Archive of Our Own ^beta

The day starts out like any other during kabuki season, which is to say: hectic. Hikaru arrives at Shinbashi twenty minutes late without having eaten breakfast because he'd slept terribly and then snoozed his alarm too many times, so he already feels off-kilter when he hustles through the back entrance. He still manages to beat Sakuma, who skids into the building ten minutes after him and nearly collides with one of their managers in the hall outside Hikaru and Fukka's dressing room.

"Careful!" Fukka says, somehow managing to save the four hot lattes in Kobayashi's arms before the whole tray spills all over Sakuma's newest waifu t-shirt. Kobayashi steps back and lets out a sigh of relief. Sakuma's arms pinwheel comically in the doorway; Fukka hooks an arm around his middle and rights him with a little huff, gives his butt a tap. "The last thing we need right now is a Sakkun with third-degree burns."

"Sorry, sorry, you're right," Sakuma says, sending Fukka a salute with the usual aplomb. He waves vigorously at Hikaru, perky and bright, and then sprints away down the hall.

Fukka plucks one of the lattes from Kobayashi's grasp and slides into the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. He drifts toward where Hikaru's sitting cross-legged on the tatami mats and taps his shoulder with the cup. "Morning. Here."

Hikaru reaches up to accept the coffee and takes a long, unhurried sip. Wouldn't do to burn his throat, either. Even if he didn't have to sing for another week and a half of shows, dealing with that would be such a pain in the ass.

The caffeine takes a minute to hit, heat sweeping down to tingle in Hikaru's fingers. When he finally feels somewhat more alive, he groans around the rim of his cup and flicks his eyes up. Fukka's watching him, head tilted, a little smile on his face.

Hikaru swallows the bittersweet dregs in his mouth and asks, "So where were you earlier?"

"Discussing one of the Omaru scenes with Abe-chan," Fukka says, puttering over to examine their pet cactus on its shelf. "Just details."

"Mm," Hikaru says. He stretches his legs out beneath the low table in front of him and rotates his ankles. "Anything I need to worry about?"

Fukka makes a checkmark with his fingers beneath his chin and strikes a brief pose. "That's what you have me for, isn't it?" he replies. "If all we have to deal with for the rest of the month is a couple of people running late, I'll be sleeping easy."

Hikaru winces. "Won't happen again," he says, sitting up straighter. "Promise."

An odd expression flickers across Fukka's face, like there's something he wants to say. Hikaru's chest goes tense, bracing for impact, but in the end Fukka just shakes his head and replaces it with another smile. "Finish your coffee."

Hikaru takes a few more slow sips, letting the flavor spread across his tongue. Fukka starts shrugging into his first costume, the ruffly pink suit. Hikaru watches him do up the fiddly little buttons on the dress shirt, thin fingers moving with the quick assurance of long years of practice. "Happy birthday, by the way," he says carefully, drumming his own fingers against the table. "I forgot to mention it last night. The big 3-0. Congratulations." They had been together at midnight; he should've just said it then, instead of…

His train of thought derails when the door to their dressing room slides open with a sharp jerk. "Walkthrough time, boys," Sakuma sing-songs, rapping the wood with his knuckles. His eyebrows jump when his gaze lands on Hikaru. "Oy, hurry up and get dressed. Come on, we're behind already."

"I don't want to hear that from you of all people," Hikaru snorts. Sakuma, undeterred, grins beatifically and bounces out of sight again.

Hikaru chugs as much of the rest of his coffee as he can and then stands up, knees cracking. He tries to ignore it as best he can, but it's impossible not to feel the prickle of Fukka's gaze on his back as he changes. When he turns around again, Fukka tucks a hand into the crook of Hikaru's elbow and bends their heads close. Hikaru's heart rate spikes, the liquid in his stomach sloshing uneasily. "You know you're morally obligated to tell me if they have any crazy surprises planned, right?" Fukka says, voice low. "For my birthday. Just — please, no cake to the face?"

Oh, Hikaru thinks, shoulders relaxing. It's just that. "No idea what you're talking about," he says airily, shrugging as he starts striding down the hall toward the stage, and laughs when Fukka groans behind him.

It's the last laidback moment he's able to wallow in before the morning really kicks into high-gear. The walkthrough flies by in a blur of final transition checks and pass-offs, staff and IMPACTors milling around underfoot. Hikaru tries to stay on task, but something about caffeine on an empty stomach is making him feel more jittery than he has in a while. It doesn't help that every time he sees Fukka, his brain keeps replaying flashes of last night over and over on loop. The two of them staying back at Shinbashi after everyone else had left, reviewing Takizawa's notes for the day and running lines together in the dressing room. Laughing at Fukka's dumb impressions of their bandmates, bickering over how much water they should be giving cactus-chan, throwing cushions at each other just for the hell of it. Getting takeout delivered from their favorite izakaya in the area and splitting a whole spread of gyoza and chicken and fries, the smear of garlic soy sauce on Fukka's mouth shimmering as he grinned around the glass neck of a beer bottle.

It turns out tired and distracted is a terrible combination for even the hardiest butai veteran. Hikaru almost misses his entrance when they're rehearsing the big climax, and he fumbles the lyrics to With Love during the last soundcheck. He tries to eat a little before the actual show, but picking at a bento backstage just makes his stomach clench even tighter. "Alright?" Meme asks ten minutes before curtains for the noon show, nudging Hikaru's elbow. "You seem… out of it."

Hikaru pastes a smile on his face. "You know how it is," he says. It's inevitable. Every year around this time, the fatigue of long rehearsals and nine shows a week on top of their other schedules starts to set in. "I'll be fine."

He'll have to be, anyway; they've got two shows to get through today. At least everyone else seems to be on their A game; they've been practicing for months, and they've been doing this for years. At this point, Takizawa Kabuki operates like a well-oiled machine. Sakuma pulls off the usual aerials without breaking a sweat, and the light-up katana choreography during Into the Sky looks as unbelievably cool as it always does. Despite everything, Hikaru manages to step through his solo henmen routine with no major issues, though he's drenched through his underclothes by the time he gets backstage. "That was awesome, Teru-nii," Koji says when he passes Hikaru in the hallway, and Hikaru manages to sneak in a high-five before Shoppi drags Koji off to change into their next costumes.

It's not all roses, though: Hikaru's heart stops later when Meme slips on the mecha taiko, saved only by the harness attached to his waist, and in between numbers, Motoi reveals a big bruise on his elbow from when he knocked it against the floor during one of the tumbling routines. "Did someone bring a bad spirit to work with them?" Abe jokes, but Miyadate actually looks a little concerned.

Hikaru claps his hands together to get everyone's attention, but Fukka's the one who pats Date-sama on the shoulder and says, calm as ever, "Let's just stay focused, okay?"

Their eyes meet behind Date's sweat-soaked back. Hikaru shakes off the itchy feeling between his shoulder blades. "Only a few more numbers and the finale to go," he says, nodding at the prop guys that sprint past them carrying ladders and hoses. "We got this."

To wide approval, the staff roll a huge cake into their dressing room after the noon show. Omaru-chan is screen-printed on the cream, surrounded by everyone else in kabuki costume. They sing happy birthday, Abe-chan cuts everyone a slice, and Raul cheerfully smashes his straight into Fukka's face. "We barely ever have enough time to shower as it is," Fukka complains, wiping cream out of his eyes.

"It's tradition," Raul counters, unrepentant, and shrieks when Fukka scoops up Hikaru's half-eaten slice and comes after him with a vengeance.

When Hikaru takes his turn washing up later, Fukka's rinsing his hair out beneath the spray, skin scrubbed pink. "Some shinme you are," he grouses, flicking water at him.

Hikaru hums, hanging his towel up and picking through the basket on the floor for his body wash. "Like Raul said," Hikaru laughs, "It's tradition. You're lucky you didn't get thirty slices of cake to the face." He turns his showerhead on, letting the water wash the accumulated sweat and the last bits of makeup down the drain.

He hears Fukka's water subside, and when he turns, Fukka's watching him with that look on his face again, grimly determined. Hikaru's chest starts pounding. "Hikaru," Fukka says, voice low and serious. He's close enough that Hikaru can't help fixating on the way Fukka's tongue flicks out to wet his lips. "Last night. We need to talk about it."

"I know," Hikaru says numbly. He squeezes a huge glob of body wash out of his bottle, just for something to do with his hands, and starts lathering up. He's known they would have to talk since he leaned in last night, palms pressed into Fukka's bony shoulders, but — sometimes you can't help prolonging the inevitable. Sometimes courage takes a night off and says, just give me a little more time before everything changes. "Not right now, okay? Too much going on." Like clockwork, he hears Sakuma chattering over Meme outside the shower room. There's never any privacy to be found in this place. "We'll talk tonight."

Fukka sighs. "Alright," he says. "Tonight."

It happens during the late show, in the middle of the last big set piece.

Ever since Hikaru skinned his knee climbing up the ladder a few years ago, he's tried his best to be extra careful. There's water everywhere, and about a hundred different moving parts that have to come together to make the whole thing work. One little slip is all it takes for things to go extremely south. Maybe it's because he'd gotten everything right during the noon show, and his guard's down; maybe it's because he got about three hours of sleep last night and he's been preoccupied all day. Maybe someone really did bring an unlucky spirit to work with them this morning.

Raul flips off the end of the ladder with zero difficulty, but this time when the whole contraption swings back toward the slippery cliff so Hikaru can climb down, a sickening lurch rocks the whole structure. For a second, Hikaru thinks he can make it across to the wet cliff; for a second he thinks everything's going to be alright, but then his right foot lands awkwardly, skittering out toward the side as the rung beneath his left foot shakes again. In the moment before he completely loses his balance, he teeters on the edge with his arms pinwheeling, as if about to take flight.

Then gravity does its work. The last thing he sees before everything goes dark is Omaru's desperate face, her hands reaching out through the waterfall.

Hikaru wakes with a disorienting gasp, back stiff and skin sweaty. When his eyes fly open, there's something cool and wet and scratchy obscuring his vision. Actually — it feels like a wet hand towel has been draped across his entire face. The area around his right eye is puffy and tender. "What?" he mumbles, spitting fabric out of his mouth.

"Oh, thank God, he's awake," comes an unfamiliar voice. "No, no, don't try to sit up—"

Too late. The cloth slides down Hikaru's chest and pools limply in his lap. He'd been lying across a hard wooden bench in a room he doesn't recognize. It looks like he's been moved to some sort of indoor gym, or maybe a dance studio; the room's surrounded on all sides by mirrored glass, and in the middle there are three boxing bags hanging down from the ceiling.

"How are you feeling?" asks the same voice. It's coming from a woman who looks about his age, maybe a little younger, perched on the end of the bench. She's wearing typical athleisure, and there are two kickboxing gloves discarded at her feet.

As he sweeps his gaze to the side, roughly ten or twelve attentive, wide-eyed faces swim into view. What? Hikaru thinks, nonplussed. This is weird, right? It's weird that he's suddenly in a random studio with a bunch of strange kids kneeling on the floor staring at what's clearly going to become a black eye in the near future. "Uh, I'm fine," Hikaru croaks, the lie leaping to his lips easily. "All things considered."

One of the kids immediately bursts into tears and tips forward to press his forehead to the floor. "I'm so sorry, Iwamoto-sensei!!!!!!!" he hiccups wetly. "I didn't mean to kick you in the face!"

"It's really fine," Hikaru says hastily, skipping past the shock of being called sensei and sliding off the bench to curl his arm around the kid's shuddering shoulders. Clearly a crisis is happening here, and if there's anything Hikaru's good at, it's handling a crisis. "I mean, it looks kinda cool, right? Like I'm a character in a Shounen Jump manga?"

The kid straightens up to blink at him, eyes watery. "Really?"

