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The local train heading to Tokyo Station wasn’t just crowded; it was suffocating. Every square inch of the carriage was choked with commuting salarymen. The air conditioning was utterly defeated by the sheer volume of trapped body heat, leaving the atmosphere heavy, humid, and completely stagnant. It hung thick with nauseating smells; stale sweat, damp umbrellas pooling on the floor, the sharp tang of deodorants, and the cloying, synthetic sweetness of cheap perfume. Izumi was lowkey regretting not wearing a double mask before he stepped inside the carriage. Fortunately, his pride held out just long enough to keep him from letting out the contents of his stomach.
Once the crowd dispersed on the nearest station, he finally managed to secure himself a seat. With his other hand, he mindlessly scrolled through his phone, drowning out the commuter chatter with a generic pop playlist. He looked entirely unrecognizable; which was the point. With a black disposable mask hiding the lower half of his face, an oversized denim jacket drowning his lean frame, and a canvas tote bag across his chest, he looked like a typical, broke art student. It was a humiliating disguise, but a necessary one when traveling without a manager.
It was only in the sudden comfort of sitting down, however, that he realized just how exhausted he was. His right thigh muscle began to twitch in protest; a painful reminder of the six agonizing hours he’d just spent standing on a freezing concrete studio floor while a demanding catalog director yelled adjustments through a megaphone. It was loud and chaotic, like a third-rate circus troupe, and Izumi had been forced to suffer through every second of it.
There had been no talent rider, no private lounge, and certainly no elite stylists whispering compliments about his bone structure or his history on European runways. Here, he was merely a human clothes hanger for a seasonal catalog, forced to touch up his own foundation in a compact mirror. Yet, despite how thoroughly insulting the entire production had been, Izumi refused to let his personal standards slip. His pride wouldn't allow it. He refused to give anyone the satisfaction of calling him a washed-up, high-maintenance diva. Instead of scoffing, he delivered a flawless, practiced bow to the crew when the director called a wrap. He then changed back into his ordinary clothes and walked fifteen minutes through the drizzling rain to the nearest station.
The train finally reached Tokyo Station, where Izumi let out a quiet, muffled sigh through his mask as he stepped onto the platform. The station was some sort of subterranean labyrinth, overlapping train lines, colorful bright shops with loud speakers, and a relentless tidal wave of commuters. Izumi kept his head low, feeling overstimulated. He just needed to drag his aching body toward the correct exit to find the taxi stops. Taking a taxi was a pricey necessity; as Ensemble Square had built the entire idol complex on an isolated, reclaimed island in the bay, it was reachable only by approved land transportation via heavily guarded bridges with ironclad security, or a helicopter. Though, the helicopter was an overkill.
He adjusted the strap of his canvas tote, steeling himself to push through the dense crowd blocking the stairs, when a familiar voice called him out.
"Izumi-san?"
Izumi was genuinely shocked to have been identified after going to this much trouble to hide himself. But the defensive irritation melted away the moment he realized who it was. It was impossible to mistake those beautiful emerald eyes, even when shied away behind a pair of blue glasses. Anyone who couldn’t recognize them at a single glance would have to be completely blind, Izumi hummed fondly to himself.
Standing by a massive concrete pillar, looking entirely relaxed as if he had just been patiently waiting all this time, was Makoto. He was wearing a casual track jacket, and though a white mask hid the lower half of his face, the warm crinkle at the corners of his eyes created a soft smile in Izumi’s mind. A yellow plastic grocery bag dangled loosely from his wrist, and in his hands, he offered a bottle of lukewarm oolong tea.
"Yuu-kun," Izumi murmured, pulling his mask down just enough to breathe the cooler station air. He took the bottle, offering a small grunt of appreciation, and twisted off the cap to take a grateful sip. "What are you doing here? Do you have another job around here?"
"Something like that." Makoto chuckled softly, as he matched Izumi’s slower pace as they walked to the exits and taxi stops. "Good job today. Ritsu-kun mentioned to Isara-kun about your freelance shoot in Chiba city today. I was surprised that you used train lines, so I did the math and figured you'd be passing through here right about now.” He examined Izumi and commented good-naturedly, “Your face looks completely exhausted, you know?”
