable. His arms were crossed, glasses glinting under the dim light, his body angled slightly away from the table. But the tension in his jaw told Takao everything.
Mimmi?
She just watched. She had heared this before
Hideki leaned against the table, propping his chin on one hand. “That’s what you’re all worried about, right?” His tone was almost casual , like he was talking about the weather. “That I’ll suddenly drop dead! That the schedule is too much. That the stress is killing me.”
Takao couldn’t speak because that was exactly what he was thinking.
The disease wasn’t as immediately fatal as leukemia or another late stage cancer , but it was still serious. If untreated, it could kill him within a few years. If Hideki responded well to immunosuppressive therapy, he could stabilize. If he needed a transplant—
Takao pushed the thought aside, his grip tightening on the papers.
Hideki tilted his head slightly.
“News flash, Suzuki. I’m going to die anyway. We all are”
Silence.
Mimmi was still watching, perfectly poised, perfectly unbothered.
Takao’s mouth felt dry. “You—”
Hideki gave a light, careless shrug. “My time just happens to be a little shorter than average. So, I have to burn brighter, faster, harder than anyone else.”
He smiled—but it wasn’t happy.
“That’s what you don’t get, Takao. I don’t need saving.”
Takao felt something cold press against his spine.
For the first time in a long time, he didn’t know what to say back
Mamoru’s hands were in fists against the table. His voice came out low, almost dangerous.
“You think this is noble?” He finally muttered
Hideki blinked at him, slow and unbothered.
“I think it’s inevitable. And besides I got a really good life, I’m super grateful and that’s why I got to do this .”
Mamoru’s pulse thundered in his ears.
Hideki exhaled, running a hand through his damp hair. “Because I was supposed to die at fifteen.”
The room fell silent.
Hideki shrugged, shifting his weight against the table. “You know how I got here, right? How this band even exists?”
Takao stayed silent. He knew part of it. But Hideki had never talked about it this directly.
Hideki smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Make-A-Wish Japan. That’s how it started.”
Takao blinked. “You won that?”
“Yeah.” Hideki chuckled. “Funny, right? You always hear about kids going to Disneyland or meeting their favorite anime VA. Me? I wanted to record a song. They gave me one shot in a studio. One chance. That’s all it was supposed to be. Just a kid with a dying kid getting to play rockstar for a day.”
A slow exhale.
“But the song went viral.”
The realization settled over Takao like a weight.
“The industry saved me,” Hideki continued, his voice dropping into something almost thoughtful. “Not the doctors. Not the hospital bills. Not the meds I was supposed to be on for the rest of my life. The industry. The label. They picked up the song, signed us, threw money at me. And suddenly, I had access to the best specialists, the best treatments—stuff my old doctors wouldn’t have even considered.”
Takao’s stomach churned.
“You’re saying the entertainment industry is the reason you’re still alive?”
Hideki smirked. “I’m saying it bought me time.”
For the first time, Takao saw it—the full scope of Hideki’s logic.
He didn’t fear death because he had already accepted it years ago. He wasn’t clinging to life because he thought he had a future.
He was clinging to music because it was the only reason he was still here.
Takao’s throat felt dry. “So if you stop singing—”
Hideki’s expression darkened slightly, his smirk fading. “Then what’s the point?”
Mimmi just sighed, shaking her head slightly. “Well, there you have it.”
Then she stood, gathering her things, her voice smooth, businesslike.
“Meeting adjourned.”
And just like that, it was over.
Accor arena .
The venue was massive. Too big when it was empty.
Arenas always felt wrong before a crowd filled them. The seats stretched out, rows of black and gray, the silence too hollow, too expectant. It felt like standing in the ribcage of something huge, waiting for its pulse to return.
Mamoru leaned against the sound booth, watching as Hideki stepped onto the stage.
His twin was too loose, too light, moving like nothing had happened that morning.
Like he hadn’t looked Takao in the eyes and said he was okay with dying.
Mamoru’s fingers curled slightly, but his expression stayed blank. Always blank.
Takao sat near the edge of the stage, arms crossed, watching Hideki like he was seeing him for the first time.
