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The ringing faded away as the call went into voicemail, and yet the phone remained untouched where it sat right next to Takahiro's chopsticks. Which were resting on top of a half-bitten tamagoyaki, long gone cold at this point. Right next to the abandoned beer—his favorite brand, no less—the last of the bubbles sadly fizzing away into the muted din of the cozy sushiya they were at.
“Everything okay, Toru-san?” Ryota whispered eventually, throwing their vocalist another sneaky side glance—not that there was any need to be sneaky about it. To Ryota’s side, their usually bubbly drummer was nodding his agreement earnestly.
It was no secret that Takahiro had been distracted lately, but such occurrences weren’t that uncommon—Takahiro had a tendency to be caught up in his own world whenever he was in a creative mood. He was the type to be completely immersed in whatever he was doing, which translated into a one-track focus—if you weren’t in the spotlight of his overwhelming attention, you melted away into the shrouded corners of his mind.
However, this time was definitely different, and it didn’t escape the band’s notice.
It was kind of hard to miss it, when Takahiro could barely remember any English lyrics during their recent rehearsals—just today, he messed up even Heartache, and hardly apologized for it afterwards, as he was wont to do despite the band’s constant reassurances that it was fine and he didn’t need to beat himself up over it.
He didn’t want to sing any of their upbeat songs either, mumbling some vague excuse about his throat not feeling up for it. But then he went on and sang One Way Ticket in one of his most heart-wrenching renditions to date. Just listening to him made Toru want to rip his own chest out, if only to get rid of the throbbing that messed with his rhythm. Takahiro sang like some untold, mind-numbing grief possessed him, and they weren’t even recording.
Toru’s hand twitched as he barely reined in the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose for the nth time that night, but his breath came out in a heavy gust nevertheless.
“He ignored his phone,” Tomoya added conspiratorially when Toru said nothing after a long while, curly locks bobbing forward as he leaned closer. “Keitai desu yo, keitai.” And this time, Ryota was the one bobbing his head up and down vigorously in agreement.
Toru gave the vocalist a cursory glance—nothing much looked out of place, to the casual observer anyway. Clothes were okay—jacket carelessly ditched despite the cold weather, but that was Takahiro for you. Food and appetite seemed okay—his favorite dishes having been picked clean while the rest were half-bitten and carefully set aside for Toru to eventually finish for him, just like they usually did. Even his complexion—which Toru realized he was very much attuned to after having spent an inordinate amount of time just watching Takahiro—seemed alright. At least, it looked like he had been getting enough sleep…even if it had been almost two weeks since he last knocked on Toru’s door at night, pillows clutched tightly, oversized pajamas sliding off his shoulders adorably.
In other words, on the surface, it looked like a typical night out for the band.
But Toru knew him better than anyone else did, perhaps even better than Takahiro knew himself sometimes. The stiff posture was the first dead giveaway—Takahiro never failed to make himself comfortable, no matter the venue. But the way he held himself right now screamed anxiety and defensiveness. He was hunched over, as if curling into himself was going to ward away whatever it was that bothered him. And as Tomoya duly pointed out, their vocalist hardly ever parted with his phone, having mastered the art of incorporating the device into even the most mundane of tasks despite his claims of being a super analog ningen—ignoring a phone call was something he never had to do, considering Takahiro’s dogged determination in keeping his personal number extremely private.
“You think it’s that producer, ne?” Ryota whispered back, turning to Tomoya, a concerned knot pulling his brows together.
Tomoya’s resulting look of guilt resembled that of a deer staring at headlights as he glanced nervously at their leader, unaware that Toru had heard their conversation in the rehearsal studio’s rooftop during one of their breaks several days ago.
Toru stopped in his tracks, unlit cigarette forgotten in his hand, right before he could throw the rooftop door open. Did he just hear Tomoya correctly…? Surely they couldn’t be talking about Takahiro…right?
“But do you think he would—?” Ryota asked, tone laced with uncertainty. “I mean, he always says he wants to travel together, right? He even has that new band bucket list taped right next to the setlist. Didn’t he say he was already thinking about shows for next year?”
“I don’t know, man,” Tomoya sighed, voice uncharacteristically somber. Toru couldn’t see either of them from where he stood, hand still frozen on the rusty door handle, but he could tell this conversation wasn’t meant for his ears. “You know as well as I do that he can make it alone.”
“Broooo!” Ryota protested immediately, sounding uncharacteristically affronted.
“I’m not saying he wants to, baka!” Tomoya scolded him, sounding equally offended that Ryota would react that way, like he just suggested he was okay with it.
“So you think he won’t—”
“I’m just saying that he couldn’t look me in the eyes when I entered the dressing room right after his phone call with that producer, and he wouldn’t talk about it when I tried asking the same night. Or any other night.”
“But…” There was the sound of impatient tapping on the railing. “But he needs to have a band, right?”
