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I.
Everything looks just like it did that day. The only thing that feels unfamiliar is the thick layer of dust that sticks to Iori’s finger as he drags it along the surface of an empty desk.
There is that guitar that he had seen more often in the hands of their composer than in the vicinity of its owner. On the top shelf rest several novels which Iori had recommended, but which he knows have never been so much as opened.
A collection of TRIGGER albums and DVDs are nestled beside a figure that Iori knows was a gift from Tamaki.
The clock on the wall has stopped moving. Just like everything else has stopped moving, ever since that day.
Iori is just about to turn back the covers to curl up beneath them for comfort – to pretend that he has not irreversibly lost what he was so sure would last forever – when the door opens with a careful knock.
He comes face-to-face with their leader – or, used-to-be leader – who looks like he aged a decade in a year. The tabloids are convinced that the streak of grey at his temples is a fashion trend waiting to be born. Iori knows better.
Yamato carries an array of cardboard boxes, which all seem so small. Too small to fit an entire life into them. Too small to hold what was once Iori’s world.
He swallows, licks across his lips, fully aware that his voice would give in if he were to give a verbal thanks. So, he doesn’t.
He bows as he takes the boxes from Yamato and begins to arrange them on the floor.
“You know, I’m sure this could have waited another week,” Yamato says, eventually, once they have assembled all the boxes.
Iori sets to work. First come the things that can be sold. Then the things that can be stored.
“Ichi, you haven’t slept in three days.”
Then the things that he asked for.
“Ichi.”
There is a hand on his wrist, Iori belatedly realizes. He kept moving besides the iron grip Yamato had on his arm.
There is so much to do. So much to do and so little time.
So much time.
Too much time.
Iori’s voice is raspy as sandpaper when he speaks. “He’s gone.”
There are no tears left. All the sorrow that could be spilled had been spilled within the first three days. The past week has been spent dry-heaving on the bathroom floor and choking through lousy attempts to drown out the pain.
Yamato’s hand moves from Iori’s wrist to his back, a gentle force pulling him in. Silent comfort in the shape of an embrace. But Iori has grown wary of such obvious displays of sympathy.
He doesn’t want sympathy. He wants eternity in the shape of a smile. In the sound of a voice so clear it could challenge Heaven’s choirs.
Iori would burn the world if it could reunite him with the monster he birthed.
II.
A little over a year ago, IDOLiSH7 held the concert for their seventh anniversary at the Zero Arena.
The queues at the merchandise stalls had been so long that they broke records. The connecting train lines had specialized announcements guiding fans towards the arena and social media trends helped spread the word throughout the country.
Iori had supervised the preparations for the concert himself. He knew each technician by name and could still recall how many bolts had been used to assemble the stage.
It had been a long week of rehearsals and meetings, staff and idols working together to prepare the most spectacular two days.
And everything had been perfect.
There had been tears and laughter, missed steps, and wrong lyrics. Tamaki and him had argued over something trivial regarding a memory from their school days and had resolved to ask Zool’s Isumi Haruka for a third opinion.
Accompanied by Yamato’s roaring laughter and the fans' loud screams, Nagi had carried Mitsuki bridal-style when he needed to have his foot inspected backstage.
Sogo had showcased his talents with a particularly difficult guitar riff during one of Mezzo’s songs.
But something had been off.
Riku had smiled less than he usually did and when they had all reminisced about the past, Riku’s tears had infected the audience.
After the second day ended, Riku bid their fans Goodbye.
No “Let’s meet again soon!”. No “Thank you so much!”. No “Until next time!”.
A plain and simple – Goodbye.
Iori had wondered. But the fear that clawed at his throat when Riku turned to him, once they had arrived backstage, was unprecedented.
“Iori,” he said, “Thank you for everything.”
And as if somebody had flicked a light switch off, Iori’s entire world was overcome by darkness.
III.
Riku died a year later. In a sterile hospital room. Like a cat, just when nobody was around to witness him go.
Iori remembers that day as a dark and stormy one. It had been a hot and cloudless summer day.
The nation mourned the loss of their superstar, as Iori mourned the loss of his life.
His world.
His eternity.
When TRIGGER announced their three-month-long break, the tabloids began to latch onto rumors of Kujou Tenn being Nanase Riku’s twin brother. But sown seeds fell onto barren soil. And soon nobody questioned the reason for their hiatus.
Not when both Zool and Re:vale followed suit.
Iori’s days blurred into another. Time lost meaning just as food lost its taste. His family worried that he looked too thin but Iori worried that his heart kept pumping blood. Iori kept cursing his lungs for working when his had refused to.
His brother dragged him to the funeral in his best clothes, where he locked eyes with someone who had just lost their own younger brother.
Kujou Tenn had not acknowledged Iori’s presence. Perhaps he had not had the energy to focus on more than the wooden casket that held what had once been family.
Yaotome Gaku and Tsunashi Ryuunosuke regarded Iori with looks that were much too similar to pity.
There had been words exchanged and hands touched. Iori had uttered more condolences than he had received, and he wetted his parched throat with the wine he was offered by a shaking, sickly-palish hand.