The instructor sitting on the bench coughs loudly; there's a meaningful look on her face when Hikaru glances up. "Well, don't go around giving each other black eyes on purpose either," he adds, ruffling the kid's hair. "That would be bad." The boy nods, wiping his face with his sleeves. One of the other kids, a girl with her hair pulled back in pigtails, pats his back. Maybe his sister? "But don't worry about it, okay? These things happen sometimes. I know you didn't mean to do it."

The boy's chin wobbles dangerously. Before he can burst into tears again, commotion starts up at the door. Half the kids turn; some of them wave. "Oh, Fukazawa-san," the other instructor says, sounding relieved, and Hikaru's head snaps up. "You're here! He just woke up."

Tension that Hikaru hadn't even known he'd been holding seems to melt out of his back all at once. Fukka's in a slouchy cardigan and a button-up and wide-legged pants; his hair is soft and dark and unstyled, and he's squinting through a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. There's a concerned look on his face, and he floats across the floor in three long strides, a hand coming up to touch the puffy skin around Hikaru's eye. "Fukka," Hikaru says, turning into Fukka's palm and slumping over like a deflating balloon. He hadn't realized how much he needed to see a familiar face until it happened. "Hey."

Fukka's eyes widen, the briefest beat of hesitation before he looks at the other instructor. "Suzuki-san, what happened?"

Suzuki shakes her head, gesturing at Hikaru. "This one was kneeling on the floor working on kicks with the kids, even though he knows very well that Akira-kun has problems aiming properly." Akira sniffles. Hikaru ruffles his hair again, after which Akira wanders off with his sister to join some of the other kids, who have resumed practicing with the boxing bags. "He was out for maybe ten minutes. Sorry for calling you away from work, but you did tell us last time—"

"No, you did the right thing," Fukka says, patting her arm. "I'll take him home. Will you be alright on your own?"

"Yeah, there's only one more class after this, so I should be good to close up." Suzuki eyes Hikaru and punches his shoulder, grinning when he yelps. "Take care of yourself, huh?"

Hikaru scratches the back of his neck and tries to look penitent. "Right. Got it."

As they shuffle around the perimeter of the studio, Fukka picks up a Nike workout bag and a branded water bottle with an unfamiliar logo, a hexagon with a six-pointed star inside it. "Bye, Iwamoto-sensei! See you next week!" various kids call after him, and Hikaru waves through the door. In the hallway, they pass a fully-outfitted gym, metal barbells and weight machines winking at him through the glass.

Out on the street, dusk has painted the Tokyo sky a dark orange-yellow, wispy clouds floating above the highrises. The sidewalks are bustling with people going to dinner or heading home. It's a part of the city that Hikaru vaguely recognizes, maybe Setagaya — he thinks he used to take dance classes somewhere around here. Pretty far from Shinbashi, at any rate. How the hell did he end up an hour away?

When they get to the corner, Fukka abruptly wheels around on his heel, eyes narrow. "Okay, spill. What's going on?"

Hikaru blinks, thoughts scattering. "What do you mean?"

"You never like it when I pick you up at work, because it probably means you've injured yourself in some stupid way," Fukka says, arms akimbo. "But you did today. You looked relieved. Why?"

Hikaru blinks again, trying to process all of that. Fukka clearly doesn't think it's abnormal that he's here. A faint idea niggles at the back of his mind, a crazy theory beginning to take shape. "Work," he says. "And what is it that I do again?"

Fukka's brow wrinkles. "You're not just fucking with me as a shitty birthday prank, are you?" he asks, clearly suspicious. "Fake amnesia isn't funny. A traumatic head injury isn't something to joke about."

"Just humor me for a second," Hikaru implores. "I promise I'll explain later."

Fukka folds his arms across his chest. "You and Suzuki-san are co-owners of the studio," he says, slow and measured, as if speaking to a very small child. "You teach dance and do personal training on the side, and sometimes you still choreograph for Johnny's. On holidays you help out with the kids' classes."

Hikaru runs a hand through his hair and starts laughing, trying to tamp down on the tinge of hysteria bubbling in his gut. Sure, at this point he's read his fair share of Sakuma's favorite isekai manga, but it's one thing to entertain a fictional premise for a few hours. It's another thing entirely to have somehow actually transcended the laws of physics and found himself in an alternate reality. A little part of him is still convinced he's dreaming — but all of this feels far too real for that. He can still feel the faint sting of Suzuki's punch in his left bicep.

"Honestly, Hikaru," Fukka says, frowning. "You're being super weird right now."

Where is he even supposed to start? Any lead-in he can think of is just going to make him look like a total lunatic. Unless… "Sakuma," Hikaru says, casting about for a lifeline. "Does Sakuma exist in this universe?"

"This universe?" Fukka says, reaching up to press his palm against Hikaru's forehead. "Do I need to take you to the hospital?"

Hikaru fits his hand around Fukka's wrist. "Can we find somewhere less public?" he asks, glancing at the people streaming around them. "You might want to sit down for this."

They walk to the train station together, Hikaru trailing behind Fukka in a daze. No one stops them for photos or anything; no one even seems to realize who they are. Which — in this universe, one where the two of them clearly aren't idols anymore, makes sense. Hikaru hasn't been able to exist in public without camera crews or managers in years. There's something kind of freeing about being completely anonymous, about not having to be wary of fans overstepping during their private time or worry about paparazzi snapping photos from ill-concealed cars.

Hikaru doesn't fumble as much as he thought he might at the turnstile. He's still using the old Kakuranger wallet he got ages ago, and there's a Suica card tucked inside the first flap, so he's able to swipe through easily enough. As they board the train, something buzzes in his pocket. Hikaru fishes a phone out; the lock screen is a photo of him and Fukka with their faces pressed together, laughing at the camera. They look pretty dressed up, wearing tuxes with their hair done nicely. Maybe his sister's gotten married in this universe. Hikaru swallows around the ache in his throat and swipes up. He has no idea what the passcode is, but thank goodness for facial recognition. The first LINE message from Abe-chan reads, Cake secured for Saturday! An attached screenshot shows a receipt for a ten-inch matcha cheesecake. Have you booked the restaurant yet?

When Hikaru flips to his email app, there's a reservation confirmation at a nice sushi place in Meguro. 7PM at Izumi, he taps out, which receives an enthusiastic string of thumbs up emojis. If Hikaru thinks about it too hard, it does feel weird to be corresponding with a version of Abe he's not sure he even really knows, but it's comforting that they're still friends.

They disembark after a few stops. Back on the street, they pass a storefront with idol magazines in the windows. Hikaru slows to skim the covers, looking for people he recognizes. There's a Cancam with Sexy Zone artfully arranged across some kind of Greco-Roman set, and Anan and Duet have multiple covers out, Micchi and Massu, Yuto and Yamada. One of the Wink Ups has a conglomeration of SixTONES and Snow Man posed together; it could almost be from Hikaru's universe, except that he, Fukka, and Abe are missing, and the logo that's on the water bottle swinging from Fukka's hand is emblazoned on the chest of all their shirts.

When Hikaru catches up with Fukka again, they're walking through the gates of Miyamae Elementary School. It's the tail end of Golden Week, so the school building looks mostly empty, but some soccer club kids are still practicing out on the fields. "Why are we here?" Hikaru asks, following Fukka inside.

Fukka doesn't seem to even have the energy to look surprised anymore. "I work here," he says, leading them to one of the rooms on the first floor. "I'm a first grade teacher."

"Ah," Hikaru says, warmth spreading through his chest. Somehow, in the middle of this impossible scenario, that part feels right. The office is quiet when they step inside. One other teacher is at her desk in the back corner making notes, and she nods as they pass, like it's typical for Fukka to still be at work while everyone else is on holiday.

Fukka's desk is pretty obvious even from an outsider's perspective: a bunch of plushies are stacked on the top level, and framed photos of Fukka with his family and with Hikaru abound. There's an uncapped marker lying next to a half-graded kanji worksheet; he must have been going over his class's homework before he'd gotten the call from Suzuki and dropped everything to deal with Hikaru. Fukka wedges the Nike bag next to a big canvas tote bag on the floor, passes the water bottle over to Hikaru, and then reaches beneath the desk for a first aid box. "Sit," he says sternly, pointing at the desk chair.

Hikaru plops down, watching Fukka pull out a couple of instant cold packs and some antibiotic ointment. "So prepared," he says, grinning.

"I teach seven-year-olds," Fukka replies, rolling his eyes. "I have to be prepared for anything." He spends a few moments dabbing ointment along Hikaru's brow, which stings, and then sticks a bandaid over the cut and passes Hikaru one of the cold packs. "Alright," Fukka continues, eyebrows arching. "You said you would explain."

Hikaru glances over at the other teacher in the room. She has her earbuds in, fully immersed, so she probably couldn't care less about their conversation. It's now or never. "This is going to seem crazy," Hikaru says, "but I think when I hit my head, I somehow swapped bodies with the Iwamoto Hikaru from this reality." Fukka's brows manage to arch even higher. "I know, I know, it sounds like one of Sakuma's isekai manga, but I can't explain it any other way. All I know is that one moment I slipped backward off the cliff during the kabuki late show, and the next I woke up in a random gym surrounded by strangers."

Fukka studies him, lips pursed. Hikaru holds his gaze and holds his breath, waiting for the barrage of follow-up questions, but after a minute, Fukka exhales and says, "Okay," scraping a hand through his hair. "Okay."

"You believe me?" Hikaru says, unable to keep the shock out of his voice.

Fukka sends him an exasperated look. "First of all, you're way too coherent for this to be the result of a head injury," he says flatly. "Plus, we've been together for over ten years, Hikaru. You're a spectacularly bad liar, and I know all of your tells anyway." He gestures at the forgotten cold pack in Hikaru's nerveless fingers, and Hikaru squeezes it before gingerly applying it to his eye. "I guess it's not completely outside the realm of possibility. I've read some of those manga Sakuma recommended too, you know." He wrinkles his nose. "He'd be way too happy to hear that his otaku status actually came in handy during a crisis."

"It's good to know that some facts of the universe are just immutable," Hikaru says, laughing. He slumps back into the desk chair, completely spent all of a sudden, like the adrenaline that's been powering him through the past disorienting hour has finally decided to abandon him now that there's someone else in the world who seems to understand his predicament.

Fukka tilts his head, gaze softening, and leans his hip against his desk. "No wonder you were so relieved to see me. You had no idea where you were, did you?"

"I'm always happy to see you," Hikaru counters, grinning when Fukka snorts.

After a moment of companionable silence, Fukka grabs the swivel chair from the desk next to his and straddles it backward, ankles crossing delicately. "What's it like there, then?" he asks, pillowing his head on his arms. "Tell me about this other universe. You mentioned kabuki."

Hikaru shifts the cold pack against his eye and sits up straighter. "Where I come from, we're in our fourth year headlining Takizawa Kabuki," he says. Faint surprise flickers across Fukka's face. "The nine of us. Snow Man. 2020 debut."

"I see," Fukka says, voice very neutral. "We're still idols."

"Yeah. I've gathered that we aren't, here." Hikaru leans down to scoop his water bottle off the floor and points at the decal emblazoned on it. "Like, what's this?"

"The Sunosuto logo," Fukka says, matter-of-fact.

"Sunosuto," Hikaru repeats. "One group?"

"Kind of? It's a little vague. Two independent subunits, but they release quite a bit of joint content." Fukka exhales, swinging his legs. "You've done a lot of choreography work for them, but we aren't — in the group."

Hikaru nods slowly. "And why's that?"

Fukka bites his lip. "The year after Abe-chan went on hiatus to focus on his studies, you got injured during one of the butais we were backdancing for," he says. "Nothing serious. No long term effects. But it was enough that while you were recovering, we decided to study for college entrance exams with Abe-chan, and then we passed, and we just… never went back."