“Well, technically, he can play his own instruments,” Tomoya said quietly, his normally boisterous voice sounding tired and confused. “Maybe he’s just at that point in his career where he could reach new heights by going solo? I wouldn’t know—Mori-chan is in a completely different league. He doesn’t really need us if you think about it. Not anymore, anyway. Sometimes I just wonder when he’s going to realize that…”
Toru felt like his stomach was going upend itself. He made his way back downstairs hurriedly before either of the two realized he was ever there.
“Bro, shut the fuck uuuup—he doesn’t know, remember?” Tomoya hissed through his teeth, hastily stuffing what looked like an entire baby octopus in their bassist’s mouth as he hurriedly threw Toru a fake-goofy smile in an unnervingly natural-looking attempt to distract Toru from what Ryota had said just a while ago. Toru was more than okay with letting them think he didn’t catch that, for now at least. Right now, there was nothing more pressing than the issue right in front of them.
He couldn’t help but heave another deep sigh—they've always given Takahiro his space, given him time to work it out on his own the way he always preferred things. But tonight looked like it was going to be the night it became obvious to everyone involved that space was no longer helping.
Takahiro, instead of conquering his usual demons and emerging victorious like the King he truly was, only grew more distant as the days went by. Inch by figurative inch, Toru watched as Takahiro drifted further away. Deeper into his thoughts, further down a road none of them were allowed to follow. And it was tearing Toru to pieces, if he was being honest. Something inside him suffered at the thought of having to stand by and let Takahiro handle his personal demons alone. When he could lend a helping hand… When he was right there.
Personally, Toru never approved of this, and seeing Takahiro so distant on the anniversary of that fateful day their paths finally crossed…it was painful.
He would have never left Takahiro to his devices if it were up to him. But Takahiro...he required space to spread his wings. And majestic wings, they truly were. How could Toru ever cage such a creature whose craving for unfettered freedom was in his very blood? And so Toru had relented, no matter how begrudgingly. Toru respected his wishes, no matter how conflicted it made him feel.
Toru could feel a chill seeping deep into his bones, one that he couldn’t shake off, and his intuition has had him in fight-or-flight mode ever since that day Tomoya unwittingly made him realize that Takahiro could one day grow tired of them, of him...
It made his insides squirm uneasily, despite his gut never having failed him in the past yet—at least not where Takahiro was concerned.
Right now, Toru felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff he couldn’t see, and he was going to have to make the decision to leap before something else—or someone—pushed him off of it.
Toru, one day we will go perform on all the capital cities in the world that you pointed out on that globe when you were in high school, so make sure you remember them, ossan. And brush up on your geography while you’re at it, Takahiro had said, laughing heartily at him just a few months ago when he gave Toru a miniature globe for his birthday.
The words sounded big, but Takahiro’s ambitions have always been bigger—stepping on the world stage was only ever the beginning of the man’s dreams. And he always made it sound like the band was a permanent fixture in his plans for the future. Like Toru will always be beside him as he chased after his dreams at full throttle.
…has that changed?
Toru resisted the growing urge to slam his head on a wall. No matter how big or small, Takahiro always came through for him. Always kept his promises. Always made it a point to make sure they knew they were all loved and cherished. Since when did he start doubting Takahiro?
When Toru finally spoke, he didn’t even bother whispering like the two did—Takahiro was still staring blindly at his beer, eyes glassy and lips slightly parted, still dead to the world around him.
“You can just ask him, he’s right there,” Toru managed to say evenly, his eyes fixed on the half-tired, half-haunted look twisting Takahiro’s expression. (—so painful.) He used to be able to easily tell which particular insecurity, which lingering disappointment, haunted Takahiro by the way his eyebrows pushed together, by the way his fingers fidgeted with his clothes.
But this Takahiro before him...Toru had no inkling where to start. (This was so painful.)
“Is he really, though?” Tomoya raised an eyebrow—he goofed and joked around most of the time, but he was surprisingly spot-on when people least expected it. Of course he had a point now.
Maybe Toru should take his own advice and just…ask.
Maybe he was just overthinking things.
Maybe—
“Taka,” he decided to try after a while, hand raking through blond hair in an effort to look nonchalant, eyes still locked on the vocalist. When that didn’t get any response, he cleared his throat and tapped a finger lightly on the beer mug Takahiro had been burning a hole through with his gaze. “Taka.”
Next to his long-forgotten food, Takahiro’s phone lit up and dimmed several times with muted notifications. And yet, none of this was enough to pierce through the veil of whatever thoughts had stolen him away from them.
“Moriuchi Takahiro-san,” Tomoya tried saying out loud in his trademark sing-song voice, but all that earned was half-interested looks from people several tables over. He grimaced at the failed attempt and kicked Ryota's shin under the table, as if to say it’s the bassist’s turn now.
“Uhh,” the man fidgeted, baggy sleeves sweeping over several plates as he scratched his head in panic. “We can try calling him, I guess…? On his phone?” He gestured to the phone right beside Takahiro’s hand.