Kujou Tenn joined him in downing a bottle of Japanese sake after they had consummated their shared misery through the consumption of blood-red liquid.
They danced on unsteady feet, along the riverside, on their lips a silent gospel consisting of all the times Nanase Riku had driven them mad with worry. Iori later realized that they had not made it in time to pick out bones from a sea of ashes.
It was only then that the understanding sunk in. Izumi Iori was never going to hold Nanase Riku in his arms ever again.
There was not a piece left of his star that he could crumble to dust and collect in a tiny bin, to wear around his neck like jewelry.
Iori cried out into the darkness.
IV.
The star he had tried to forge with his own hands had become a supernova.
V.
“They’re going to name the Stadium after Rikkun!”
Iori watches as Tamaki pours Yamato another glass, his manners seeming to have stuck with age. Next to Tamaki, the other half of Mezzo is fiddling with his phone, the chat that is simply named Touma refreshing at lightning speed.
“Touma says they’re already hanging up new signposts around the station,” Sougo explains, then he locks his phone and puts it into his coat with a sheepish grin. “Also, he sends his regards.”
“I haven’t met any of them in a while, come to think of it,” Mitsuki ponders, looking up from the menu that Nagi and he had been inspecting. “Zool, I mean. What’re they up to these days?”
“Midou and Natsume-chan worked with me on that new film. The one that Mission’ script writer wrote,” Yamato chimes in.
Iori orders a glass of wine. As much as he has come to despise the color red, he cannot bear to part from it forever.
“Touma is working on his solo album. I heard Haruka-kun is doing a feature on the lead single.” Sogo has settled whatever dispute he and Tamaki had concerning their order and has returned his focus to the conversation.
“OH, I met Isumi-shi at the airport last week. Is he leaving the country?” Nagi asks, directed at no one in particular.
Iori clears his throat. The air turns sour when he realizes that everybody’s attention is on him. Their gazes weigh heavy like a blanket of lead.
He rarely talks nowadays. They all know it.
“I heard he signed a contract with a US-American record label. I do not think he will leave for good, though.”
His tongue feels heavy. His head aches from the effort these few words caused.
Nagi nods in what appears to be agreement. “What about Mister Momo and Mister Yuki?”
“Bad weeds grow tall,” Yamato mutters into the foam of his beer and this earns him a kick to his shin from Mitsuki.
Iori knows that they were asked to host this year’s Black or White.
When their food arrives, the conversation ebbs away. It is not uncomfortable, but it is too quiet. Where there was once silent understanding, there is only silence now.
“I can’t believe it’s almost been three years,” Sougo eventually says, when it seems he can no longer bear the quiet.
Iori turns to eye the empty seat next to him. It has become a ritual, of sorts. There is a single, empty plate, reserved for a guest that can no longer join them.
“I’d like to say time flies, but it’s been creeping like a bug these past years,” Yamato says.
Iori could not agree more.
Tamaki leans across the table to place freshly grilled meat on Iori’s plate. When he chews it, it tastes like nothing.
“Maybe we should do something,” Tamaki finally says, “It’s his death anniversary next week. We could all, like, go on a trip or something.”
“Don’t you guys have work that weekend?” Mitsuki asks.
“Banri-san always makes sure to let us have that day off,” Sougo explains.
Iori feels Sougo’s gaze move upwards, trying to meet his. He evades it.
They start making plans, then, and suddenly it feels like before. Suddenly, there is laughter and companionship, and breathing feels so easy again. But then they talk about rooms and assigned beds and it becomes painfully obvious that nothing will ever be like it once was.
And when Nagi receives an international call and excuses himself with a stern face, only to return with the news of a booked flight leaving that evening – It feels like watching a casket go up in flames all over again.
VI.
The others have plans or work, or perhaps they just cannot bear to watch another member leave – perhaps to never return. Iori, however, has a driver’s license now and too much time that he doesn’t know how to spend. So he offers to drive Nagi Valhart von Northmare to the airport.
The drive is, to his surprise, the opposite of quiet. Nagi updates him on the new Kokona theme songs and loudly laments the fact that he won’t be in Japan for the premiere of the new movie. Iori, because he would feel bad if he didn’t, promises to send him the Blu-Ray as soon as it’s released.
They somehow end up talking about international politics and Iori is surprised to find that he still registers more things from the outside world than he thought he did.
“Will you…ever return?” Iori asks as he turns off the engine.
Nagi is quiet, then. He pulls his wallet from inside his coat and retrieves a few bills from it. Then he hands the money they paid at the toll gate back to Iori.
“Northmare is not a different planet. It’s quite close. If you hop onto a plane, that is. Surely you remember it.”
Iori observes the bills in his hand. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Would you like me to return, Iori?”
Iori feels caught. He chews his lower lip between his teeth.
“I do not want to lose another member.”
Nagi doesn’t reply. And for a moment, he fears he destroyed something. Iori wonders whether he broke another human relationship beyond repair.