Hikaru turns this over in his head. They've given so many interviews over the years about their junior era, about how difficult it was to grind through and keep holding out hope for a debut that always seemed just out of reach. It's been a long time since he's really thought about what would've happened if they hadn't kept going. What made this Hikaru change his mind? What happened here that made it seem worth it to relinquish all that hard work?

It's not until one of Fukka's hands lands on Hikaru's that he realizes he's been picking absently at his nails. From the look on Fukka's face, it must be a habit he hasn't been able to shake in this universe, either. Fukka pulls Hikaru's hands apart gently, and Hikaru takes one grounding breath, then another. "Come on," Fukka says, tugging Hikaru off the chair. "I'll take you out for bubble tea. You still like that, right?"

Hikaru lets out a huff. The corners of his mouth twitch. "If I said I didn't, would you take me to the hospital?"

"Without question," Fukka says darkly. "Let's go."

Twilight's chasing the last orange streaks out of the purple sky by the time they arrive at the Gong Cha two blocks away. Fukka gets himself a lemon winter melon tea with basil seeds, glances over at Hikaru, and then orders a chocolate milk tea with less ice and extra tapioca. "Did I get it right?"

"Extremely," Hikaru says around a mouthful of bubbles, somewhat cheered by the sugar.

They stroll through the park at a measured pace, sipping on their drinks. The luxury of being able to linger hasn't worn off yet, and Hikaru lets himself bask in the feeling for a while, watching kids run back and forth across the playground, stooping to pet a friendly dog every few steps. As Fukka hefts his work bag over his shoulder, a ring on his finger flashes in the light of the setting sun. It's a simple band, but there's a small stone set into its center, winking at him. Hikaru catches Fukka's hand without thinking and asks, "What's this?" about two seconds before he realizes there's a matching one on his own hand.

The bottom drops out of Hikaru's stomach. Fukka turns toward him, trepidation written in the lines on his face. "Only just noticed?"

"I mean, we wear rings for photoshoots all the time," Hikaru says, scrabbling for words, but it sounds like a bad excuse even to him. He thinks about the lock screen on this Hikaru's phone, thinks about we've been together for over ten years, thinks about how the first person Suzuki called when Hikaru passed out wasn't his parents, but—

"Surely you know," Fukka says. There's no wobble in his voice, but Hikaru's seen that intense look in his eyes plenty of times before, usually when they're trying to nail new choreography, or when he's super focused on trying to win a crane game.

Hikaru swallows. "We aren't," he says, casting his gaze down and away. "Together. I mean — we're together, but not like this. Not in my universe. We're just bandmates there." Just seems wrong, considering all they've been through — considering everything Hikaru wants but can't allow himself to have — but the intricacies of what they mean to each other feel too overwhelming to get into right now.

"I see," Fukka says. He doesn't seem mad or disappointed, which is something. After another moment of silent contemplation, he squeezes Hikaru's hand. The warm press makes him relax a little. That's something, too. "We don't have to keep talking about it. Finish your tea."

It turns out their apartment building in this universe is only a few blocks further down the road, off a side alley, tucked in between a day spa and a very pink bakery. They take the stairs up to the third floor, Hikaru's sports bag banging against his hip. Fukka lets them into the dark, quiet house and they slide their shoes off in the entryway, and then—

"SURPRISE!!!"

Hikaru nearly falls over as the lights switch on and a joyful cacophony of voices pours out from the main room of the house. They venture around the corner to a scene of raucous celebration. Most of Hikaru's family is squashed around the low table in front of the couch; Fukka's sister and parents have already leapt to their feet, decked out in party hats, and proceed to pull a bunch of party poppers straight into Fukka's face. There are hand-decorated Fukka uchiwas stuck in every conceivable nook and cranny. A brightly colored banner's been hung from the blinds; it says HAPPY 30TH, FUKKAASAN in big blocky letters.

"Oh my god," Fukka says faintly, hands flying to his chest, but he can't wipe the grin off his face.

Hikaru hasn't seen his parents or his siblings in months, not since the few days they had off after Johnny's Countdown earlier this year. If he's a little more enthusiastic about hugging them than can be expected from this universe's original Hikaru, no one calls him out on it. Then again, they all seem more interested in how his eye got so bruised to notice anything else amiss. "You should see the other guy," Hikaru says, grinning when Izumi rolls her eyes.

"Can't take him anywhere," Fukka says, dry. He sounds impossibly fond.

It's only natural to table any crises (physical, emotional, temporal) for the time being and just enjoy a late dinner with everyone gathered. They pile their plates high with food and break out copious amounts of beer. "Where's Minato?" Hikaru asks halfway through his first bottle, after it becomes clear his brother isn't going to pop out of some random dark corner and scare the shit out of Fukka.

"He has an evening class today," Izumi puts in, grimacing. "He apologizes for not being able to make it."

Fukka waves it off. "College gets busy. We understand."

Hikaru keeps eating, letting the ebb and flow of conversation wash over him. Izumi's been dating some new guy their parents keep badgering her about meeting ("We never had that problem with Fukka, he was always coming over to do homework with Hikaru," Mom says, which makes Fukka turn an interesting shade of pink). Fukka's parents went to Hokkaido during the first half of Golden Week, and they've returned with pictures of all the great seafood they had. At some point, Dad switches the TV on, and the living room fills with the sound of the evening news.

When Izumi disappears into the kitchen to grab more cold drinks from the fridge, Fukka's sister Kiko plops down in the vacated space on Hikaru's right. "Thanks for lending me these," she says, dangling a set of keys in his face before dropping them in his lap. There's a small Baymax keychain hanging off the main carabiner. "We spent an hour decorating before you guys got back."

"Anything for my favorite sister-in-law," Hikaru says, surprised at how naturally it slips out, at how everyone else accepts it without batting an eyelash. Just another immutable fact of the universe for them, Hikaru supposes. Fukka goes very still next to him, but otherwise manages to continue whatever conversation about soccer he's having with Hikaru's dad. "Place looks great," Hikaru continues, pocketing his keys. "I really like the homemade uchiwas."

"You can decorate your own, later," Kiko says, grinning around the rim of her beer. "There's plenty of supplies."

Hikaru's just about finished with his creation by the time everyone's done eating. He's taken the rest of the small paper cutouts of Fukka's face and arranged them in a chaotic collage on one side, and he's putting the final touches on the back ("DIRTY THIRTY" written in dark purple marker) when Fukka starts ripping through the presents collected in a pile next to him. The parents pitched in on a hefty gift card to Kinokuniya for books and school supplies, Izumi bought him a really nice fountain pen, and Minato apparently contributed a new case to replace the beat-up one that's currently protecting Fukka's phone.

"Mine's late, Tattsu," Kiko says, clasping her hands together. "I'm sorry! But I promise it's supposed to get delivered this week!"

"If you were really sorry, you'd help us clean later," Fukka says, which is how she ends up staying after the parents say their goodbyes, sweeping empty beer bottles into a recycling bag as penance. Izumi keeps her company in the living room, taking down balloons and fishing stray pieces of confetti out from between the couch cushions.

Hikaru finally gets a good look at the rest of the apartment as they're straightening the place back up. It's neat but well lived in: succulents line the windowsills, and an assortment of crane game prizes and pictures of past vacations are proudly displayed on most of the bookshelves. No sign of any Sylvanian Families, but Fukka's collection of Minions paraphernalia has its own little cubby, and there's a meticulously maintained cabinet of handmade ceramics in a corner of the small kitchen. "Yours?" Hikaru asks as he rinses plates and loads them in the drying rack.

Fukka looks up from where he's packing the metric ton of leftovers to fit into the fridge. "No, yours," he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Pretty useful hobby. You'll even let us drink tea out of them sometimes."

It's almost eleven by the time they're done, trash bagged and floor swept. "I don't even want to give you your real present now," Kiko groans, pounding her lower back as they grab their things. "This was more than enough."

"Not going to crash here tonight?" Fukka asks the girls at the door.

Kiko pulls her heels on and hefts a bulging plastic bag in each hand. "Would love to, but I gotta go to work tomorrow," she says, making a face. "Happy birthday. See you soon."

Izumi gives Hikaru one last hug in the entryway. "Hope the black eye doesn't get too ugly," she says with a smile. Then they're gone in a plume of perfume, chattering all the way down the hall.

The door swings shut. Exhaustion hits Hikaru like a bullet train, and he slumps against the wall for a minute, letting his eyes rest. Funny how tired you can get even when you aren't performing in back to back kabuki shows all day.

"I'd apologize for the unexpected intrusion, but technically you're the one who invited them," comes Fukka's amused voice. He's smiling when Hikaru looks at him.

"No, it was good to see everyone," he says, because it's the truth. "Don't get to do that too often in my universe. And you deserve to be celebrated." That's true in every universe.

"Mm," Fukka says. Hikaru steps back to let him pass into the living room again. "Well, since you've sustained some pretty serious battle damage today, feel free to crash in the bedroom. I can take the sofa—"

"Don't be ridiculous," Hikaru says before he can think twice. There's no way he's forcing Fukka out of his own space, especially not on his thirtieth birthday. "We share a bed here, right? That's fine." Fukka raises an eyebrow as they head into the bathroom, where Hikaru has to contend with the cute little two-person setup at the sink, matching toothbrushes in yellow and purple, a station for Hikaru's contacts and another for Fukka's night guard. He ignores the way his stomach flips and continues, "We share the same dressing room for kabuki every year, and we usually get assigned the same hotel room when we're traveling together for work. I'm used to it." Fukka frowns, conflicted, and Hikaru nudges his side before reaching out and grabbing his toothbrush. "I'm serious, okay? There was this one time in Singapore when we couldn't figure out how to ask the hotel staff for a second bed, so we just shared for ten days."

Fukka's lips flatten. "And you're saying we aren't married in your universe?"

"I—" Hikaru says, voice dying in his throat. How is he supposed to look this Fukka in the eye and tell him that sometimes it's still hard for Hikaru to see past the Fukka who had fanclubs and disciples in high school, back when Hikaru was a grade younger and didn't feel like he'd ever be able to catch up? How is he supposed to explain the Fukka who brushes past all of Hikaru's attempts to lace their interviews with answers about how he really feels, the Fukka who always jokes about how they aren't allowed to date within the group, the Fukka who let Hikaru kiss him the night he turned thirty but also didn't stop him from running away right after?

"Hikaru. Hey. Breathe. It was a joke." Fukka pats Hikaru's arm and starts stepping through the familiar beats of his daily wind-down ritual. "Go take the first bath."

Hikaru soaks for long enough that his fingers get pruny, and then steps into the bedroom. He figures out which dresser is his with little trouble, changes into a clean pair of underwear and pajama bottoms, and then climbs into the bed. The queen-sized mattress is already more luxurious than the full Hikaru usually sleeps on at home. He means to wait up until Fukka's finished, wants to keep talking until he gets answers to questions he's not sure he even knows how to ask, but he ends up passing out to the sound of the running shower, hot water pattering against linoleum tile.

In the morning, Hikaru wakes up to birdsong by the window and an alarm blaring in his ear. He's halfway out of bed, thinking about what to grab for breakfast on the way to Shinbashi, before he remembers where he is and has to forcibly slam the brakes on his kabuki autopilot.

Fuck, he thinks, flopping back against the pillows and staring at the ceiling. That's right. No kabuki, no Snow Man, no busy idol schedule to run off to. Just the reality that he's now living in a universe where he and Fukka left Johnny's and got married, obtained degrees and moved in together. Some things take longer to digest than others, especially when you aren't sure how the hell you even got here, let alone how to get back.

Fukka's still buried in the mound of bedclothes, breathing deep and even. Hikaru watches him sleep until his alarm goes off. His hand reaches out from his warm blanket cocoon and flops around for a few seconds before he manages to hit the snooze button on his phone. A minute later, he groans into his pillow and uncurls, wispy hair bouncing in his eyes. "Morning," Fukka croaks, and he's bridged most of the gap between them before he freezes in place, eyes sweeping over Hikaru's face, remembering.