“Hontooou baka da ne, omae wa,” Tomoya sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat as he leaned back on his seat. “Toru-san, do something please.”
Toru dragged a hand through his hair again—and if he tugged a bit too hard at the roots in the process, no one would ever know—before he straightened up and turned towards their vocalist.
“Taka,” he said again, steeling himself. “Taka, you there?”
Across the table, Tomoya and Ryota looked on with bated breath.
Toru put a tentative hand on the vocalist’s shoulder and nudged him softly, but all this did was earn a small instinctive headshake from the guy, unfocused eyes never moving away from where it was fixed on the table. Starting a conversation shouldn't be this hard.
“Takahiro,” Toru insisted, voice coming out unintentionally deep—he rarely ever sounded like that, except when he was dead serious, like now he supposed—his strong fingers digging into the muscles of Takahiro’s shoulder. Across the table, Ryota and Tomoya both unconsciously straightened up upon hearing the tone.
That seemed to work— Takahiro jumped in his seat as if electrocuted, his eyes immediately darting guiltily across the table, eventually landing on Toru’s hand still gripping his shoulder.
“Uhh, yeah, what? What’s up?” he rasped, fingers twitching anxiously on his lap. His expression was painted with confusion on the surface, but Toru could read the haunted look beneath that plain as day. Something was wrong.
Toru’s hand fell off of his shoulder as Takahiro moved jerkily to grab a glass of water on the table, gulping it down like some kind of a lifeline. Like it was all he could do to buy himself some time after being caught red-handed.
Ryota was eyeing the cup he was drinking from—it was Toru’s—but Tomoya was frowning at the nervous shaking of Takahiro’s hand. His fingers were noticeably strained against the glass, making the water inside slosh quite a bit as he drank hastily. It was the very picture of a mild panic attack, and Toru was almost afraid to find out why. But someone had to.
“What’s wrong?” Toru asked without preamble, nerves kicking up several notches. “What’s going on, Taka?”
Takahiro’s throat bobbed visibly as he swallowed. There was a nervous lilt to his voice—even in distress, the man managed to sound musical, it was unbelievable—a tell that he was never able to mask no matter how much he tried. “What do you mean…? Nothing’s going on.”
“Uso!” Ryota half-yelled from across the table, then immediately ducked down as people whipped their heads around once more.
“What’s bothering you, Mori-chan?” Tomoya asked in what passed for a casual tone, with a light smile and all, but the fake mirth didn’t quite reach up to his eyes this time. “You’ve been distracted all night.”
“Nothing,” Takahiro said hastily, eyes flitting around like some kind of cornered animal. “I’m not—I wasn't distracted. Just…just have some stuff on my mind, that's all.”
Ryota piped up hesitantly after a while, when it became obvious that Tomoya wasn’t gonna say anything more through his forced smile. “Uhh, you bit your tongue twice while singing today, Mori-chan. I’d say you’re pretty distracted.”
Takahiro laughed nervously. “Maa…”
As if casting about for anything else he can use to buy some more time, his fingers made a motion as if to fiddle with his sleeves, another tic he had…except he wasn’t wearing any. He had ditched his jacket in Toru’s car earlier, like always.
As if only now registering this fact and the temperature of the room, he ended up just rubbing his palms on his forearms, like he was trying to generate heat through friction, his head swiveling from side to side as if searching for something. He threw them another tense half-glance as he patted around the plush seats, eyes brimming with the chaos of so many unspoken thoughts.
“Everything’s fine, I'm just...tired," he finished lamely. He never was a good liar, despite the many skills he possessed. "Don't worry about it, minna."
As if this turn of events was not uncharacteristic enough of their vocalist, the man started shivering too. Even from where they sat across the fairly large table, they could tell that Takahiro was quivering, goosebumps prickling his exposed skin.
“Samui na,” Taka muttered in a clipped tone, the growing unease in his expression at odds with the forced calm he was trying to project. No one was convinced at all—not with that unsteady voice. Not with those shaking fingers. Not with the tense atmosphere hanging around them like a disaster waiting to happen. Not with fifteen long years of knowing the man and all of his tells and all his insecurities.
There was simply no way he was actually okay.
Already round eyes widened even further as Toru shrugged his leather jacket off and wrapped it around Takahiro tightly, making sure to pull the stiff collar up high around his neck, his fingers coming to rest around his vocalist’s forearms.
“Ano, Toru-san…?” Takahiro started in a panic, only to trail off as he felt the man’s grip tighten. He winced at the strength of Toru’s fingers, but did not shake it off—or perhaps he couldn't shake it off. Takahiro was just so petite, and now he looked even more so, bundled snugly in Toru's jacket. “Toru-san, that…kinda hurts.”
“What’s going on, Taka?” Toru asked again, ignoring the half-hearted statement—there was no way he would actually allow Takahiro to be in real, physical pain—still not letting go. “And don’t bother lying.”