"Shut up. I won't forgive you even if you are Yuu-kun, okay? My face is absolutely flawless," Izumi snapped automatically, though he quickly straightened his posture to prove his point.
Izumi bitterly regretted not wearing sneakers; he had brutally underestimated the physical toll of the trip, looking only at how easily accessible the route was by train while entirely failing to calculate the sheer number of hours he’d spend on his feet.
Yet when he noticed the fond, amused chuckle in Makoto's emerald eyes, the stubborn act fell apart. He would never, ever win against Yuu-kun, so they both dissolved into quiet, synchronized chuckles. The heavy weight of Izumi's grueling afternoon finally lifted as they walked side by side down the eerily white and endless corridor that now felt light and warm.
"How is it?" Makoto asked quietly, as he dragged him to the side, so that they weren’t standing in someone else's way. "Going back to your roots. Working with directors who don't even know your name yet."
Izumi looked down at the tea bottle, then up at the sprawling crowd of salarymen rushing around them, before his eyes anchored on Makoto’s calm, handsome face. As always, Makoto never pressured him to answer his question, yet he always had a way of reading him like an open book, leaving Izumi with no choice but to answer him with absolute honesty.
"It's loud," Izumi confessed, his tone dropping into a quiet, heavy register. "I hated the smell of their hairspray, and the lighting in those suburban warehouses is absolutely atrocious. But Yuu-kun, you know what's funny?” He hummed softly as the memory surfaced. “The moment the shutter snaps, all that noise disappears. I know exactly why I'm there. I can read their movements, follow their vision. It feels easy to breathe. It's exhausting work, yes, but it’s mine. They chose me to stand there, not someone else." He tilted his head, a wry smile touching his lips beneath his mask. "It's weird, isn't it?”
Makoto smiled, adjusting the bridge of his glasses. "No, it's not weird at all. It shows in your eyes, Izumi-san. You look exhausted, but you look genuinely happy."
“Is it really that obvious?” Izumi automatically touched his cheek, which was covered by the black mask, suddenly self-conscious that his inner thoughts were on display.
“Well, to me, it is,” Makoto reaffirmed softly. “After all... I’m always watching you.”
Izumi’s hand dropped from his face, his gaze softening completely. “I haven’t said this before, but thank you, Yuu-kun. For everything in the past...and for right now.”
“Don't mention it.” Makoto chuckled, a teasing glint returning to his eyes. “Though, you're being a bit too hasty with your gratitude, Izumi-san.”
Izumi crossed his arms, huffing defensively. “What do you mean, too hasty?”
“Well, I plan on watching over you in the future, too,” Makoto stated simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “So you’re going to have to keep thanking me for a long, long time.”
Izumi scoffed softly, but a fond smile broke through his exhaustion. “Fufu, you’re right. I suppose I'll leave myself in your hands, then.”
“Likewise,” Makoto replied. He cleared his throat, his expression shifting into something slightly more amused and hesitant. “And…do you know that Tsukinaga-senpai returned to Japan today?”
“Hm? Ah,” Izumi tilted his head, “Yeah, I think so. Why?”
“Isara-kun told me that Tsukinaga-senpai has been sitting in the Starmony Dorm’s common room for the last three hours since he arrived?” Makoto said with a wince, “...People are worried because he’s apparently not doing anything, so Mikejima-senpai asked him to rest in his dorm room instead, but he refused.”
Izumi stopped dead in his tracks, his brow furrowing in instant disbelief. “If that idiot has three hours to waste doing absolutely nothing, he should be utilizing that time to sleep properly or finish the composition sheets that Anzu requested for that new event.” He began to nag at this, “And what is Mikejima and the others even doing? If Leo-kun is making a nuisance of himself by haunting the lounge like that, someone should have just dragged him back to his room by his collar!”