Because maybe he was.
This morning, Takao had walked into that meeting thinking he was fighting WØF’s management. The system. The industry.
Now, he realized he was fighting Hideki himself.
And how the hell do you argue with someone who accepts their own death?
The band moved through the first song of the set. Just a test run—sound levels, in-ear monitoring, making sure the mix was clean.
Hideki’s voice was perfect. It always was.
If Mamoru had walked in mid-rehearsal, he might not have noticed anything at all.
But he had been watching from the start.
And that’s why he saw it.
The way Hideki overcompensated.
Pushing his breath too hard on certain notes, covering for something.
Holding still a fraction longer between movements, disguising the way his balance wavered.
Small things. Invisible to anyone who didn’t know him. His brother on the other hand, Mamoru knew.
He turned his attention back to the mic, rolling his shoulders . He smiled wide as he did the high notes.
This scene is electric, cinematic, and unsettling. The concert is perfect, Mamoru watches. . And Hideki keeps pushing.
The crowd was deafening. Louder than the speakers, louder than the city outside.
Thirty thousand voices, screaming, chanting, rising and crashing like waves.
Hideki stood just off-stage, rolling his shoulders, exhaling slowly. The heat from the lights pulsed against his skin, and for the first time in days, he felt alive.
Out here, none of it mattered.
Not the meeting. Not Takao’s morality speeches. Not Mamoru’s staring.
His body might be betraying him, but on stage, it still belonged to him.
From the side of the stage, Mamoru watched. Hands in his pockets, but tense.
This was the moment. The moment when Hideki became untouchable.
And the moment when he saw what no one else did.
✔ The way Hideki lingered on his inhale just a second too long.
✔ The way he planted his feet too carefully before stepping forward.
✔ The way he pushed his voice just a little harder, as if forcing his body to keep up.
Mamoru exhaled slowly, fingers curling.
No one else would notice.
But he did.
The body giving out before the mind would accept it.
The final song.
The moment the entire stadium had been waiting for.
The intro hit. The lights flashed. The roar of the crowd swelled to something inhuman.
And Hideki gave them everything.
His voice hit perfectly. His body moved like liquid fire, every motion precise, lethal, fluid.
The Day After,
The city moved too fast. Paris, hotel.
is quiet, immersive, and deceptively normal—until you look closer. Hideki acts like he’s fine. Too fine. But Mamoru sees everything.
Even this early, the streets were loud, alive, pulsing with its own rhythm. People moved with purpose, urgency, a sharp kind of energy.
And yet—inside the black SUV, it was silent.
Food Stop #1 – Late-Morning Ramen
“Food. Now.” Nachi announced, stretching as they stepped out of the SUV. “I need grease. I need salt. I need—”
“A better metabolism?” Mamoru muttered.
Nachi grinned. “Too late.”
The ramen shop was small, tucked into a side street, half-hidden from tourists. Steam rose from the open kitchen, the scent of broth and garlic thick in the air.
Takao glanced between them, then at Nachi, who was already eating. “Are we pretending this is normal?”
“Oh, yeah.” Nachi slurped his noodles. “Denial is our specialty.”
They slid into a corner booth. Hideki ordered like nothing was wrong.
✔ Tonkotsu ramen, extra pork.
✔ Gyoza, fried, not steamed.
✔ A side of karaage.
Mamoru stared.
Hideki met his gaze, feigning innocence. “What?”
Mamoru’s voice was flat. “You’re unbelievable.”
✔ First few bites? Perfectly normal.
✔ Joking, smirking, acting like himself.
✔ -after a while. The way Hideki swallowed slower.
✔ The slight shift in his breathing.
✔ The second he subtly pushed the food around his bowl instead of eating.
He wasn’t fine.
He just needed them to believe he was.
Mamoru set down his chopsticks. “Are you done playing yet?”
Hideki blinked, all faux innocence. “I’m eating, Ma.”
Mamoru exhaled through his nose correcting . “You were eating.”
Hideki’s smirk lingered. Too sharp, too knowing. “And now I’m full.”
They walked through the city, moving from one landmark to the next.
