Chapter Text
Tokyo always sounded different to Aiku after a match week. The air a little sharper, wind snaking between high-rises like it wanted to whisper secrets. He’d been walking incognito, mask pulled low, trying to enjoy his rare off-day without being asked about interviews, sponsorships, or captain responsibilities. Just a tall man with a paper cup of café coffee, wandering.
He almost didn’t catch it at first.
A flicker of reddish-salmon hair up ahead, styled different but still unmistakably uncommon. A figure stepping out of a taxi; long coat, scarf draped elegantly, cheekbones sharper than he remembered, frame narrower, almost fragile compared to the lean athletic build in his memory.
Aiku glanced once…
…twice…
…and his heart jerked.
No way.
Sendou used to occupy space loud and bright, obnoxious in the way only somebody full of life could be. Laughing too hard, bragging too much, shouting his ambitions at anyone within range. The guy in front of him now was silent, his movements smooth and practiced. Like he’d rehearsed how to take up as little space as possible. Like elegance had replaced volume. Like heat had evaporated.
Aiku slowed his step.
The man turned slightly, the wind pushing aside the fluffy fringe long enough for pale red eyes-- tired, soft-edged, framed by lashes Aiku remembered teasing him about—to meet his for a second.
Sendou froze first.
Aiku froze next.
And then Sendou broke eye contact instantly, head bowing, angled away, a subtle pivot as he tried to slip into the crowd like he never existed.
That, more than anything, confirmed it.
Only one person Aiku knew could look so expressive in a split-second and then hide it all like slamming shut a door.
“…Shuuto?” He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t bark it. Just spoke it—quiet, the kind of quiet that lands harder because it carries weight he never admitted he still held.
Sendou’s shoulders tensed before he slowly turned back, every line of him controlled.
“Oliver. Long time.”
Not the brash greeting Aiku remembered. Not the chest-thumping, “Hey, captain!! Did you see my last match??” Not even a sarcastic, “Tch, still ugly as hell, Oliver.”
Instead--cool, polite. A little empty.
Aiku stared. Harder than he meant to.
“You look—” He stopped himself before blurting thin. It wasn’t his business. He didn’t have the right anymore.
Sendou lifted a shoulder faintly. “Work’s demanding.”
“Modeling, right?” Aiku said. He remembered a tabloid headline he hadn’t thought twice about months ago. “You’re everywhere these days.”
“I try.” Sendou tucked his hands into his coat pockets, eyes sliding away as a gust of wind hit them. “It pays.”
Aiku’s chest tightened. That’s not the Sendou I knew. The Sendou he knew didn’t do anything unless he could brag about it for weeks. He didn’t settle for paying jobs—he chased glory. He chased recognition. He chased impossible things.
“You… disappeared,” Aiku said. It came out gentler than he intended. “From everyone. Even from me.”
Sendou didn’t fidget—but something in his jaw flexed, a tell of discomfort he probably didn’t realize he still had.
“I needed a clean break,” he said quietly. “Football wasn’t for me anymore.”
“But ghosting?” Aiku’s lips twitched downward. Not angry—just confused. “We were friends.”
The word landed heavier than he expected. It almost startled him.
Sendou blinked once at it—slow, unreadable.
“We were teammates,” Sendou corrected softly. “And you were the captain. You had a future to chase. I didn’t want to be extra weight.”
“That’s not how it was,” Aiku frowned.
“Doesn’t matter.” Another tiny shrug. “It’s done.”
He said it with such finality—like he’d rehearsed that line, too.
Aiku stepped closer before he could stop himself. Not invading space, but enough to see Sendou’s face without the interference of passing crowds. Enough to notice how sharp his cheekbones had become. How pale his lips were. How quiet his eyes looked.
“You changed.”
“So did you.”
“Yeah, but—” Aiku’s voice dropped even lower. “You don’t look happy.”
That made Sendou still completely, fingers curling just slightly inside his pockets. A tiny hitch of breath followed—a subtle catch Aiku only noticed because he used to read this boy like a book during U-20.
“I’m fine,” Sendou said, smooth and evasive.
“You’re thinner.”
“People change.”
“You’re avoiding looking me in the eye.”
Sendou’s gaze snapped to him, sharp and defensive—just for a second. Just enough to reveal the exhaustion under the surface before he could bury it again.
“…Oliver,” he murmured, tone tipping between tired and annoyed. “Don’t start.”