Makoto offered a sympathetic, knowing smile. “I knew you’d say that, so let me put it in simpler terms: he’s waiting for you." He huffed softly when Izumi blinked at him, completely thrown off balance. "Honestly, you're incredibly sharp about everything else, but you're quite dense when it comes to him."
The first-floor common room of Starmony Dorm’s Building 1 was unusually quiet this evening. Most of its residents were still out on late-night jobs, while the few who had already returned chose to turn in early for the night.
Leo Tsukinaga sat on the floor, his back pressed rigidly against the base of the sofa and his long legs stretched out across the hardwood. In front of him, a television screen flickered in total silence, broadcasting a variety show starring some of their fellow idols with the volume completely muted. On the coffee table above him lay several sheets of empty staff paper and a pen. The papers were painfully pristine; not even a single smudge, not a single erratic stroke of musical notes like they were supposed to.
From a quiet distance, a few onlookers watched him with mounting concern. They respected his space enough not to approach or push him to move, especially since their earlier attempts to comfort him had been flatly rejected. But the heavy tension in the area instantly evaporated when the sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the corridor, revealing Izumi and Makoto. A collective, quiet sigh of relief rippled through the onlookers. Led by Ritsu, the remaining residents exchanged subtle nods and seamlessly dispersed into the shadows, giving them the complete privacy they needed.
Leo heard him enter, but he remained still, his shoulders subtly bracing as Izumi closed the distance between them.
"You've got everyone worried sick, Leo-kun," Izumi chided, though the reprimand lacked any real bite. Reaching out, he clicked off the television, letting the ambient sound of the rain take over the room. "What's wrong with you?"
"...I was waiting for you," Leo said quietly, his voice remarkably devoid of his usual cheerfulness. He kept his gaze fixed on the rain-slicked windows, his emerald eyes tracking the dark reflections, looking at absolutely anything but Izumi. "I thought... I thought once I finally got back to Japan, I’d see you here in the dorms. But then I heard you took a job today. Somewhere far away, even." His hands clenched tightly into the fabric of his jacket, his voice dropping into a fragile, desperate whisper. “You’re not– You’re not avoiding me, right, Sena?”
“What are you even talking about?” Izumi replied evenly. His tone was completely normal, as if nothing between them had shifted. Izumi dropped his canvas tote bag onto the desk with a dull, heavy thud. Released his denim jacket and placed it on the tote bag, he sank heavily into the cushions right above Leo. “I secured this freelance shoot weeks ago. You of all people should have known that, right?”
“...Yeah,” Leo admitted quietly, his shoulders slumping. “I know about it. But still, I–” He cut himself off, shaking his head as if trying to clear his own crowded thoughts. “I’ll apologize to everyone tomorrow. For causing a scene and making them worry.”
Izumi didn't answer this. He leaned his head back against the headrest, staring up at the dark ceiling. The silence stretched between them for a long, unbroken minute, but it wasn't the suffocating, hostile silence. Outside, the rain was starting to pour down heavily.
"I did a catalog shoot for a casual-wear brand today," Izumi said softly, letting his guard down just enough to complain. "The stylist didn't have a clue what she was doing with my hair. They used this awful hairspray that smells like synthetic lemons. It’s disgusting."
For the first time all evening, Leo slowly shifted his weight, turning his entire body so he could look up at Izumi. That was when he realized Izumi was treating his legs with a cooling medicine spray, taken from the tote bag.
"Wait, what happened?" A frantic, deafening alarm suddenly started buzzing inside Leo’s head, drowning out the sound of the storm. He half-rose, panic seizing his throat. "Did you fall? Are you hurt?"
"No," Izumi answered instantly, his tone firm as he looked directly down into Leo's wide, frantic eyes. "I didn't fall. I'm just exhausted. They kept me standing on concrete for six straight hours."
Leo’s breath caught violently in his throat, his fingers instinctively clawing into the thick fabric of his sleeve to keep from shaking. There was this urge to throw his royalty checks at the world, to buy the entire clothing line out just so Izumi would never have to endure that kind of exhausting labor again. Called him a hopeless fool, because he actually was.