✔ Philharmonie de Paris & Cité de la Musique
✔ Le Caveau de la Huchet
✔ Père Lachaise Cemetery tolerated by the rest.
Hideki played along. Smirked in the right places, took pictures, made comments that kept them laughing.
And yet—Mamoru watched the way he leaned against railings just a little too long.
The way he walked just a fraction slower than usual.
The way he kept shifting his weight from foot to foot.
But his performance? Flawless.
That night the mist clings to the cobbled paths of Père Lachaise, curling around the mausoleums like ghosts reluctant to fade. The cemetery is quiet, save for the occasional murmur of tourists tracing their fingers over worn headstones, searching for names etched in history.
Hideki walks ahead of the group, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his thin frame hunched slightly against the chill evening wind. His long, spiky brown hair, tipped with red, shifts in the breeze as he slows down in front of a grave covered in flowers and lipstick-stained notes.
“Jim Morrison,” Mamoru notes, adjusting his Tom Ford glasses as he glances at the headstone.
Hideki smirks. “A rockstar who died young and beautiful. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?” He grinned
Mamoru stiffens slightly, but doesn’t respond. He knows better than to entertain Hideki’s self-destructive monologues. Instead, he turns to Takao, who’s been silent the entire time, observing the cemetery with an unreadable expression.
Takao, wrapped in a black wool coat, exhales slowly. “Morrison’s an icon, but he wasn’t the only one.” He gestures toward a different grave a few rows down. “Édith Piaf is here too.”
Nachi, who has been unusually quiet, wanders toward Piaf’s tomb, his fingers grazing the iron railing. “Je ne regrette rien,” he murmurs, quoting her most famous song. His usual playful demeanor is absent.
Hideki watches him for a moment before tilting his head. “Regrets, Nachi?”
Nachi exhales a small laugh but doesn’t answer. He just flicks his lighter open and closed, staring at the grave as if waiting for some kind of divine answer.
They continue walking, passing Oscar Wilde’s glass-covered tomb, its surface smeared with lipstick marks despite the barriers meant to stop fans from kissing it. Hideki pauses, his sharp eyes scanning the epigraph.
“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”
A half-smile plays at his lips. “Poetic.”
Takao crosses his arms, watching Hideki. “Sounds like something you’d say.”
Hideki glances at him, mocking amusement flashing in his gaze. “Are you saying I remind you of Wilde?”
Takao shrugs. “Just saying you have a talent for looking glamorous while self-destructing.”
Mamoru shoots Takao a look, but Hideki only chuckles, tipping his head in mock acknowledgment. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
As they walk deeper into the cemetery, the trees above stretch their golden branches, their leaves whispering like forgotten voices. Hideki’s breathing is slow, almost reverent.
“Why are we here?” Mamoru finally asks, watching Hideki carefully. He knows that everyone in the band where exhausted from preforming tonight especially his brother. And besides Hideki did not care that much for sightseeing.
Hideki turns, his silhouette framed by the iron gates beyond. His expression is unreadable—a rare flicker of something deeper beneath the usual bravado.
“Because if you’re going to die young,” he says softly, “you might as well choose your resting place carefully.”
Silence settles over them like the weight of history itself.
Nachi scoffs, flicking his lighter shut. “Dramatic bastard.”
But Hideki only grins and walks ahead, leaving them standing among the dead.
And when Mamoru’s back was turned—he stole fries from Nachi’s bag.
Nachi just sighed now . “I hate you.”
Hideki grinned. “Love you too.”
Mamoru closed his eyes. Counted to ten.
Zénith Paris.
The arena felt different.
Different city. Different crowd. Same game.
Hideki knew what Mamoru was expecting.
Another near-collapse. Another moment where the act cracked.
So tonight, he gave them nothing.
✔ Breath control? Perfect.
✔ Movements? Sharp, deliberate, effortless.
✔ Energy? Just enough to make Mamoru question himself.
From the wings, Mamoru watched, arms crossed, waiting.
Waiting for the slip-up. The hesitation. The proof.
But Hideki never gave it to him.
He smiled into the mic like nothing was wrong.