Aiku didn’t smile. Didn’t joke or deflect.
He just looked at his old best friend—really looked—at the man who used to shout about marrying actresses and scoring hat-tricks and becoming a legend. At the man who now moved like a porcelain figurine that learned how to breathe.
“…Why didn’t you tell me goodbye?” Aiku asked. “Out of everyone, Shuu… why not me?”
Sendou closed his eyes for a moment. And even that movement was smaller, quieter, than anything Aiku remembered.
“…Because you would’ve stopped me.”
Aiku swallowed. Up close, the first thing Aiku really registered wasn’t Sendou’s face--it was the clothes.
Designer from head to toe, but not flashy. Soft neutrals, quiet cuts, layers upon layers that disguised how thin he’d gotten underneath. A high-collar cashmere coat, a loose turtleneck tucked elegantly, gloves that were more aesthetic than functional, tailored trousers that fluttered with each breeze. Luxurious, sure—but the intentional layering was what struck Aiku.
He’s freezing, Aiku realised. Like always.
An ache hit him with embarrassing force.
Because it used to be him—Aiku—who’d warm this idiot up. Back when they were younger, back when Sendou would stomp around the U-20 dorms complaining dramatically about winter like it had personally wronged him. Back when Aiku would tease him mercilessly—
“You’re such a cat. Always chasing the warmest spot.”
Sendou would snap back, bright and annoyed—
“Shut up, captain! My circulation’s just too good!!”
—which made no sense, but the confidence was the point.
And at night, in the cramped dorm bunks, if Sendou shivered too hard for too long, Aiku would roll his eyes, grab him by the wrist, and drag him under the same blanket.
“Quit acting tough and get in here,” he used to mumble.
Sendou would glow red from the ears down and mutter something incoherent—but he always stayed.
Aiku hadn’t thought about those nights in years.
But looking at Sendou now, small and quiet behind designer softness…
…he wished more than anything that things hadn’t changed.
“You’re layered like an onion,” Aiku said before he could stop himself. Light. Teasing. Familiar.
Sendou glanced down at his outfit, then back up at him, a muted half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Tokyo’s cold.”
“You used to come crying to my room when it got cold.”
Sendou blinked at him—slow, surprised—and Aiku realised his words had slipped out too intimately. Too reminiscent.
“…I didn’t cry,” Sendou murmured.
“You whimpered.”
Sendou looked away, ears very slightly red, which gave Aiku a burst of old, stupid warmth. For one second, it felt like the old days—a playful sting, a spark of their old rhythm.
Then someone cleared their throat.
A man had been standing behind Sendou—tall, black coat, tablet in hand, the look of someone who lived in perpetual stress.
Sendou’s manager.
He assessed Aiku with a practiced, calculating sweep. “You’re… Oliver Aiku. Japan’s representative team?”
Aiku dipped his head politely. “Yeah.”
“Shuuto,” the manager said, turning slightly toward him, “you have time for a brief catch-up. One hour.” His voice was clipped, professional. “Pick a quiet location. Somewhere low-profile. We don’t need distractions before the shoot.”
His gaze slid briefly, downward—toward Sendou’s stomach. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
Sendou’s lashes lowered, his mouth tightening by a fraction.
Aiku recognized that expression. He’d seen it on overworked younger teammates, on pressured rookies, on players starving themselves to hit weight classes.
Don’t eat.
That’s what hung in the air. Invisible. Heavy.
Aiku’s jaw clenched, but he forced his tone to stay light. “A café’s fine. We don’t have to order food—just talk.”
Sendou shot him a quick look. There was something grateful in it. Something tired, too. “Okay,” he said softly.
The manager checked his watch. “One hour. Text me the location. And Shuuto,” His voice lowered, just for him. “keep your face out of the wind. Your skin’s dehydrated; don’t let it get worse.”
Sendou nodded automatically.
Aiku hated how obedient it looked.
When the manager walked away, disappearing into the drifting crowd, Sendou stood there like someone who’d had the ground pulled out from under him but refused to show the stumble.
Aiku exhaled, slow. “Is that guy always glued to your shadow?”
“…He’s doing his job.” Sendou’s voice had no heat in it, no sarcasm. “It’s easier if I don’t argue.”
“Since when do you not argue?” Aiku narrowed his eyes.
Sendou brushed a speck of snow off his coat sleeve, elegance practiced. “Since I stopped having the energy.”