Hikaru's heart thumps in his throat as Fukka retracts, yawning, and rubs his face with his hands. It's a messy jumble in Hikaru's head, all the things he knows about himself in this universe and his own, not wanting to overstep but also full of a sort of desperate, frustrated longing. He isn't the husband Fukka's looking for, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want Fukka to kiss him. That's been true for longer than he cares to think about right now. "Morning," Hikaru murmurs back, and returns Fukka's sleepy smile with one of his own.

They shuffle into the bathroom to get ready for the day. Fortunately, the swelling around Hikaru's eye is gone. The point of impact is mostly a funky greenish purple, and the scrape along his brow just needs a new application of ointment before he puts a fresh bandage on it.

When he's finished with that, he pulls a shirt on and ambles out into the main room. There's a steaming thermos of tea sitting next to Fukka's tote in the kitchen. Fukka grabs a bun from the fridge, tosses it in his bag, and scoops all his stuff into his arms. "You usually start work around nine, depending on your schedule," he says, waving on his way out. "Check your Nike bag for more details. Call me if you need anything."

It's barely half past seven, which means Hikaru's got plenty of time to get the day started. He makes himself a cup of strong coffee, heats up some leftover rice from the night before, and scrolls through a bunch of texts in a group chat about Fukka's surprise birthday celebration, friend edition. When he's done with breakfast, he gets to the Nike bag. There's a notebook in the front pocket, and Hikaru spends a bit of time flipping through that and cross-referencing it with the calendar app on his phone.

Turns out this universe's Hikaru takes pretty meticulous notes about all his clients and classes, which makes it somewhat less stressful to consider going to a job he's never done in his life. Suzuki's already at the front desk when he arrives at the gym, talking to someone who must be one of their other trainers. "How's your eye?" she asks, peering at him over the sign-in book.

"Looks a lot worse than it feels, thankfully," he says. "Is my 9AM here?" Hikaru has training sessions with a few regulars in the morning, and then he's supposed to be teaching a few hybrid hip hop/acrobatics classes in the studio.

"Yup, Matsumoto-san's in the weight room."

It's surprisingly easy for Hikaru to get into the groove of this kind of work; he's still using his body, after all, and he's very familiar with gyms, with dance studios, and with patiently herding a much rowdier group of people into choreographed routines. In between lessons, he manages to fit in a few workouts of his own, appreciating the soothing mindlessness of repetitive motion. Lunch is a rushed bento that Suzuki ordered from a restaurant down the street, and the dance classes are a fun exercise in teaching full routines based on video recordings that Hikaru's only watched about three times. Minus the sparkly outfits, it really isn't all that different from another day at the jimusho.

Hikaru showers and clocks out around four, after the last college kids in his hip hop class have trickled from the studio. He remembers how to get to Fukka's elementary school, so he grabs a couple of iced teas from the cafe down the street from the gym and takes the train over to Miyamae. The same soccer club kids that were out on the field practicing yesterday are back at it again today when Hikaru arrives on campus. The rest of the school is much more populated; Hikaru walks by a bunch of students painting in the art room and some more reading in the library before he gets to the classroom that Fukka's holding court in.

"Brought you a drink," he says, depositing the cup on Fukka's desk. "When do you finish?"

"I still have to supervise the last half hour of club activities," he says, glancing at the kids engrossed in their origami creations. He takes a sip of the tea and grins around the straw. "If you stay quiet, you can sit in the back and wait."

Hikaru spends most of that time flipping through his YouTube suggestions, which are a mix of cool dance compilations and random Johnny's content. There's something totally surreal about watching videos that feel just left of reality. He's almost done with a video of Shoppi, Date-sama, Juri and Kyomoto playing 100yen games when one of Fukka's students raises her hand.

"Fukazawa-sensei," she whines, slumping over against her desk. "I can't get this frog to work."

Fukka circles around and pulls a chair up to her desk, gazing at the crumpled green paper in her little fists. "Why don't we backtrack, Emi-chan?" he says kindly, coaxing her tight fingers to unclench.

Together, they flatten the origami paper and figure out the remaining steps, Fukka asking careful guiding questions to lead her in the right direction. Emi-chan's so happy with her hopping frog that she immediately picks up a new sheet and starts working on a crane. One of the other students near the front of the room calls his name shortly thereafter, and Fukka floats over, leans down to squint at the book of instructions. A minute later, Fukka makes a silly face and the student starts laughing so hard he nearly falls out of his chair.

Hikaru's used to being the dependable one — he has to be, as the leader of his group — but when he falters, Fukka's always there to pick up the slack. He's been like that for so long now, quietly pushing everyone forward from the back, only drawing attention to himself to make a joke, that even Hikaru sometimes takes it for granted. It only makes sense that he does the same thing here, surrounded by children of a different kind.

"Hikaru," comes Fukka's voice, breaking through Hikaru's thoughts. Hikaru looks up to find the classroom empty and Fukka's belongings packed in his bag. "I'm done. Want to grab dinner in Shibuya?"

The crosswalks are jam packed when they step out of the train station; everyone seems excited that it's the weekend again so soon. They stop by Kinokuniya first to pick up a preorder Fukka's been waiting on and end up browsing for a while. Hikaru takes a photo of Fukka poring over the new summer stationery and sends it to the family group chat, captioned: Your present is already a hit!

On the way to the soba place, they pass a bus with huge ads for a new movie that Koji is going to be in, some serious-looking action-thriller. Hikaru thinks about Osomatsu-san and has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud. There are billboards hawking a Watanabe Shota fragrance line near 109, and one of the TVs in the restaurant starts playing a spot for The Files of Young Kindaichi right as they get seated.

"You look like you're about to explode," Fukka says, sounding amused.

Hikaru scans through the menu, gnawing on his thumb. "I just have so many questions," he says. "About everything." On screen, Shintaro and Sakuma are doing their best to sell him on a new corn-patty Mos Burger.

"Ask away," Fukka offers. "I'll try my best to answer."

There are plenty of more pressing matters Hikaru wants to discuss, but the first thing that comes out of his mouth is: "Who's the leader without me?"

"Sakuma," Fukka says. He manages to keep his face straight for about two seconds before dissolving into laughter. "Kidding, kidding. Kochi's leader of the group overall, but it's not really a formal role given that they do so much stuff in subunits anyway."

Hikaru nods. A waiter arrives at their table and notes their orders down, leaves them with cups of water to sip on. Hikaru runs his finger around the rim of his cup and asks, "Do we — do they still do kabuki every year?"

"Yeah, at Shinbashi, with a bunch of juniors," Fukka says. "We were actually invited to the last show this year. I think Ryota sent us tickets."

Hikaru's heart does a funny skip in his chest. He can't remember the last time he got to watch Takizawa Kabuki for himself. "Good to know," he says. "And how did Sunosuto debut?"

Fukka sighs, propping his chin in his hands. "After we left, things were pretty touch and go for a while. Losing half your remaining members… it wasn't easy for them, but they kept going. Takki cycled a bunch of other juniors through the lineup during butais, trying to find people who could fill in the missing pieces, and some of the Suto guys really stepped up. Shintaro and Juri got really good at the acrobatic stuff. What was it Sakuma always used to say?"

"Backflips are 90% courage," Hikaru says, tone perky, and Fukka laughs again.

"Right, exactly," he says. He sounds wistful. "They took it to heart, I guess. In 2015, Suto formally became its own subunit, and in 2018 Takki added Koji, Meguro, and Raul to Suno. He's always liked symmetry." Fukka shrugs as the waiter comes back with their soba and gyudon sets, rice steaming into Hikaru's face. "The double group debuted in 2019. The rest is history."

"I'm a little scared to watch the music videos," Hikaru admits. "I don't know how I'll feel."

"Maybe you'll get some new choreography ideas," Fukka points out. He's not wrong.

Hikaru takes a bite of his rice bowl and chews thoughtfully, letting the flavors mingle. Fukka digs into his soba, swirling the noodles into the dipping sauce before taking a huge bite. "Will you tell me how it happened?" Hikaru asks, watching Fukka's face. "You and me?"

Fukka inhales noodles wrong and ends up coughing for half a minute, Hikaru pounding on his back to dislodge anything blocking his airways. "There isn't that much to tell," Fukka rasps, flushed a blotchy pink.

Hikaru raises his eyebrows. "I find that hard to believe."

Fukka huffs. "After we decided to take a break from Johnny's, we ended up testing into the same college," he says. His ears are so red. It's pretty fucking adorable. "It made sense to room together close to campus, especially since your parents still lived in Saitama." He picks up one of his tempura shrimp and brandishes it with a flourish. "We lived in a tiny apartment in Meguro all four years."

"Very financially responsible," Hikaru says dutifully.

Fukka sends him a quelling look. "We might have stayed just roommates, but one night after final exams, we had a fight about… something stupid. It was definitely your fault—"

"Naturally," Hikaru says, grinning.

"I think you wanted to stay in, and I wanted to go out with our school friends, something like that." Fukka shakes his head, but a smile's starting to creep onto his face too. "You kissed me in the doorway," he says, eyes misting over. "And you said, so sulky, 'If you get to be stubborn about seeing other people, then I get to be stubborn about this. We'll see who wins.' Who was I to say no to that?" He chomps on the crunchy head of his tempura to punctuate the story. "We've been together ever since. Got married a few summers ago in New Zealand."

Hikaru sits back and swallows. "The other Hikaru is a lot braver than I am, huh," he says, tapping his chopsticks against his bowl. Fukka's eyes widen and then narrow; even the implication makes Hikaru's heart pound. "My Fukka," he adds, the possessive sticking in his throat. "He's not like you. I don't even know if he wants me back."

Fukka's quiet for a minute, inhaling the rest of his soba. "I can't tell you that every version of me is in love with you," he says eventually. "I can only tell you how I feel, which is that he'd be an idiot not to be." Hikaru makes a noise that's half laugh, half sigh, and Fukka leans over to pat his arm. "Besides. You were brave enough to hold onto your dreams, weren't you? That's not nothing."

Hikaru tilts his head. "Do you regret it? Leaving the company?"

Fukka hums. "Dreams change," he says. "They're not better or worse, just different. In this universe, we picked something else." You picked each other, Hikaru thinks, unspoken words reverberating in the air between them. "But I do wonder, sometimes, how things would've turned out if we'd stayed." He picks up another piece of tempura and points it at Hikaru. "You should tell me about it."

"Seems like a fair trade," Hikaru says lightly. As they finish their food, he explains Abe-chan's six month hiatus and subsequent return, how Takki gave them the name Snow Man during their first kabuki run back together as six, the way it felt to watch kouhai debut in group after group before they finally got their chance.

By the time they've paid and left, Fukka's on the lookout for the best dessert options in the area and Hikaru's explaining the shape of their schedule, the relentless cycle of spring stage shows and summer promotions and fall tours. "Sounds busy," Fukka says, peering up at a big sign for an ice cream store.

"Busy feels good after the lean years," Hikaru says, and Fukka makes a noise of acknowledgement. "Like — kabuki season is always during our birthdays, but even if we don't have the time for elaborate celebrations, we try to make things fun." Hikaru thinks about the FC video they recorded on the turning stage and Raul happily smashing cake in Fukka's face. He thinks about Fukka's skinny shoulders in his bathrobe, and the two of them lying across the futons in their dressing room and poring over their notes, feeling like the only people still awake in the entire city. "We were running lines together on Wednesday," Hikaru says slowly, each word a heavy weight on his tongue, "and you asked me if you thought we'd still be doing this when we were forty."

Fukka meets his gaze with interest. "What did you say?"