Like last night never happened. Takao sat near the sound booth, watching the show play out.
Something about this felt off.
Not bad. Just… too perfect.
Like Hideki was performing a version of himself.
Like he’d calculated every move, every breath, every moment.
Takao leaned closer to Mamoru, voice low. “You see it too.”
Mamoru’s jaw tightened. “He’s overcompensating.”
And that was the problem.
Hideki wasn’t better. He was just better at hiding it.
Then—the moment between moments.
✔ A lighting shift.
✔ A pause in the music.
✔ A step just half a second too slow.
Mamoru saw it instantly
Mamoru’s fingers twitched against his arm. “Of course he is.”
But no one else saw it.
Not the fans.
Not even Nachi.
Just him
And Hideki? He kept going.
Like it never happened.
Five Minutes Before Showtime last show in Paris and it where in Accor arena again.
The walls hummed.
It wasn’t the bass yet, wasn’t the crowd—not exactly. It was the kind of energy that built before something massive happened. Like the second before a drop, before a wreck, before something irreversible.
Hideki stood just behind the curtain, head tilted slightly back, eyes half-closed. His chest rose and fell in steady breaths, but Mamoru could see it.
✔ The slight way his fingers tapped against his thigh—faster than usual.
✔ The way he shifted his weight too carefully.
✔ The extra swallow before exhaling.
He was nervous.
Not the usual kind. Not the pre-show rush, not the good kind. The kind that came with knowing exactly how much his body was working against him.
Mamoru’s stomach twisted. This wasn’t right.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t tell Hideki to slow down, to rethink, to stop. Because Hideki wouldn’t listen.
Instead, he did something he hadn’t done since they were kids.
He reached out and grabbed Hideki’s wrist.
Hideki’s pulse jumped.
Not a medical spike—a reaction. A fraction of a second where his entire body tensed before he let out a sharp breath and turned his head.
His eyes weren’t playful anymore.
They were sharp. Clear.
“What?” Hideki murmured.
Mamoru’s grip tightened.
For a second, he almost said it.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“You can sit this one out we don’t need more encores tonight.”
“You can still stop before it’s too late.”
But then—the stage manager’s voice cut through the earpiece.
“Five seconds.”
Mamoru inhaled sharply.
Hideki gave him a look—something unreadable, something both mocking and grateful.
Then he grinned.
“Too late now, Mamo.”
The countdown hit zero.
And Hideki walked out.
The moment Hideki hit the spotlight, the crowd exploded.
Thirty-thousand voices roaring.
Mamoru watched from the shadows, arms crossed, fingers pressing into his sleeves. Counting.
✔ The first note—perfect.
✔ The energy—flawless.
✔ The movement—too smooth.
Mamoru could see it in the way he landed his steps a fraction too carefully. The way his breath hitched—not quite off, but close.
Then—the bridge hit.
And Hideki miscalculated.
Not a fall. Not a collapse.
Just a shift.
His weight settled wrong on his right foot, just for a second, barely noticeable to anyone who wasn’t watching for it.
Mamoru’s pulse spiked. Oh no
✔ Hideki adjusted fast. Too fast.
✔ Laughed it off like it was part of the performance.
✔ Tilted his head, played it up, pretended.
The crowd didn’t notice.
But Mamoru did.
Before Showtime
The crowd outside was deafening.
Hideki stood just behind the curtain, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. His fingers tapped against his thigh. Rhythm. Beat. Tempo.
He felt too awake.
Like his body knew.
Beside him, Mamoru didn’t speak.
Didn’t say what they were both thinking.
That if something happened tonight—if he miscalculated, if he pushed too hard—this might be the moment it all goes wrong.
Instead, Mamoru just reached out, fingers barely brushing against Hideki’s wrist.
Just a second. A single, fleeting moment.
Hideki pretended he didn’t feel it.
Then—the lights flashed. The intro music hit.
And Hideki walked out like nothing was wrong.
Because that was the only thing he knew how to do , wasn’t panicked.
He knew.
Knew his body was betraying him, knew he had miscalculated.
And instead of slowing down—he was pushing harder..