A sudden, painful ache tightened in Leo's chest, twisting into a knot of sheer bewilderment. Izumi had the golden ticket in Europe; he had an adoring genius completely at his disposal. He should have just used me, Leo thought, a toxic, familiar panic clawing at his throat. He should have just used me for all of my worth, drained my melodies to skyrocket his own career. That was how the world worked. That was what people did to him. But Izumi wouldn't.
Why was Izumi fighting so fiercely for, when the rest of the world took Leo's songs completely for granted as a commodity? And why did it have to be Izumi, of all people in the world? Leo couldn't help to feel the irony.
"But it’s okay," Izumi reassured him, his voice cutting through Leo's spiraling thoughts. His blue eyes burned through the twilight with a fierce, absolute clarity. "I actually liked the work. I finished the set properly, and the director even promised to call me back for the next season. He has connections with famous Chinese e-commerce photoshoots. I suppose it makes the hassle worth it."
A wave of profound realization crashed over him, shattering his entire perspective: Izumi wasn't being broken by the struggle; he was being made whole by it. The hardship was making him feel alive.
“Why am I so fundamentally, frustratingly different from you?” Leo choked out. The words left him completely raw. “So you'd rather go by yourself and wring yourself up to the bone, making me and the others worried, even though there's a more easy way out?”
For a moment, Izumi just looked at him. The defensive walls he built around his heart completely dissolved, leaving an expression of profound, aching tenderness. Slowly, deliberately, he slid off the sofa until he was sitting right beside Leo on the floor, their shoulders pressing together in the shadows. He reached out into the gloom, his long, model-slim fingers wrapping gently around Leo's hand, offering his own warmth to steady the composer's trembling fingers.
"You really are a hopeless idiot, Leo-kun.” Izumi lulled sadly, “But I guess it is a given.”
Lean and exhausted, Izumi leaned over to rest his forehead lightly against Leo's shoulder. It was a slightly clumsy fit now; Izumi had grown over the years, standing a full five centimeters taller than the composer. To nestle into the crook of Leo's neck required more effort on his side, a physical reminder of the time that had passed since they were boys.
“...I didn't need a savior, Leo-kun," Izumi confessed softly, into the fabric of Leo's jacket. "I just needed to remember how to stand up on my own two feet. And now, I have. Maybe. I hope so." He chuckled wryly, but firm, as he lifted his head slightly, his blue eyes flashing with a terrifying, beautiful intensity in the dark. "I will become the absolute best. The greatest model, the greatest idol, the greatest anything; until the entire world looks at us and agrees, without a single breath of complaint, that I belong right beside a genius like you.”
In Leo's mind, Izumi turned into a sudden, blinding revelation. He completely dispelling the dark that had held Leo. Struck by the sheer weight of this sudden understanding, Leo turned completely frozen. His lips parted, but his throat was entirely starved of sound, completely overwhelmed by the breathtaking realization of what Izumi truly was.
“I want to be a talent so blindingly brilliant that they look at me with nothing but bitter envy and admiration. I want the world to look at us and know, without question, that I am worthy as your partner.” Izumi boldly declared, like a challenge. “After all, I'm your eternal muse, am I not?”
Suddenly, a sharp, electric current of inspiration surged through Leo's chest. The dam had broken. It was a strong song, an embodiment of Izumi, weeping with the shadows of their past, fighting for all its worth, but it was an undeniable melody.
“Leo-kun?” Izumi murmured, sensing the sudden, rigid tension in the composer's frame.
"The next song is going to be so loud it'll tear the roof off this building, Sena," Leo whispered. A tiny, genuine laugh finally broke past his lips as he buried his face into the soft strands of Izumi's silver hair. Reaching up with his free hand, he blindly grabbed the pencil from the coffee table, clumsily but frantically scratching the jagged lines of the melody onto the pristine staff paper.
"It better be," Izumi smiled into the dark, his grip tightening around Leo's hand to steady him. "Because I'm not planning on stopping until the whole world is looking at me!”