"I said I hoped so, and then I—" Hikaru scrubs his face with his hands, eyes darting off into the middle distance. "I kissed you. All you did was stare at me, so I panicked and apologized. I said it wouldn't happen again. I promised. And then I ran away like an idiot."

"Hikaru," Fukka says. When Hikaru looks back, the expression on Fukka's face is terribly kind.

Hikaru shakes his head. "I was too scared to say how I really felt, and now I'm here, so who knows if I'll ever be able to?" He tries to smile. "You think I should get Akira-kun to kick me in the face again and see if that works?"

"Please don't," Fukka says. "Let's not flirt unnecessarily with minor head trauma. You'll find a way back."

Hikaru wishes he had that confidence. "What will you do if I can't?" he asks, trying not to sound too freaked out by the prospect, which has been lurking in the back of his mind all day. "Surely you want your actual husband back."

"Of course I do, but you're important too," Fukka says, like it's that simple. "You're still Hikaru." After a moment, he loops their arms together and tugs Hikaru toward the Godiva store halfway down the block. They're salivating over the glass cases of truffles when Fukka nudges Hikaru's side with his elbow and murmurs, "If you get too worried about it, we could always ask Sakuma for advice."

That startles a real laugh out of Hikaru. "The isekai expert, huh. I don't know if I'm quite that desperate yet."

Fukka laughs too, warm against Hikaru's shoulder. "A last resort, then."

That night, Hikaru sleeps better than he has in months. His dreams are full of chocolates dancing along to Snow Man's discography; it isn't the weirdest thing he's ever dreamt of, but he wakes up with a sour aftertaste in his mouth and his nose pressed into Fukka's hair. He lets himself linger for a minute, breathing in the smell of clean pine and fabric softener, eyes shut against the gray light slanting through the blinds.

Fukka made it clear before bed that Saturdays are his days for general laziness and not doing anything. Conversely, Hikaru has a full day of work lined up through mid-afternoon. Once his bladder's needs grow too loud to ignore, he slowly disentangles himself from Fukka's limbs and gets ready for the day. Clothes, bathroom, kitchen for coffee, water bottle and work bag. A little scary how easy it is to settle into a new routine, but then again, some things the body just remembers.

It's overcast outside, but Hikaru manages to make it to the gym before the rain really starts. Aside from the two-minute explanation about his eye that he has to give to every curious client, the personal training sessions go forward as planned. He tries some new stuff during his noon hip hop class, taking a break from choreography to start his students on some basic flexibility and core exercises. "This will help if you ever want the mobility to do more complicated acrobatics," he says, launching from a simple wheel pose into a back handspring to illustrate his point.

A lot of the dancers that come through the studio are pretty bendy already, but some of them find it more challenging than others. "You think I'll ever be able to do a flip?" Yumi asks, reaching for her toes and barely grazing her ankles. Her stiffness could give Shoppi a run for his money.

"Everyone starts somewhere," he says, helping her roll out her lower back, and then goes to grab her an exercise ball.

When he gets home around five, the rain's lightened up to a wispy drizzle. Fukka's still lounging around in his pajamas, flipping through a volume of Tokyo Revengers. It's not until he asks what Hikaru wants to do for dinner that Hikaru remembers that he's ostensibly supposed to be the one luring Fukka out for the birthday stuff their friends planned.

"We have to go to… a place… for a thing… at seven," Hikaru says. Not his best work.

"Another surprise party, is it?" Fukka inquires, arching an eyebrow, and starts cackling at the hangdog look Hikaru sends him. "I'll pretend like I didn't know anything about it."

Hikaru sighs. "Make it convincing."

"Won't be hard, I'm a much better liar than you are." Fukka hikes himself off the couch and fluffs his hair, back cracking as he stretches. "This is a lot of fanfare for a gracefully aging schoolteacher, you know."

"You only turn thirty once."

"That's true of every age," Fukka protests, but he disappears to shower and takes the next hour after that to get ready anyway. Hikaru's chest clenches as he ducks into the bathroom to wash his face and watches Fukka spray liberal amounts of product in his hair and carefully slide his contacts in. Impossible not to think about the countless times they've been in this exact same position, dabbing on makeup in between numbers.

Sushi Izumi's a few train rides away. The restaurant doesn't look like much on the outside, but the inside is cozy and inviting. A few of their old friends from high school and college are already there, and Fukka's apparently great pals with the chef, because they've got the entire place to themselves. Fukka makes all the appropriate noises of astonishment, mentions something about Hikaru proposing a quiet night out, and Hikaru explains the source of his bruised eye for the nth time in the past three days.

Abe arrives at exactly seven on the dot, loaded down with the matcha cheesecake and a bunch of gift bags and wrapped boxes. "As usual, Sakuma sent all of the guys' presents with Ryohei Couriers," he explains, rolling his eyes. "They want you to wait to open them till after the late show, apparently they're going to call in."

"Demanding," Fukka says, indulgent, and gets sucked into the first toast of the evening a moment later.

Relaxed omakase is the vibe; each bite is fresh and flavorful, and the sake flows freely. Sanche of all people shows up near the tail end of dinner, which makes Hikaru choke on his shima aji. "You're the one who works with him, but I was definitely his favorite," Fukka whispers under his breath, before hopping off his stool and dancing toward the choreographer with enthusiasm. Of course Fukka's well-loved in any universe — and that was always part of the problem, wasn't it? It always felt like Fukka, surrounded by the adoring masses, didn't need Hikaru the way Hikaru needed him. It always felt like Fukka had it all figured out, and Hikaru was just along for the ride.

Hikaru turns away from the scene to find Abe enjoying a course of thick-cut sashimi. "Hikaru," Abe says, lifting a slice of toro as cheers. "Black eye aside, you look well."

"So do you," Hikaru says. Abe's dressed in a smart-looking suit, hair pushed back off his forehead, so he seems to have found a good gig even without the idol thing. "How's work been?"

"What, you mean you don't watch me do the weather report twice a day?" Abe says, grinning. "Hii-kun, I'm hurt."

Hikaru laughs. "We watch the Abe-chan special all the time," he says, because it's probably true. "I'm sure that isn't the whole picture, though." The conversation quickly devolves into something about possible heat waves in the summer and a frankly depressing treatise on climate change, Abe's PhD research, but it does help Hikaru take his mind off other things.

When Fukka rejoins them with a slice of cheesecake, he asks about a cosplay Instagram, which is how Hikaru learns about weather reporter Abe Ryohei's side project that went viral a few years ago. "Sakuma's influence, I assume," he says, scrolling through the photos with interest. "This Deku outfit is pretty sick."

"I'd be lying if I said Sakkun didn't have something to do with it," Abe says, shaking his head. As if on cue, a FaceTime call comes in on Abe's phone, making it buzz across the sushi counter. "Speak of the devil."

He passes the phone off to Fukka, who waltzes over to the table piled high with all the presents and starts ripping them open. There's a very expensive Rolex from Shota, and Miyadate's sent a pair of limited edition Dunk Lows in a purple colorway. Jesse's present involves way too many tassels for Hikaru to understand; Kochi got Fukka a beautiful set of fancy chopsticks. "Sakkun and I pitched in on a super nice gaming chair," he hears Shintaro say. "Should be coming in the mail for you any day now. We'll send you the tracking information."

"And what the hell am I supposed to do with the perfectly serviceable one I already have?" Fukka asks, sounding exasperated but also pleased. When Hikaru slides over and peers into the screen, the familiar background of Sakuma's dressing room at Shinbashi spins by. His stomach flips so viscerally that he has to steady himself on the back of Fukka's chair for a moment.

"Hikaru, heeeey," Sakuma says, waving excitedly. "Say, you guys are coming to see us on closing night, right? You got the tickets Date-sama sent?"

The yes sticks in Hikaru's throat. "I still have to see if I can get the afternoon off," Fukka replies smoothly. "We'll try, though."

Before Sakuma hangs up, Koji and Raul pop briefly into frame to say hello, bowing low and sending their well wishes. It's deeply weird to see them so polite, but then again, they were never really in the same group in this universe. Hikaru's technically just one of their choreographers now. He bites back the urge to coo something about how tall Raul's gotten and just waves until Sakuma ends the call.

Abe has to leave for some work thing after dinner — "Typhoon season truly never waits for anyone, sorry!" — but their college friends coax them into more drinks at the izakaya down the street. For someone who really hasn't gotten demonstrably drunk since his early twenties, Hikaru manages to do a pretty good job matching them shot for shot. Fukka gets louder and looser as the night progresses, eyes bright over cheap beer and half-eaten plates of gyoza, easing into Hikaru's bubble like it's nothing. And for them, the versions of them that exist in this reality, it must be nothing. Hikaru lets himself enjoy the touching for what it is — not for the cameras or a crowd, not for any sort of invisible audience, but just because he wants to.

It's almost midnight by the time everyone pours back onto the street, still talking and laughing. "Drink lots of water before bed, old man!" someone calls as they totter away, leaning into each other.

Fukka waves a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "Your birthday's next, idiot!"

They manage to make the last train back to the apartment, but it's raining again on the walk home from the station. They duck underneath a conbini awning to keep the presents dry and wait out the worst of the downpour. A car emerges from the gloom, water spraying up from the curb, Hikaru moves on reflex, arms closing around Fukka to rotate him away from the splash zone. He's warm in the circle of Hikaru's embrace, amid the smell of dust rising off the wet pavement. They stand like that for one breath, two, and then Hikaru ducks his head to tuck his face in Fukka's neck, mouth brushing against the delicate skin above his pulse point. Electricity lances down Hikaru's spine.

Fukka lets it happen for one long minute, squeezing Hikaru's shoulders, and then eases back. His hand slides down; their fingers tangle. "You should do these things with your Fukka," he says gently.

He's right, of course. Hikaru can't even really be mad about it. "Sorry," he croaks, mouth full of gravel.

"Don't be," Fukka says, tilting his head against Hikaru's shoulder. A few moments later, the rain slows down to a drizzle. "Come on. We can make it back now."

Hikaru's dreams are jumbled and disjointed that night, and he has to wake up to pee like three times. Sunday's slow and rainy, both of them nursing spectacular hangovers with varying degrees of success. Hikaru makes them instant ramen for a late lunch and vegetates on the couch with Friday's episode of Shounen Club, trying to pick out all the tiny differences in songs and promotional cycles between universes, like the world's most difficult game of Where's Wally. In the evening, they sort through mail, and Hikaru helps Fukka rip newspaper into strips to prepare for the papier-mâché projects that the craft club's going to be tackling over the next month.

The first half of the new week involves the same routine Hikaru's become accustomed to in the short time that he's been here. They wake up in the same bed and don't talk about it when Hikaru's morning wood brushes against Fukka's thigh or when Fukka ends up wrapped up around him in the night. There's no time to, anyway — school is a full day affair, and they're both too tired to do much besides eat dinner and crash when they get home.

On Tuesday, the gaming chair gets dropped off, along with a long and enthusiastic note from Sakuma with the usual amount of exclamation points. With some effort, they get it moved into the guest bedroom, where Fukka's PC setup reigns supreme. Wednesday morning before work, Kiko stops by with her late present, which turns out to be AirPods with a custom monogrammed case. "I brought your gift too, but don't open it till your actual birthday," she says, wagging a finger in Hikaru's face.

"I'll make sure of it," Fukka says on his way out the door, serious as Hikaru's ever seen him, and sticks his tongue out when Hikaru groans theatrically.

Thursday morning Hikaru checks his online calendar and finds it completely booked with one engagement that's just titled Jimusho. The address is Johnny's HQ; a cursory Internet search reveals that there are no kabuki shows today, which probably means Hikaru's meant to be going into the office and working on new choreography with the guys.