Taka gulped. “I’m not lyi—”
“And no stalling either,” Toru told him firmly, gaze boring straight into his core. Please.
Takahiro’s mouth snapped shut, his eyes lowering to his lap as he forcibly withdrew his gaze—he never could withstand Toru when he got serious like this. There was a reason Toru was the leader of the group, aside from the obvious.
“I’m not stalling though,” Takahiro bit out after a while, unable to help it. He might sound cheeky to someone else, but he was sure Toru understood. He always did.
“No…” Toru echoed, gaze softening a bit. Maybe he didn’t understand what was darkening Takahiro’s days lately, but some things just didn’t change. “No, I suppose you’re not.”
Takahiro looked like Toru had just given him a reprieve of sorts.
“Are you gonna let go of me, Toru-san?”
And Toru’s eyes hardened again, his heart thundering in his eardrums. “No.”
Across the table, Ryota and Tomoya were smacking each other quiet, but Toru couldn’t pay attention to what they were saying. Not when he got Takahiro all wide-eyed in front of him, finally paying attention, and hopefully ready to speak his mind, ready to come clean. Whatever happens…
“Tell me what’s on your mind, Taka,” he said plainly.
And just like that, the distress was back in Takahiro‘s features. There was a muted frenzy simmering just beneath the desperately maintained façade, a tightly contained maelstrom of thoughts, a brewing storm. Takahiro had always been a man of many moods and intense emotions, but this felt different.
Something was about to change.
Toru wasn’t sure he could withstand whatever was about to come—
“I just wanna go home,” Takahiro breathed guiltily, eyes glazed with emotion.
The words pierced through with the strike force of a bullet—Toru felt like he was shot right in the chest.
Without meaning to, his fingers went slack.
The other two were equally silent where they sat, although he couldn’t be quite sure—his ears were ringing with silence, as if he was suddenly plunged into a vacuum.
“That’s not what I meant,” Takahiro rasped out almost immediately, grabbing Toru’s wrists before Toru’s fingers even lost contact with the leather of his own jacket, the one he had wrapped snugly around the man in front of him. “That’s not what I meant, Toru. Fuck, that's not what I wanted to say—”
His blunt fingertips pressed against the pulse on Toru’s wrist as he held on, his gaze fixed pointedly, pleadingly, on his lap as he explained hurriedly.
“I don’t mean home. I mean…I just meant the feeling of it, kind of,” he said haltingly, voice scratchy and hesitant, torn.
He somehow managed to convey the feeling that what he was saying and what he truly wanted to say were two different things, and he was struggling to find a way to make the two match. It was unheard of, in all honesty—Takahiro was almost never at a loss for words. If anything, words and emotions were the man’s strongest suits.
There were just so many things were very wrong with this picture, and Toru almost wanted to just stop him and forget the whole thing, suddenly afraid of what he was going to hear if they let this go on. He wanted to assure Takahiro that whatever it was, it was going to be okay, there was no need to look like the world was his enemy—Toru would always be with him, right beside him. Always.
“You miss…your home, Mori-chan?” Tomoya tentatively asked from the side before Toru could escape.
The question earned an automatic headshake from the vocalist in response.
“No, no, that’s not it—I don’t really…I mean,” a humorless laugh escaped his lips, his expression wild and desperate. “My family isn’t really much of a home, is it? I don’t mean them—they’re not home. My home is with you, guys. You know that.”
He has always said this, indeed. And they knew it to be true. They were family. Whatever else Takahiro had in life, they would always be his home.
“So, uhh, you miss Tokyo?” Ryota tried, straining to make sense of the confusing response.
That earned him another smack from Tomoya, but Toru had his full focus on Takahiro.
It had been a long while since they were back in Japan. And it had been even longer since they were back in Tokyo. In their own houses, no matter how fleetingly they lived there. Perhaps this free bird was feeling unmoored, lost at sea, having been away for so long? Takahiro would always be haunted with the ghosts of abandonment, no matter how much they tried to keep that at bay. After all, how long could someone truly be at ease with wandering around, no roots to hold them down, nothing to ground them...? How long did it take before someone felt like choking in thin air after soaring endlessly the way Takahiro had always wanted?
But the vocalist’s lips lifted a little at the corners, a familiar fond look brightening his expressions just the tiniest bit, knocking Toru’s bleak thoughts right out of his mind. He hadn’t realized how much power Takahiro’s smallest smiles would have on his psyche, but here they were. When did that start happening…?
“Naah, you guys are what draws me to Tokyo anyway,” Takahiro murmured with finality, a silent conviction making his words strong and true despite the tension bearing down on all of them at the moment. Perhaps some things would always be his—their—truth, no matter what. Toru could hope, right? “There wouldn’t be anything back there waiting for me. I’ve got you all here.”
“Then what’s got you all moody and withdrawn lately, Mori-chan?” Tomoya asked straight to the point, no longer wanting to beat around the bush. “You can tell us—you know that, right?”