“Rokuya-san, I’m—”
Nagi holds up a hand and motions for Iori to be silent. He opens the door and climbs out of Iori’s little cubic vehicle. But he doesn’t leave. He rests against the side of the car and clearly waits for Iori to join him.
And so Iori does.
People are passing them by. Running and rushing to make it to their flights. Heavy bags scratch the pavement beneath them. Somewhere, a child is crying.
“Rokuya-san, I’m sorry. I did not mean to patronize you. This is your life, it is none of my business whether you return to Japan or not.”
Nagi frowns. It is not the face Iori had expected him to make.
“Iori, you pain me.”
“Huh?”
“I would like to think of myself as your treasured friend. And is it not only natural to want your friends to stay so close you can easily visit them?” His voice is soft. There is no malice, no ounce of reproach. But there is hurt. “Do not feel pressured to answer, I think I understand.”
“I-I never meant to offend you.” Iori is struggling for words. He wraps his fingers around the stone he keeps in his pocket.
A red ruby. Red. They call it pigeon blood and Iori wishes the blood would stick to his palm – right where it belongs.
“I-I…I’m just…”
He can’t meet Nagi’s eyes. Not when he looks upon him with so much kindness, so much compassion.
Oh, how Iori used to loathe compassion.
Nagi places his hands upon Iori’s shoulders and squeezes them gently, once, twice.
“Iori. Would you please listen to me while I talk for a minute?”
Iori freezes. Swallows. Nods.
“You have granted me the seven happiest years of my life.”
The dam that Iori so painstakingly constructed cracks. He tries to find the glue he needs to stick it back together, but Nagi does not offer him enough time.
“I could never presume to know how many of our fans’ lives you have changed for the better. But you should know that seven lives were shaped by your hand. The gifts you have bestowed me with are plenty and they are as much of a treasure to me as they are a curse.”
“Rokuya-san…”
“Hush. It is not unbearable if the curse I am burdened with is seven years of love and a heart filled with memories. Iori, I can smile, because I met you. All of you.”
Iori barely recognizes his own voice. He speaks through tears as vowels break around a sob.
“I let IDOLiSH7 die. I killed Nanase-san.”
Nagi’s arms are strong around him. Somewhere in the back of his mind Iori remembers an old story that Yamato once told. Something about being crushed by one of Nagi’s hugs and being unable to breathe. He understands it now.
“I thought we would last forever,” Iori cries. His words come out muffled against the expensive fabric of Nagi’s coat. “I thought I could make us last. Nanase-san wasn’t supposed to go. I wanted a star, a superstar, but all I created was a supernova that exploded long before we could tell and once its light had reached us we – I – we – Nanase-san---”
Nagi’s chest rises and falls against his own. He supposes it would be soothing. But it hurts. It hurts. It’s so painful and he can’t breathe and perhaps his lungs will finally give out like his did and perhaps he can join him, too.
He just wants to see him.
He just wants to die.
“Nanase-san.”
He just wants him to live.
When the worst is over and Iori’s breath comes steadier, Nagi takes a step back. He doesn’t let go, not yet, a hand still loosely wrapped around Iori’s upper arm.
“Iori. Knowing you, and being a part of this rainbow-colored miracle that you helped create, will forever be the biggest honor of my life.”
The plane that Rokuya Nagi is on leaves a minute ahead of schedule. Iori sits in a café and watches the second member of his group leave for good.
VII.
This time, it is a dark and stormy day. It’s the rainy season and Iori’s cheap umbrella bends with the wind. It doesn’t matter, though. Not to him, it doesn’t.
He can take a hot shower once he gets back to his parents’ place. Right now, all that matters are the flowers he has hidden under his coat. The ones he brought a while ago are probably withered. They must have lost their colors.
The ones he brought this time around are red.
They are roses.
He knows it’s useless.
It is hard to tell when the rain is pouring down relentlessly and the wind tears at his clothes, his hair. But there is already someone there.
Somebody is kneeling in front of the gravestone that reads Nanase Riku. They are talking, one hand gripping an umbrella tightly.
Iori hasn’t talked to them in ages.
“Kujou-san.”
Tenn looks up. His cheeks are wet but Iori cannot tell whether it’s the rain or the tears streaming from red and puffy eyes.
“Izumi Iori.”
Misery loves company and Iori would be a fool not to offer it.
“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” Tenn says.
Iori doesn’t have the energy to be offended.
“I don’t know if I can make it next year. So, I had to come today. I had to…”
“Say Goodbye?”
“Apologize.”
Tenn blinks. “To Riku?”
Iori bites his lip. “To you.”
A pause. “Me?”
He can still feel the sting caused by the punch Tenn dealt him that day. His ears had rung and the inside of his mouth had tasted metallic. But the physical pain and had felt so wonderful, had distracted him from the hollowness in his soul. If only for a second.
“The things you asked for, from Nanase-san’s room.”
“Yes?”
Iori places a hand on the gravestone. It’s cold against his palm.
He takes a shaky breath. “I can’t give them to you.”
The wind is loud around them. But Iori isn’t cold. Not anymore.
“I see.”
Tenn doesn’t push.
Perhaps this is what this is.
Acceptance.