The timing feels right enough. In his universe, they've already started working on the moves that Hikaru developed for Orange Kiss. Of course, Orange Kiss isn't a Snow Man song here — apparently Hirano Sho is playing the firefighter in the movie, so King & Prince has the promotional single. Instead, Suno and Suto are releasing double A-sides in Party People and Juicy before they each come out with new albums. Hikaru listens to the tracks on his phone on the train ride into the city. There are already rudimentary videos for six and twelve-person choreography saved on his phone from previous brainstorming sessions, but certain sections of the dances could use some work.

When he arrives at the station outside the office, he's already filled three more pages in his notebook with ideas for formations. Sanche meets him in the practice studio on the fourth floor with his team of dancers, and they immediately launch into the choreography. This part is deeply familiar: retooling transitions, thinking through how the formations will look to the cameras, the mirrors fogging up with sweat, the clean burn in his legs. "So the choruses can be sort of like a call and response with these hand movements," Hikaru says, chewing on a fingernail. "This would be a fun joint stage to do at a concert, actually."

"That's the goal," Sanche says, shuffling everyone into formation. "Let's run it back."

By the time they've ironed out most of the kinks, it's noon, and the talent's starting to trickle in. "Geez, Hikaru," Sakuma says, making a beeline straight for him. "Your eye looks a lot gnarlier in person than it did on the phone over the weekend."

Meguro slouches in behind him. After a minute of squinting at the bruise, he murmurs, "Guys like us look cooler when we're injured, don't we," and Hikaru bites his lip around a smile. At this point, the deja vu is more comforting than it is unsettling.

Once everyone's arrived, they make quick work of the choreography for Juicy. Party People is a little rougher around the edges; even without six extra people in the background, SixTONES has never been the most polished dance group in the company. Hikaru has to step in a few times to demonstrate individual parts during the verses. "Like this," he says, launching into the lyrics as the music plays.

"Whoa, Iwamoto-sensei," Juri says, whistling. "That sounds great. Been working on your rapping?"

"Something like that," Hikaru says, snapping his fingers. "Now try it again."

Since last Thursday, when Fukka first told him that they'd left Johnny's, part of Hikaru has felt kind of untethered from reality. He's aware that it's not the healthiest mindset, but sometimes that's just how things are: when you mold yourself so completely around a singular identity from such a young age, it's pretty difficult to conceive of a life outside of it. He's beginning to understand that he maybe shouldn't have worried. Even if he isn't an idol anymore, even if he only goes into the Johnny's office once every few weeks, Hikaru's still doing things he loves. He still gets to dance and teach and watch Sakuma try to incorporate a shirt lift into every single move he throws at him. He still goes home to a Fukka that loves him back, and doesn't that matter more?

That night, over leftover takeout curry from the day before, Fukka asks, "How was it today, working on choreo?"

Hikaru thinks about Shota and Kyomoto practicing their high notes in the back, and Raul trying to fit himself into Meguro's lap whenever they were taking a break, and Shintaro spending half the time grabbing Hokuto's feet. "Weird, but good," he says. Both songs are going to be stuck in his head for a while. "They should be ready for Music Station in a few weeks, at least." He swallows a mouthful of rice and looks up. "Do you wanna go to kabuki next Monday?"

Fukka smiles. "Yeah, let's do it," he says. "I've had the time off for weeks."

They watch the weather forecast — Abe predicts clear skies through the weekend, but points out another stormfront brewing in the southeast that could pass through Tokyo early next week — and then unwind with a few episodes of Yamada Ryosuke's new office drama. Afterwards, when he goes to the bedroom to change into his sleep clothes, two suitcases are sitting open on the floor, half-packed. "What are these for?" Hikaru asks, nudging one of them with his foot.

"Well, I had a pre-planned vacation for your birthday already booked this weekend, and it felt like a waste to cancel everything." Fukka rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "We don't have to go if you don't feel—"

"No, let's," Hikaru interrupts. He'd feel a little bad about co-opting the other Hikaru's vacation time, but he hasn't gone on a private trip since 2019. He's pretty sure this Hikaru would understand, given the circumstances. "When do we leave?"

Friday afternoon, Hikaru takes the train after work to pick up the rental car. He drives home to find Fukka outside the apartment building with their bags, huge sunglasses and visor at the ready. "Where should I navigate?" Hikaru asks as he climbs in.

Fukka buckles his seatbelt and consults his phone. "Fuji-Q Highland." Hikaru turns his face into his elbow and starts chuckling. "What?"

"Nothing," he says, punching it into his GPS and pulling away from the curb. "It's just — we've already done this trip in my timeline."

"The two of us? Alone? In private?" Fukka sends him a sharp sideways glance. "Hikaru…"

"I know, I know," Hikaru says, hands flexing around the steering wheel. "I get it."

"Do you really?" Fukka adjusts his seat further back and exhales slowly. Hikaru's merging onto the freeway when Fukka crosses his arms and asks, "What are you so scared of?"

Hikaru doesn't do him the disservice of pretending to misunderstand. "Are you kidding? So many things." He chews on his lip, trying to figure out where to even start. "I'm scared of fucking it up," he says slowly. "I'm scared of upsetting the delicate balance of everything we've built together on a flight of fancy. I'm afraid of telling you how I feel and getting rejected and nothing ever being the same again. I'm terrified of being wrong about us, and failing, and the possibility of losing my best friend." He shakes his head, face hot, throat tight. "I spent so long thinking that I couldn't have everything I wanted, that I should just be happy with what I had — and coming here, it's helped in some ways, but… we literally had to leave the company before we figured our shit out. That doesn't inspire a lot of confidence in me."

He's out of breath by the time the words finish pouring out of him. The sun's reached that point in its westward descent where its rays are shooting straight into his watering eyes, and he sags back in his seat to avoid the light. Even though this isn't his Fukka, getting everything out of his system makes it feel like a massive weight's been lifted off his chest. Without the seatbelt in the way, he might just float straight out of the car.

"Okay, wow," Fukka says at last. He sounds kind of winded too. "Lots to unpack."

Hikaru lets out a short bark of a laugh. "Yeah, tell me about it."

Fukka reaches into the backseat of the car for a plastic bag filled with combini snacks and plucks out a box of strawberry Pocky, ripping into it with gusto. "You understand that being together isn't a destination, right?" he says, after a minute of furious chewing. "It's a journey. One that the two of you have been on for over half your lives at this point, whether you want to acknowledge it out loud or not." Hikaru opens his mouth, and Fukka smacks his arm. "No, let me finish. You can stick your head in the sand as much as you want, but I don't think that's made you very happy so far. And I can tell you this for sure — if your Fukka feels anything like I do, I don't think he's all that happy about it either."

Hikaru sucks in a deep breath, exhales it all out again. "You make it sound so simple."

"Well, it's not," Fukka mutters. Hikaru shoots him a surprised glance and Fukka makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and waves a stick of Pocky in his face. "Look, just because we're married doesn't mean we never have to work at it. I mean, shit, Hikaru, I hate that you have to work a lot of weekends because that's my only time off, and you hate that most weekdays I'm too drained from teaching to do more than hole away in the office and shoot a bunch of people's virtual heads off to unwind. We bicker about stupid things like where to eat for dinner and argue about important things like where to invest our savings. And every day it sucks like hell that we live in a country where the flimsy piece of paper we got in New Zealand doesn't really mean anything." He shrugs, spreading his hands. "But that's life. Those are just things we have to deal with. It's hard fucking work, being together, but it's worth it to me. It's worth it to us." He shoves another Pocky stick in his mouth, voice softening. "It'll look different for you, if that's what you decide you want, but since when have you ever been afraid to work hard?"

Hikaru eases his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, staring off into the traffic ahead. "What if we work at it, and it still falls apart?"

Fukka clicks his tongue, impatient. "Have some more faith in yourselves," he says, vehement again. "Have some more faith in Snow Man. If all of that could come tumbling down because of a tiny gust of wind, you didn't build it very well, did you?"

He's not wrong. "I didn't say they were all rational fears," Hikaru huffs. Sometimes you're just… afraid of something for so long that the longevity itself lends legitimacy to the fear.

"I know," Fukka allows. He props his elbow up against the shoulder of Hikaru's seat. "I just think — dreams don't have to be in conflict with each other, you know? You can have all the things you want. I really believe that. You'll just have to convince yourself that that's true."

Hikaru hums, drumming his fingers against the wheel. He does feel a little better already, though who knows how long that'll last. "Fukka might need more convincing," he says, grinning when Fukka makes an affronted sound. "You can be pretty stubborn."

"Shut up," Fukka says, smacking his arm. "Here I am, trying to help you out of the kindness of my heart, and this is the thanks I get?"

Hikaru laughs. "Been holding all of that in for a while, have you?"

"So long," Fukka groans. "Sometimes you're just so… yourself."

When the Pocky's finished, Fukka plugs his phone into the USB drive and starts playing music on shuffle. The Sunosuto songs that come up are mostly recognizable even with the parts assigned to different people, and Hikaru sings along until his throat feels hoarse. He trails off after the last ringing notes of D.D., awash in a sea of memory. "If I can't get back…" he starts, squinting into the orange sunset, and can't really finish the sentence. Hikaru's used to knowing how to solve most problems; at the very least, he understands the shape of them. Figuring out how to return to his timeline is something else altogether.

"Don't worry about that right now," Fukka says, which might be the most actionable advice Hikaru's heard all week. "Let's just go enjoy our vacation."

True to form, Fukka passes out halfway through the ride and doesn't wake up until they arrive at the foot of the mountain around dinner time. The last time Hikaru was here, they'd stayed at a hotel a bit further away, but this time Fukka's booked them a room at the resort right next to the amusement park. They get upgraded to a suite on the third floor with a beautiful view of Fujiyama, and there's a luxurious onsen next door that they get free admission to as part of their package.

Soaking in the baths takes up most of that first night. "Gotta be relaxed to ride all the rides tomorrow," Fukka says, laughing when Hikaru submerges half his face in the water and sighs, bubbles erupting from his mouth. "Not a fan?"

"Surely you already know," Hikaru grumbles.

They get up bright and early in the morning, wolf down complimentary breakfast, and hustle over to Fuji-Q. Hikaru's more interested in getting some taiyaki and sweet crepes and taking it easy, but the truth is he's already been here multiple times, so this is mostly for Fukka's benefit. They head to Eejanaika first thing, Hikaru's heart in his throat with every twist and turn, and then circle back around to wait in the line for Takabisha.

Fukka grabs his hand at the very top of the coaster, palms sweaty. "When we recorded this for Sunotube," Hikaru mutters, “Abe-chan started reciting the digits of pi because he was so nervous." Fukka cackles through the drop, cheered by the intensity. He snorts at the look on Hikaru's face afterwards and snaps a lot of photos to add to his personal collection of the most horrible Hikaru expressions. "I'm glad you're having fun at least," Hikaru says, clutching his stomach dramatically, but he really is happy Fukka's enjoying himself. After the weird week they've had, he deserves it.

They do end up grabbing crepes on the way to the Fujiyama ride, and Fukka gets them matching tiger headbands to wear around for the rest of the afternoon, through the Evangelion pavilion and the haunted Labyrinth of Fear that Hikaru definitely isn't going to have nightmares about. In the evening, they go back to the onsen, steaming in the sauna until they're pink and warmed from the inside out.

Hikaru's fingers itch on the way back to their room; Fukka in a yukata isn't something he gets to see every day, and it would be so easy to slide his hands into the open collar and push the fabric off his shoulders, press his face into the shadow of his clavicle. You should do this with your Fukka, Fukka told him last weekend, but what if this is it? The ethics of cross-universe fucking elude him. But if Hikaru's stuck here forever, it wouldn't be wrong to consummate their marriage again, right?

"I know what you're thinking," Fukka says, eyeing him in the bathroom. His mouth's twitching around his toothbrush, and his gaze is fond.

"What?" Hikaru says, trying not to sound too guilty.