Takahiro let go of Toru’s wrists, almost causing another blackhole to form in the guitarist’s gut, but Takahiro didn’t break contact at all. He simply moved to hide his face on Toru’s shoulder before Toru could move away—not that he ever moved away.
Toru was his one constant, it seemed like. Toru was...the closest he could get to a sense of permanence. Whether he was flying off to London to write a song with Ed, or working meaningless hours in some fast-food chain as he watched his life crumble around him like sandcastles collapsing under the waves, or getting up in the middle of the night to shake off his sleep paralysis demons—Toru was the only constant in his life. Everything else in his life, he simply did in orbit. Toru was the sun—his sun—while Takahiro was the moon, forever caught and bound in the inevitable gravity that Toru was to him.
He rested his forehead on the sturdy shoulder before him, and felt his warm breath bounce back to him as he exhaled deeply. The leather jacket on his back radiated borrowed body heat, and he felt even more vulnerable for it.
In the cocoon of this comfortable and familiar warmth, a temporary shelter from curious eyes and just the world at large, it felt easier to let the words go.
To let the panic ease, even if only for a bit.
To calm his nerves down, and rest his tired soul.
To quiet his ragged heart.
In Toru’s gravity, it seemed easy to just…let go.
In surrendering to Toru's irresistible pull, he found it shockingly easy to see the bigger picture and make sense of everything he never could on his own.
In Toru’s arms, he was safe.
“You know how we’ve gotten this far? How we’ve dreamed so much before, and slowly achieved it?” Takahiro whispered, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He could detect the faintest whiff of smoke coming off of Toru. The scent comforted him more than anything ever could, and he couldn’t—for the life of him—ever figure out why. It had to be weird, talking with his face buried in his guitarist’s steady frame, but he would never be able to get the words out otherwise. “We’ve had so many dreams too. We’ve dreamed of the world when we started from nothing. And now, it’s slowly coming true. So close we could take it. Every single one of them. Nothing seems impossible anymore…”
There was a beat of loaded silence, so quiet you could hear a pin drop—like a deathly calm before the storm. Then Tomoya asked what everyone else wanted to.
“Then what’s wrong, Mori-chan?”
Takahiro closed his eyes and sighed through the cotton pressing against his lips.
If it weren’t for Toru, he would never be able to say any of this out loud.
He considered himself a brave man—after all, people didn’t usually throw away their whole lives to chase after something that had already proven itself out of reach several times over in his life. But the bravery needed to try and conquer his ambitions had nothing on the insurmountable amount of courage needed to admit that he felt like something was still desperately—inexplicably—missing after having achieved everything he ever desired.
“I feel like…I feel like I’ve left something behind,” he admitted softly, feeling exposed and raw.
He could almost see Tomoya’s eyebrow rising, or Ryota’s confused look. He could almost hear Toru’s low rumble as he asks why Takahiro felt that way.
—except that there was only silence.
Takahiro opened his eyes—the deafening quiet suddenly suffocating—and awareness came rushing back in like a scene coming into sharp focus dizzyingly fast.
They were still at the sushiya they have chosen for the night, in the middle of having dinner after a long day of rehearsals, and he was still hiding his face against Toru’s shoulder like the coward he was ultimately was.
So much for self-proclaimed bravery—how far could he truly go if it weren't for Toru supporting him?
…Toru, who was the only reason he was able to even begin to piece together how he had been feeling for months now.
Toru, who was his dearest friend…no matter how bittersweet the word felt in his heart.
Toru…who hasn’t taken a breath for—how long has Takahiro been leaning on him, anyway?
Shame—and something else, something undefined and indescribable—burned like wildfire across his cheeks, and Takahiro hurriedly peeled himself away from his guitarist.
He could hardly see anything through the film temporarily blurring his vision, having closed his eyes for who knew how long, but he managed to grab the closest glass he could from the table and down its contents without pouring it all over himself.
The alcohol burned his throat on its way down, and Takahiro tried to ignore how the liquid fire swirled inside him, warring with the cold pit that was his gut. The realization that Toru had not spoken a word for a while now twisted his insides horrifically—it had cold sweat trickling down his temple, and he couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling that he had just fucked up real bad. Big time.
Ryota whistled in awe—or was it actually shock?—and Tomoya started saying something else in an uncharacteristically panicked tone, but all Takahiro could focus on through the onslaught of dizziness (damn Toru and his murderously strong drinks) was the feeling of strong fingers prying the cup out of his hand.
“What the fuck, Taka,” Toru growled, slamming the glass back down on the table. He was immediately shoving another cup in Takahiro’s face—the edge catching on his lip gently despite the haste—before he could even process why he felt like his neck was being raked open with hot coals. The fruity taste of slightly watered down iced tea trickled down Takahiro’s throat, providing cool relief to the literal and metaphorical fire raging inside him at the moment. “Is your throat okay? Hey! Answer me, damnit—”
Takahiro didn’t even realize he had been bent over, coughing. It was as if his stressed out mind was just drifting in and out of awareness. One moment, he was wading through a literal sea of his dark thoughts, only to find himself jolted back into reality the next moment, faced with the consequences of a few hastily spoken words.