“I know.”
Hideki’s adrenaline was running high.
He could feel it. The crowd’s energy feeding him. The heat from the lights burning against his skin.
✔ His fingers felt slow against the mic.
✔ His vision blurred for half a second before snapping back.
✔ His heart was beating too fast.
But the song was almost over. Just a little longer.
The chorus hit.
The final note pushed.
The lights flashed.
And for a second—**just a second—**his legs buckled.
Not enough to fall.
From the wings, Mamoru was already stepping forward. Too late.
Because Hideki caught himself.
Grinned.
Threw his head back, laughing into the mic.
Like nothing had happened.
3:12 AM – Black SUV, Leaving the Venue
The car was silent.
Not the peaceful kind. The loaded kind.
Mamoru sat beside Hideki in the backseat, arms crossed, jaw tight, staring straight ahead.
Hideki?
He was relaxed. One leg crossed over the other, cheek resting against his knuckles, the faintest smirk playing on his lips.
✔ The game was obvious.
✔ Mamoru wasn’t speaking first.
✔ Hideki was waiting to see how long it would take.
Two minutes.
Five.
Mamoru inhaled sharply through his nose. “You almost fell.”
Hideki’s smirk widened slightly. “But I didn’t.”
Mamoru’s fingers curled against his armrest. “You lost your footing.”
Hideki tilted his head. “The lights were bright.”
Mamoru exhaled slowly. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Lie to me.”
The tension in the car shifted.
Hideki’s amusement flickered—briefly, almost imperceptible. Then, just as quickly, it was back.
“I’m not lying,” he murmured, stretching lazily. “I was fine.”
Mamoru’s jaw clenched. “For now.”
A pause.
Hideki finally turned his head, meeting Mamoru’s gaze fully. His smirk was still there, but it was thinner now, quieter.
“Is this gonna be your thing all tour?” Hideki mused. “Staring at me, waiting for me to drop dead?”
Mamoru didn’t blink. “I don’t have to wait.”
Hideki laughed. Actually laughed.
“Damn, Ma.” He shook his head, grinning. “That was cold.”
4:17 AM – Hotel Balcony,
The ramen cups were half-finished. The fries were already cold.
Nachi leaned back against the railing, stretching his arms overhead, exhaling. “Man, I love this part of touring.”
Hideki, sitting on the floor with his back against the glass, snorted. “The food?”
“The freedom.” Nachi smirked, nudging Hideki’s leg with his foot. “And yeah, the food. You think I got time for greasy midnight snacks when we’re off tour?”
Hideki hummed, rolling a fry between his fingers. He wasn’t really eating. Just holding it.
Nachi noticed.
He didn’t say anything.
Instead, he reached over, grabbed Hidekis wrist and reached over with his lips snatching the fry right out of Hideki’s hand, and ate it.
Hideki blinked. “…Did you just steal my food?”
“Yup.” Nachi chewed. “What are you gonna do about it?”
Hideki stared at him. Then—laughed.
Low, quiet, real.
The kind that didn’t sound like it belonged to a man who had just told a room he was fine with dying.
Nachi grinned, satisfied. “See? I still got it.”
Hideki shook his head, amusement lingering. “You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Nachi waved him off, stretching again. “But I’m an idiot who still remembers how you used to sneak into the kitchen when we were kids. Eating your sisters leftovers so she wouldn’t get in trouble for wasting food.”
Hideki’s fingers stilled against his knee.
The amusement drained.
Nachi didn’t look at him.
Just kept talking, voice lighter than the weight of his words.
“Guess old habits don’t really die, huh?”
Silence.
Hideki exhaled through his nose. “You’re reaching.”
Nachi finally turned his head, watching him.
“Am I?”
Another beat of silence.
Then—Hideki smirked, too sharp. “Yeah. And it’s embarrassing.”
Nachi stared for a second longer. Then, slowly, he leaned back against the railing, looking at the city.
“…Yeah,” he muttered. “Maybe it is.”
They didn’t speak after that.
Just sat there, in the cold city air, eating junk food that neither of them really wanted.
And pretending it wasn’t about something else