"Please. You think I haven't seen Hikaru's horny face a billion times?" Fukka spits in the sink and brushes his hand across Hikaru's neck. When Hikaru shivers, Fukka's eyebrows rise as if to say, I told you so. "I know you, and I know you'll regret not waiting."

"Ugh," Hikaru says. It's a new experience, being in a room alone with a Fukka that he knows wants him back just as much, but not being able to do anything about it. "You're punishing yourself too, you know."

"With the worst blue balls," Fukka confirms. "One of us has to be the responsible one." He doesn't sound too cut up about it, and he does let Hikaru nestle against his lap beneath the covers, the television playing on low volume, so that's something. He falls asleep with Fukka's hands carding gently through his hair.

Early Sunday morning, they shrug on their thickest coats, meet up with the guide Fukka hired halfway up the Fujinomiya trail, and start the hike up to the summit. The skies are clear and the view is stunning on the climb. It's the tail end of cherry blossom season, so the winking lakes down below are still surrounded by a sea of pink boughs, dancing in the wind. It's icy cold past the eighth station, and the air thins dramatically as they stamp past the shimmering snowdrifts, but they strap crampons onto their shoes and make it to the top a little after noon.

"My legs are already sore," Fukka complains beneath the torii gate, "I won't be able to move tomorrow," but he can't wipe the grin off his face when the guide takes their pictures.

Before their descent, Hikaru makes his way to a rocky outcropping, cups his hands around his mouth, and yells into the stiff breeze. The wind immediately snatches his voice and tosses it back, reverberating against the bright snow.

"Feel better?" Fukka asks, bumping their shoulders together.

"Much," Hikaru says, exhaling through his nose. It's beautiful up here — quiet, serene, transcendent. His problems seem so far away, so insignificant in the face of all this. No matter where he finds himself, he'll always have this moment to hold close.

When they get back to Tokyo, they're both bone-tired, staggering into the house and leaving their belongings in the living room to deal with later. Monday morning, Hikaru drags himself out of bed and manages to make it to work with enough spare time to engage Suzuki in a spirited debate about the merits of participating in the casting calls for the next seasons of Sasuke versus Street Dance of China.

His eye has healed enough that no one really makes any mention of it anymore during his personal training sessions, and his dance students are full of energy. It's only been a week, but Yumi's wheel pose has already improved dramatically. "Keep working at it, and you'll be doing a back handspring in no time," Hikaru says, helping her up at the end of class.

He leaves the studio early in the afternoon, changing into nice clothes before taking the train to Shinbashi. Fukka's already waiting outside the theater with their tickets when Hikaru walks up. He automatically starts heading toward the back entrance, but Fukka grabs his hand and tugs him in the opposite direction. "We gotta go this way."

"Right," Hikaru says, face flushing. Ryota's gotten them prime seats in the first row; his pulse is racing as they get seated. He doesn't know why he feels so nervous. He's not even the one performing.

Scrolling through his phone before curtains, Hikaru sends Break a leg! into a LINE chat with all the old members. Sakuma's reply is immediate: two photos, one of him in the sakura suit, and another with as many Sunosuto members he can fit into frame. So glad you're here! Shota sends a few minutes after. Hikaru's chest squeezes tight. He can't even be mad that they're clearly looking at their phones right before they're supposed to be on stage.

Shintaro's playing Shinkichi opposite Kyomoto's Omaru-san, which is a casting Hikaru isn't going to forget any time soon. He's fully immersed by the time they get to the aerial silks — Sakuma and Date-sama are both in the little spinny hoops here — and Fukka doesn't complain about Hikaru crushing his hand through the entire henmen routine. He hums along to all the songs he knows and jams the ones he doesn't; he gasps with the rest of the audience during the appropriate moments. Shoppi and Juri's brotherly antics make him laugh out loud. He knows exactly how the story goes, but his heart still leaps into his throat when Raul has to fight Koji and Meme and Jesse after his betrayal.

And the grand finale — well. On a normal day, he can never make it through With Love without tearing up just a little bit. Fukka passes him a tissue as the lights come back on, and Hikaru blows his nose as discreetly as he can. "How was it?" Fukka asks.

"Really excellent," Hikaru admits. "Kabuki's in good hands."

Fukka regards him quietly as the rest of the audience starts leaving their seats. "But…"

"But I miss it like crazy," he says, letting out a deep breath. There are some things even time won't be able to change, and the yearning tug in his stomach is one of them. "We should go talk to Sakuma."

Fukka nods, like he expected as much. He reaches a hand out, and Hikaru takes it. The staff seem to know to let them backstage after everyone else has exited the theater, because they don't get stopped on their way toward the dressing rooms. "You came!" Shota says, slinging an arm around Hikaru's shoulders.

"Another great season in the books," Kochi says, roaming around giving everyone back pats and sweaty hugs.

Once all the gladhanding's over, and after several rounds of celebratory champagne, Fukka pulls Sakuma down the hallway and into one of the empty dressing rooms. "Sakkun, we need your help," he says, sharing an apprehensive glance with Hikaru. "Don't freak out, but we need to explain the black eye Hikaru got a little more."

To his credit, Sakuma listens to the whole story with tremendous attentiveness, as serious as Hikaru's ever seen him, and doesn't interject until Hikaru's done. "I knew something was up when I saw you on Thursday," he says afterwards, pushing his sweaty bangs out of his eyes. "You were acting really strange with everyone."

"What? Strange how?" Hikaru flips through his mental rolodex of interactions over the past week and a half and comes up empty. "I thought I did an okay job."

"Trust me," Sakuma says, oddly intense. "When you know, you know."

"That's not the point," Fukka says, before they can get too derailed. "Sakuma, can you actually help?"

"Hmm," Sakuma says, rubbing his chin. "Isekai, huh. Blurred universes… you haven't noticed any abnormal forces of evil at play in this reality, have you?" Hikaru shakes his head. "Okay, so defeating a big bad villain is out. Maybe it's one of those 'you have to learn something about yourself' scenarios. Have you tried kissing someone?" Fukka immediately turns a faint pink. Hikaru shakes his head again, less certain, and Sakuma taps his mouth thoughtfully. "The Sleeping Beauty method could be worth a shot. Or — actually, wait a second, Jesse also invited Tsuyoshi-kun to come watch today. Let me go find him."

Sakuma disappears in a blur before either of them can get another word in edgewise. Hikaru blinks at Fukka. "Tsuyoshi? Like, Kinki Kids Tsuyoshi?"

"I think so? Who else could it be?"

Hikaru blinks again. "How is he going to help?"

Fukka throws his arms up in the air. "Beats me."

All of five minutes later, Sakuma barrels back into the room with his hands full. "It took me a while to drag him away from Jesse, but I succeeded in the end," he says, flushed with the taste of victory. "I got him to draw a quick talisman for you. I think technically it's supposed to help with casting out demons, which is kind of relevant? No offense, Hikaru. Anyway, try hanging this up in the house tonight."

"Oookay," Fukka says, accepting the thin sheet of parchment that Sakuma offers. He points at Sakuma's other hand. "What's with the rock?"

"Ah, right," Sakuma says. "When I told him about the scrambled realities, he gave me this crystal, too. He said it has space-time-continuum reorientation properties or something."

Hikaru takes the amber-colored crystal from him, nonplussed. For a second, it does seem to pulse a little in his palm, but Hikaru can't be sure that isn't just the alcohol talking. "He just happened to have this with him?" Fukka asks, equally baffled. Before Sakuma can respond, Fukka raises his hand and stops him. "You know what, the less questions we ask, the better."

Sakuma laughs. "It couldn't hurt to try." He claps Hikaru's shoulder. "And if it works, well. Say hi to the other Sakuma for me, Hikaru."

Hikaru huffs. "Will do."

It's a little past eleven by the time they get back to the apartment. Hikaru soaks in the bath until his fingers are wrinkled; he brushes his teeth with his yellow toothbrush and pulls on his sleep clothes. The fogged-up mirror reveals the fuzziest outline of his face. When he wipes off the condensation, his eye is almost entirely healed, the last of the bruise blending in with his dark circles.

In the bedroom, Fukka's hung the talisman over the headboard. The crystal's sitting on the smooth wood of the end table on Hikaru's side of the bed. "Come here," Fukka says, patting the empty space next to him.

Hikaru crawls into the sheets, warmth thrumming through his chest. "What if it doesn't work?"

"Then we wake up tomorrow and try again," Fukka murmurs. He turns to face him, and Hikaru does the same. Their breath mingles in the space between them, and they just look at each other for a minute, taking in each other's features. Fukka breaks eye contact first, glancing at the wall behind Hikaru's back. The corner of his mouth lifts. "Hey, it's midnight."

"Is it?"

"Yeah," Fukka says, leaning forward. Hikaru gasps when their lips brush; he doesn't make any move to deepen the kiss, but the brief press is enough to send heat spiraling down into his stomach. When Fukka pulls back, his eyes are glittering. "Happy birthday. I hope the crystal works. Or the talisman. Or both."

Hikaru exhales, breath slowing. "Me too," he says. A week and a half was enough to fall in love with the life they've built together in this alternate reality, but at the end of the day, it's not his to live. "Sorry for forcing you to be my therapist for a week."

Fukka chuckles sleepily. "Don't be sorry. Clearly you needed it."

Hikaru slides his eyes shut. Underneath the sheets, he twists his fingers around the ring on his left hand, feeling the edges of the metal press into skin. "Fukka."

"Yeah?"

"We're happy here, right?"

Another chuckle, light as air, puffs across Hikaru's forehead. "We are," Fukka says. His voice sounds like it's coming from far down a deep tunnel, echoing a little in Hikaru's ears. "And I know you will be, too."

The day starts out like any other during kabuki season, which is to say: hectic. Hikaru wakes up with a wild jolt, in a blessedly familiar bed in a blessedly familiar apartment, and immediately reaches for his phone to check the date. May 16th blinks back at him, half past nine in the morning, which means it's the last day of shows and he's running late. He doesn't have time to wallow in the tidal wave of relief crashing over his head — if he doesn't leave the house soon, he's going to miss the morning coffee run.

Ten minutes later, Hikaru sweeps through the back entrance of Shinbashi like a hurricane, blowing past Kobayashi while calling, "Iced latte, please," and nearly runs into Sakuma, who ducks to avoid the brunt of Hikaru's forward velocity.

"He sure is on the warpath today," he hears Abe comment before he slides the door to his dressing room open and slams it shut behind him. Fukka looks up from the low table, hot mug of tea in his hands, a startled expression on his face.

"Fukka," Hikaru says, breathing hard. "It's me. Sorry, I know I said I wouldn't be late again."

Fukka blinks for a few seconds, sets the mug of tea further down the table, and then slumps over to press his face into the smooth wood. "Oh my god. You're back."

"You'll never believe what happened to me," Hikaru says, stepping forward and plopping down cross-legged.

"Don't be so sure," Fukka says, eyes wild, "because you woke up after your fall saying a lot of weird things, and I basically had to secretly reteach you the entire show during the emergency Friday that we took off."

They stare at each other for a long moment, letting the reality of the situation sink in. Then Hikaru starts laughing, can't figure out how to stop, chest tight and warm. Fukka buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking too. They're going to have to send some sort of anonymous gift basket to Tsuyoshi for Christmas this year. Conversely, this universe's Sakuma should probably never find out that isekai is real, lest they be hounded about it forever.

When they've caught their breaths, Fukka shakes his head and reaches for his tea. "Let's never do that again, okay?" he says, taking a fortifying sip. "I really thought you'd gone crazy for a minute. Traumatic brain injury isn't a joke." Hikaru snorts. "What?"

"Sorry, it's just something the other version of you said," Hikaru says. Briefly, he wonders how that universe is holding up. Hopefully they're doing alright.

"Did he…" Fukka makes a face, like he's trying to figure out how to end the question. "The other Hikaru, he told me that in the other universe… he mentioned something about New Zealand."