Takahiro and his big, careless mouth. Fuck.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he managed to say before his friends could panic more than they already have. They already fussed about him enough, no need to make them worried professionally on top of it. “I’m okay—”
“The hell you’re okay, Taka,” Toru said through gritted teeth, fingers flexing furiously on the table’s edge. “You haven’t been okay for weeks. We can see you’re bothered about something, but you will never talk about it until you’re busting at the seams. You never do.”
Takahiro shrank back instinctively. “I just don’t want to bother you guys with—”
He bit back the rest of the words when Toru’s eyes flashed dangerously. His guitarist looked like he wanted to throttle him, to crack him open and fish the answers out himself. He looked impatient, and agitated...and protective. He looked like he—cared.
Takahiro shivered at the dawning realization.
Did Toru—?
Inside him, a completely different kind of fire started smoldering…all-consuming and terrifying. It felt electric, like a live wire crackling ominously in his blood. He could feel it twisting inside him, lighting him up and shocking every bit of him to life, from his cheekbones all the way down to his toes. He felt like he was on the cusp of being laid bare, like he was about to realize something momentous—but the words were stuck on the tip of his tongue, just barely out of reach. He didn’t know how to squeeze it out on his own. He has never felt so helpless, so lost…
“What did you leave behind?” Toru demanded quietly, as if it took all of his self-restraint to bite the question out, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “What was it, Taka? Was it the chance at a normal, quiet life?”
“You know I never wanted that,” Takahiro breathed immediately, the pressure on him barely abating despite Toru releasing him from his soul-piercing gaze.
“Freedom, Mori-chan?” Tomoya asked from the side.
He shook his head just as quickly, eyes never leaving Toru’s face, unable to really move. He felt like he was about to implode. “I’m free now—I’ve never been more free.”
Toru slowly put his hand down and turned back to Takahiro—but his eyes avoided making contact. His next words were hushed…and conflicted.
“Do you regret what you’ve done, then?” Toru whispered, hooded eyes fixed somewhere on the bottom half of Takahiro’s face. “Do you regret…this? Us? The band…? Is that it?”
Ryota dropped his fork, but the clanging noise of the metal against the tile floor was lost in the thundering and crashing of blood rushing against Takahiro’s eardrums.
Takahiro couldn’t even get the no past his lips—the suggestion was so absurd he was rendered speechless. He could only shake his head side to side in denial.
Toru looked like Takahiro had slapped him. Like Takahiro had betrayed him. He looked like…like he didn't believe Takahiro.
“It’s impossible I’d ever regret that, Toru. This is all I wanted in life. You know that,” he pleaded softly.
And as if all he was waiting for was for Takahiro to say his name, Toru finally met his gaze again head-on.
His eyes…
Takahiro, for the first time in what was literally half of his damn life, couldn’t read Toru’s expression. And not even because Toru had his guard up—not at all, not even in the slightest. In fact, if his gaze was a physical touch, Toru was searing him on the spot with its intensity. But Takahiro couldn’t put words to it. Whatever Toru was telling him, asking him, demanding of him, pleading with him, with that blazing look of his… Takahiro couldn’t make sense of it.
“Then what is it, Taka? Damnit,” Toru hissed, finally looking away, eyes watering. His voice cracked near the end, but Takahiro couldn’t focus on that. Couldn’t focus on anything. Couldn’t breathe past the bruising tightness in his chest. He felt like he was a string about to snap at the slightest touch. A line about to break at the slightest pressure. No matter how careful Toru was, there was no more helping the inevitable. Something was breaking apart.
“I’m…I don’t…I’m not sure,” Takahiro choked, desperate. He was trying—oh, he was really trying. He felt like he was staring down an ocean about to crash down on him. But for some reason everything remained in a standstill, and he didn’t know how to make time move forward again. The disaster waiting to end everything he loved couldn’t even happen fast enough. Was there anything he could even do right, at this point?
Toru buried his face in his hand, his fingers eventually fisting through his hair in obvious frustration. “Am I doing something wrong?”
The uncertainty so plain in his voice—the guilt—was like a sucker punch to the gut. The half-formed words rushed out unwillingly, unbidden.
“I feel like everything else moved on but us,” Takahiro gasped brokenly, the words flowing from heart to mouth with no filter, no thought process, no mercy. “Everyone else had grown together…but us.”
Toru’s hooded eyes were on him, wide and dark—darker than they ever have been, so dark it corrupted the light that Takahiro had always loved—and so fucking vulnerable. So fragile. No one was breathing.
“What do you mean by that?” Toru whispered, his voice hitching. He looked like someone just died. He looked like…like a part of him just died.
Takahiro wanted to flip the table.