"Yeah," Hikaru says, exhaling slowly. "We're married there."

The pronouncement sits between them for a minute, during which Kobayashi opens the door to their dressing room and holds out an iced latte. "Coffee delivery."

"Thanks," Hikaru says, leaning back to grab it from him. When the door slides shut again, he takes a long sip and then a deep, grounding breath. "Fukka."

Fukka tilts his head. "Yes?"

"On your birthday, you asked me whether you thought we would still be doing all this when we were forty." Hikaru chews on his straw, fiddling with the plastic cap. "I hope we do. I hope we get to do kabuki together till we're forty — hell, even when we're fifty, if our knees haven't given out on us entirely yet." Fukka laughs, eyes dancing. "And we don't have to get married and all that in this universe, but I did want you to know, in case I ever just disappear on you again, that I want us to be together in every way that matters."

"Hikaru," Fukka says. His throat bobs as he swallows.

"I was too scared to tell you before, because I thought — I don't know. I don't even know what I thought." Hikaru shrugs helplessly. Everything he could say just seems like a stupid, flimsy excuse now. "I thought saying something might ruin everything we had, because I didn't think you wanted the same thing."

"I do want that," Fukka says, sounding adamant. He looks pained, like he's just eaten something incredibly sour. Hikaru wants to reach up and smooth the wrinkle in his brow, wants to kiss that look away, but he doesn't know if he's allowed.

"Really?" he asks, a little choked.

Fukka sighs. "Hikaru, I've wanted you for so long that I don't even know how it feels not to." He slides his fingers through his hair, letting his bangs fall messily in his eyes. "I was scared too, okay? I'm still scared, but I'm most scared about the idea of losing you again."

Hikaru scoots closer, breath caught in his chest. "I always thought you were never scared of anything."

Fukka shakes his head. "Ridiculous boy," he says, sounding fond, that familiar smile on his face. He meets Hikaru halfway, hands landing at the nape of his neck. "That's only because I have you."

Hikaru bends forward, mouth slanting over Fukka's lips, tongue sliding across the seam. Fukka tastes like green tea, warm and bitter, and the hot press of his palms makes Hikaru's stomach do a pleasant backflip. He melts into the kiss. It isn't the first time it's happened — it's not even the first time in this timeline, actually — but this time something about it feels like coming home.

He's not sure how long they would've stayed like that had a pointed knock not interrupted the proceedings. They jump apart as the door squeaks open again. "Oy, walkthrough is in five minutes," Abe says, poking his head inside. "You guys aren't even dressed yet!"

"Right, sorry," Fukka says, licking his lips. Hikaru puts on as penitent an expression as he can muster in the moment. "We'll be right out."

The noon show goes off without a hitch; Hikaru's steps don't stutter, not even when he reaches the last cliff and has to step through the water to get off the ladder. He manages to grab a half-hour nap in between shows, crashing hard in the dressing room, and wakes up to find Fukka propped up on one elbow, watching him snooze. "Creep," he croaks, laughing when Fukka smacks his arm.

"Just wanted to make sure no reality-swapping shenanigans would happen again in your sleep," Fukka says drily.

"Still me," Hikaru promises, tilting his head up. Fukka hesitates for the barest second, eyeing the door, before he leans down and presses his mouth against Hikaru's, brief but hard.

The last show of the season flies by in a flurry of sweaty taiko and intricate henmen. All the guys seem misty-eyed after they take their final bows, clutching bouquets and waving at the audience. There's an assortment of refreshments waiting for them backstage, and once they've exhausted all those options, they move to the yakitori place down the street to continue celebrating their successful run.

"An extra round of applause to Hikaru for bouncing back after his fall a few weeks ago," Takki says, raising a soda in his direction as cheers.

Hikaru lifts his drink in acknowledgement, flashing a smile. For the next hour, he lets himself bask in the laughter of his bandmates, the satisfaction of a job well done, the warmth of eating together: Sakuma as spirited as ever, sucking everyone into a ritual chant for his latest gacha game drop; Koji hanging off everyone and professing his deepest love, even though he's not drunk in the slightest; Raul nodding off into Shota's shoulder after inhaling a truly terrifying amount of ikura. It's good to be here with his people. It feels right.

"Hey," Fukka says at the end of the night, finding Hikaru on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. His hair is soft and unstyled, and there's a little bounce in his step despite the late hour.

"Hi," Hikaru says. He can't help the smile that breaks out across his face. "Come home with me?"

Fukka pretends to think about it for a moment, but Hikaru waits it out, as patient as the tide. "Alright," he says.

The ten minute walk back to Hikaru's place feels interminable. Part of the way there, Fukka laces their hands together, fingers squeezing around Hikaru's palm. Something warm settles in Hikaru's stomach, a slow-burning flame that spreads up through his chest and down to his toes by the time they get to his apartment building.

Hikaru lets them in with shaking fingers, and they kick their shoes off in the entryway. Fukka's been over countless times, but everything suddenly seems nerve-wracking as hell when Hikaru switches the light on. The immediacy of the moment makes every movement of his body feel heavy with consequence, clunky and graceless.

"Water?" Hikaru asks awkwardly.

"Hikaru," Fukka says, stopping him with a hand on the arm. "Hey. It's just me." He turns them toward each other, arms looping around Hikaru's waist, and tips forward to rest his forehead against Hikaru's collarbone. They stay like that for a moment, holding each other. "It's alright. I'm nervous too."

"Doesn't seem like it to me," Hikaru grumbles, but he does slowly relax as their breathing syncs.

After another minute, Fukka's watch chirps at him. They shift as he checks it, and then he lifts his head, smiling. "Hey, it's midnight," he says, getting up on his toes and pressing their mouths firmly together. "Happy birthday."

When they break apart, Hikaru huffs. "The other Fukka did the same thing."

A funny expression crosses Fukka's face. "I don't want to be hearing about the other Fukka right now," he grouses. "I'm right here."

"Jealous?" Hikaru asks, charmed, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too much. "That's not like you."

"Yeah, well, that was before you fucked off to an alternate reality for twelve days," Fukka points out archly.

"And that was terrible of me," Hikaru says, indulgent. "I'll make it up to you."

Fukka arches an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Yeah? How?"

Hikaru kisses him again, deeper this time, tongue sliding against Fukka's, sucking Fukka's lower lip into his mouth. Fukka's fingers scrabble for purchase against Hikaru's back, the firm press of their bodies kicking up curls of pleasure in Hikaru's stomach. They sway in the living room for another moment before Hikaru hikes his arms beneath Fukka's ass and lifts him clean into the air, fluid and effortless. Fukka's legs close easily around Hikaru's waist; his arms clench tighter around Hikaru's neck.

It's nothing at all to walk them into the bedroom. Takes a couple of tries to slam the light on, but it happens eventually. Hikaru lays Fukka out against his unmade bed and then scoots back to take in the full picture: Fukka's hair fanning out across Hikaru's pillow, the hem of his shirt riding up to expose a thin sliver of his pale stomach, the bright shine in his eyes and the sly curve of his mouth. He looks so good that Hikaru doesn't even know where to start.

The other Fukka was right, of course; Hikaru wouldn't trade doing this with anyone else, not even a version of Fukka from an entirely different universe. It wouldn't feel the same — it wouldn't feel like everything in the world hangs in the balance, waiting for his next move.

"Need another minute?" Fukka asks, digging his heels into the mattress. He's already flushed so pink.

"You're just," Hikaru says, choking around the words a little, "incredibly beautiful. That's all."

"Shut up," Fukka says, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth.

"Never," Hikaru says. "You simply have to know."

Fukka props himself up on his elbows and reaches toward him, beckoning with the curl of his slim fingers. "Come here."

Who is he to refuse? "Alright," Hikaru says. He pulls his shirt off in one fluid motion and watches Fukka's eyes darken, watches the tip of his tongue flick out to trace his lips.

Everything happens very quickly after that. The rest of their clothes land in a haphazard pile on the floor, and then they're just two people naked in bed together, mankind's oldest story, the weight of their shared history bending the air between them, making it reverent, revelatory, holy. Hikaru's ears ring; his heart stutters. He's seen Fukka in so many different states of undress over the years — their bodies have existed in the closest proximity imaginable, day in and day out — but he hasn't been able to touch Fukka the way he's always wanted to until now. He leans in, hands trembling, and brushes Fukka's sternum, his collarbone, trails his fingers up to cup Fukka's chin.

When they kiss again, their skin slides together, the delicious friction throwing sparks up Hikaru's spine. Fukka's mouth is open and warm, sucking all the air out of Hikaru's lungs until his lips feel tender and his chest feels tight. It takes him a long minute to realize he's getting hard against Fukka's thigh, and then no time at all after that to feel the insistent press of Fukka's answering erection along Hikaru's pelvis. He looks down, gasping, and reaches out to curl his hand around Fukka's cock without thinking. "Is this okay?"

"Don't you dare stop," Fukka says, breathing labored. Hikaru turns onto his side, coaxing Fukka to face him. He aligns their hips and manages to fit his fingers around both of them, dragging his palm up and down, squeezing every time Fukka makes a good-sounding noise in the back of his throat. The next kiss is sloppy and wet, Hikaru swallowing all of Fukka's groans, pumping his hand until his wrist starts to ache.

Fukka starts exhaling louder as Hikaru picks up the pace, fingers digging into Hikaru's sweaty shoulders. When Fukka goes rigid and comes across his stomach, Hikaru strokes him through it, keeps his eyes wide open, taking in the scrunch of Fukka's brow and the slack redness of his lips. He needs to commit all of this to memory, every last detail, the crest and the fall.

It doesn't take Hikaru long after that, not with Fukka pressed so close, still shaking. Not with the slide of Fukka's come easing the tight jerk of Hikaru's fist. Orgasm rolls through Hikaru like thunder, making his toes curl and his muscles relax. He floats back down from it to find Fukka gazing at him, the world's tiniest smile playing at his lips. Hikaru reaches for tissues to clean them off, then wordlessly gets up to turn off the light before returning to the nest of bedclothes. In the darkness, Fukka curls an arm over Hikaru's waist, the comforting weight bearing him down into sleep.

Hikaru wakes up the morning of the first day of the rest of his life with a vague sense that the world has fundamentally shifted in the night. Then again, it's the first time he's ever spent it with someone else sleeping next to him in this bed, so that might be all there is to it. Nothing material has really changed, but Hikaru's certainly never been happier to have less room.

As the early light slants in through the curtains, Fukka stretches next to him, cold toes grazing Hikaru's ankles. "No kabuki today," Hikaru murmurs, letting out a jaw-cracking yawn. "What should we do with our day off?"

"Anything you want," Fukka replies, yawning too, eyes squeezed shut. "It's your birthday."

Hikaru hums. "I guess we should go out and be real people at some point. See our friends. Eat some food. Celebrate." He walks two fingers across Fukka's sternum and grins when he shivers. "But what if I just want to stay in bed with you all day?"

"Then that's what you'll get," Fukka says, rolling on top of Hikaru and tucking his arms around his neck.

For a while, they just breathe, pressed chest to chest. When Fukka cracks his eyes open, Hikaru darts his head forward to steal a kiss. "You'll ruin me for anyone else, you know?"

Fukka scoffs. The corners of his lips tilt up. "Aren't you already ruined? Haven't you been ruined for years and years?"

"Yeah, I have been," Hikaru says. He tries not to seem too happy about that and, from the looks of it, fails spectacularly. The road ahead of them is long, and the future unknowable, but he's never really been alone, has he? "You know, at some point you'll have to tell me everything the other Hikaru told you while I was away."

"We'll have time for that," Fukka says, voice full of promise. "But for now… no more talking." He presses closer, sliding his tongue across the seam of Hikaru's lips, requesting entry. Hikaru opens his mouth and grants it, arms closing around Fukka's waist, perfectly content.