He wanted to punch a wall. Hell, he wanted to punch himself. He wanted to smash something to bits. Anything at all. In his miserable inability to understand the turmoil raging in him—and his weakness against Toru’s unspoken pleas to speak his mind out before he was ready, before he could compose his words—he had managed to put that kind of expression on Toru’s face. He had managed to wreak havoc when all he wanted to do was to soothe, to ease, to convey what Toru meant to him.
He wanted to make things right, but all he managed to do was the opposite. He was a disaster. It was like making the ever-smiling Tomoya feel unhappy…but worse. It was like making the ever-kind Ryota feel unwelcome…but worse. It was like disappointing his family again…but worse.
Infinitely, indescribably, unbearably worse.
Takahiro, desperate for help, turned to look at the other two—and the transparent expressions on their faces slammed against him with the force of a wrecking ball.
His friends, with all their thoughts, were laid out there like an open book, just waiting for him to look. Wide and available and loud, plain as day. As they have always been. As Toru’s used to be.
Tomoya and Ryota were surprised. Shocked. Worried, even.
But also, somehow…hopeful.
They looked as if they were also waiting for the ocean around Takahiro to come crashing down. Like they could see it just as much as he did. Like they understood what it was. And…that they welcomed it.
Why was it so fucking easy to understand them, but not Toru?
Why now, of all times?
Why can’t he even understand himself?
What was he missing?
“With Ryota, with Tomo…” Takahiro tried haltingly, desperate to say anything—do anything—to get that pained look off of Toru’s face. Every second of seeing it felt like one unbearable second longer of the knife twisting in his gut. Someone make it stop, please. “They’re my family… They’ve become my family and my home—that connection has evolved over the years, and we’ve grown. Together. But with us, Toru…I feel—”
And the words were resoundingly true, to his dismay. The words were true…and painful, and he didn’t know why. He wanted nothing more than to tell everyone how much Toru meant to him, but it was all coming out in a way that sounded like—felt like—he was betraying the person he cherished the most.
“I feel like somewhere along the way, we stopped moving forward, you and I,” Takahiro struggled to explain, feeling more and more lost. “Like we were stuck—”
The words—the words meant to soothe and heal—left a bitter taste on his tongue the more he left them to hang in the air.
This shouldn’t feel this wrong. Hell, it shouldn’t be wrong at all. Where the fuck did he go wrong…? How does one make it right, when it should have already been right to begin with? What was the glaringly missing puzzle piece to complete the picture? What was that one small nudge that he felt he needed to turn everything that was wrong into something that was incredibly right, the way it always should have been?
“Stopped moving—” Toru echoed hollowly, what little light left in his eyes going out as he looked up to meet Takahiro’s horrified gaze. “So I suppose I wasn’t enough after all—”
A pained, breathless laugh escaped Toru’s lips, cutting the rest of the words off. Was it a laugh, or was it a sob?
If he was unreadable earlier, it was the complete opposite now—and Takahiro wished he could gouge his eyes out so he will never have to see despair and defeat painted so cruelly on Toru’s face, ever again. This was all incredibly wrong, and he was now only seeing why—a world in which Toru was in pain was a world worth burning down to the ground.
Toru’s whispers were soft, but the words cut deeper than a knife—splintering Takahiro’s heart into pieces.
“Where does that leave me, Takahiro? Where have I fallen off along the way—?”
And just like that, Takahiro realized the one thing that was left to be said.
Just like that, the rest of the puzzle pieces clicked into place. Takahiro’s heart just about stopped.
“I’m in love with you, Toru.”
Tears welled up in Toru’s eyes. “What…?”
Takahiro felt like the ground had disappeared from under his feet, like he was in freefall all along and he just didn’t know it. His knees have turned into jelly, and it was all he could do to remain standing.
“Takahiro—”
He wanted to run, he wanted to scream, he wanted to hide, but he owed it to both of them to let it all out now. And so Takahiro stood his ground with every fiber of his being, internal panic and curious eyes be damned, his nails biting painfully into his palms as he forced the words out. He needed to say this now, having realized it so damn late, having hurt Toru in the process of making sense of why he relentlessly felt like he had always been painfully incomplete despite having grabbed his dreams with his bare hands alongside the people he cherished the most.
“I love you, Toru,” he breathed, the stark realization having knocked the wind out of him.
It was so simple, and yet so complex. The word was almost insulting in its simplicity, but also…freeing. Terrifyingly so.
“I think I always have. Maybe even from the very beginning. Because if not…if not, then I don’t know why else everything I do seems to mean nothing if it weren’t for you.”
Toru just stared at him—eyes red and wide with unshed tears, cheeks flushed, lips pressed together as if miserably fighting the urge to dare believe. He had never looked so soft and vulnerable before now—it looked so wrong. Toru shouldn’t look so broken and hopeless and wanting when he deserved everything. If Toru wanted for anything, then the world was doing him an injustice. Takahiro would give him anything—would stop at nothing—if Toru’s happiness was up to him.
“Toru,” he breathed, desperate to wrap his arms around the vulnerable man in front of him, but the words that needed to be said kept him rooted on the spot.
Just a little more, he thought. He just had to say it all, and surely he would be permitted to come to Toru and try his damnedest to make things right, whatever made it right. Just a little more.
“None of this feels right if it wasn’t you beside me, I see that now. I’ve always felt that way, but I never really understood it enough to put it into words until now. Not until now, Toru… I’m so sorry. All this time, I have only ever felt like nothing I did would ever be enough, and I was pretty much resigned that I would never understand why. I don’t get it either, I just knew I felt that way—like nothing I achieved would matter if it wasn’t beside you, with you, and none of it still mattered anyway after the fact. You were there, but you seemed so far away from me, like I couldn’t truly have you. I just couldn’t feel…complete.”
Takahiro felt the dam of his emotions finally giving way. Saying the words out loud…it felt liberating. Or perhaps it was just Toru all along—seeing the hopelessness melt away from his features was the real catharsis.
“I would have never achieved any of it without you, Toru. But when I did…even if I already did, it still felt so…insignificant,” he confessed, finally letting out what has tormented his heart for a long time now. “Toru…it has always been you. You’re my reason, you’re what I’ve been chasing all along, all this time—you're what makes me truly happy. Everything else pales in comparison to how I feel about you. I’m desperately in love with you.”
“Fuck, Taka,” was all he heard before Toru’s lips came crashing against his.
The soft, moist warmth of his mouth completely overwhelmed the massive ocean of emotions crashing all over Takahiro.
So that’s what it was, after all.
The tsunami that had always been looming above his head, waiting for its moment to strike and drown him in all its crushing force—the potential, the promise, the reality of a future with Toru. No wonder it felt like it had always surrounded him, just lapping above his head. He was always, always, with Toru—he just didn't realize until now how much more they could have been all this years. And now that he knew, time was moving forward again with the force of a gale meeting open waters, drowning him in its unrelenting assault.
“I love you too, fuck…you have no idea,” Toru mouthed against his lips desperately. The salt of his tears mixed unapologetically with the tenderness of the moment, and Takahiro couldn’t ask for anything more.
Just like that, the gaping emptiness in his chest had disappeared.
Just like that, his life suddenly felt…right.
All those times he spent feeling lost and meaningless despite the success, all those months he spent wondering why he felt tense and hyperaware and simultaneously comfortable around Toru, all those years he spent feeling like he will never feel fulfilled even if he achieved everything he knew he wanted…all of those were wiped clean—blank slate—from his soul with every tender press, every soft lick, of Toru against his lips.
Who knew that beautifully shaped mouth kissed this way? He always knew that Toru was devastatingly handsome…but during times like this—tears glittering on his lashes, cheeks flushed a delicious shade of red, mouth warm and insistent against his own—Toru was the very definition of beautiful. Takahiro’s heart ached as he realized just exactly what he had been missing out on.
There was a coughing noise somewhere in the background, but Takahiro’s brain was busy short-circuiting. Kissing Toru was like setting off fireworks in an enclosed space. It felt dangerous, and thrilling, and so damn exciting. He craved more, more, just more. Now that he knew, he couldn’t have enough of it.
An all-encompassing desire for just more.
“Toruuu,” he keened, feeling strong fingers snaking under the borrowed leather jacket to press firmly on his collarbone. Toru’s other hand gripped his waist so tightly he could feel Toru’s touch leaving bruises on his skin—and he wanted it.
He felt like he was being set on fire right where he stood. Every second he was pressed against Toru so intimately felt like he was being reborn. Flames licked at every spot where Toru’s skin grazed against his. If he was the sun before, he was now phoenix incarnate—every brush of his person against Takahiro razed him to ashes, only to forcibly revive him through more of the same all-consuming fire. “Toru, I—”
“Shut up, Taka,” Toru whispered, nipping at his lips hungrily. “Just…just shut up and let me have this.”
He could do that. He would do that. Anything the man wanted. He could just melt into Toru—it was the easiest thing to do in the world right now. “Okay.”
“Fucking finally!” Tomoya and Ryota cheered wildly—and most importantly, quietly—from where they hid under the table, their existence long forgotten by the other two. They pumped their fists in hysterical triumph—they’ve waited on tenterhooks for this development for kami knows how long. So many years spent watching the two dance around each other, only to realize the fuckers didn't even know they were pretty much married to each other. So much angst...! So much drama...! And the restraint—good lord! Tomoya had spent so many sleepless nights, trying to decide whether to just tell the two outright or leave them to their own devices. "Oh my god...finally."
If they cried literal tears of joy, well, no one would have to know. When they reemerge from their hiding spot at some point tonight, they would be their usual goofy selves, all smiles and laughter and jokes again—yep, no one would have to know at all. But in the meantime, they were safe under the table.
“Grab me some sushi, will you? It’s gonna be a while, it looks like.”
“Sou desu ne…”
“Sou.”