That hit harder than it should have.
Aiku tilted his head, scanning him again—the perfect posture, the quiet tone, the smooth movements. Everything softened and subdued in a way that didn’t belong to the boy he once knew.
He wanted to ask a thousand questions.
He wanted to shake him and demand answers.
He wanted to pull him into a coat and warm him up like before.
Instead, he gestured down the street.
“There’s a place nearby,” Aiku said. “Small. No crowds.”
Sendou nodded and stepped forward, scarf brushing his chin, shoulders pulled inward against the wind.
He didn’t walk beside Aiku.
He walked ahead, as if distance was safer.
Aiku followed, hands shoved in his pockets to stop himself from reaching out and pulling Sendou back to his side.
He really changed, Aiku thought with a sting he hadn’t braced for.
But he still gets cold.
The café Aiku picked was tucked away on a side street—wood-panelled exterior, dim lights, the kind of place where no one looked twice at passersby. Perfectly hidden. Sendou’s manager would approve.
When they stepped inside, warmth rolled over them in a soft wave. A heater hummed under the counter, and Aiku instinctively glanced at Sendou—
—and there it was.
That micro-relaxation.
The faint drop of his shoulders.
The way his fingers flexed inside his gloves, soaking in the heat like a plant desperate for sunlight.
Still the same, Aiku thought, a little painfully.
They picked a corner booth, low traffic, half-shielded by a shelf of succulents. Aiku shrugged off his coat and sat. Sendou sat opposite him, posture neat, back straight, scarf still wrapped around his neck despite the warmth.
Aiku opened the menu. “Order whatever you want,” he said casually. “My treat.”
Sendou narrowed his eyes and didn’t even reach for the menu. "You said we didn't have to order food. I’ll just have a warm water.”
Aiku blinked. “…Warm water?”
“It helps my throat,” Sendou said with that smooth, model-perfect quietness. “Cold’s bad for it.”
The excuse was clean. Practiced.
Too practiced.
Aiku didn’t buy it, but he didn’t comment—yet.
The waiter came by, and Aiku ordered himself a coffee and a small dish. When he gestured toward Sendou—
“Just warm water, please,” Sendou repeated.
After the waiter left, Aiku leaned his elbows on the table. “You can order food, you know. Seriously, my treat.”
Sendou’s eyes flickered up to him—steady, composed, unreadable.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You used to eat like a black hole,” Aiku retorted lightly. “You’d clear three plates before anyone blinked.”
A faint ghost of a smile touched Sendou’s lips, but it dissolved instantly. “Used to.”
Aiku pressed a little, but gently. “Come on. At least a snack? A pastry? Something small?”
Sendou shook his head. “I’m fine. And even if I wanted anything…” His voice softened into something that wasn’t arrogance—but a strange, brittle self-defense. “I’d buy it myself.”
“…You don’t want me paying?”
“It’s not that.” Sendou smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle on his sleeve. “It’s just… I make enough.”
There was no bragging in his tone.
No smirk.
No showing off.
It was simply fact.
Aiku leaned back, studying him with that painfully sharp gaze he’d always had--reading movements, reading intentions. He didn’t compare salaries out loud, but he knew modeling—true high-end modeling—paid obscene amounts if you hit the right campaigns.
And Sendou was everywhere these days.
Good for him, Aiku thought.
But it didn’t feel like Sendou saying I’m doing great. It felt like him saying I don’t need anything from anyone. Especially not you.
“…Alright,” Aiku said finally, forcing lightness into his voice. “Warm water it is.”
Sendou gave a small nod, eyes drifting around the café like he was trying to memorize the shadows rather than look at Aiku too directly.
When the drinks arrived, Aiku’s coffee steamed between them. Sendou wrapped both hands around his glass of warm water, like he needed it more than he admitted.
Even through the layers of gloves and sleeves, Aiku could see it.
Sendou’s hands trembled slightly from the leftover cold.
He used to shove those same cold hands against Aiku’s neck in revenge for teasing.
Now he warmed them alone.
Aiku watched him for a moment. “Shuuto…”
“Hm?”
“…You’re really not hungry?”
Sendou’s lashes lowered. He sipped his water—small, controlled. “There’s a shoot after this.”
“You won’t bloat from a piece of bread.”
Sendou didn’t answer. And that silence told Aiku more than anything.
Aiku stared into his cup, exhaling through his nose. “You know,” he said quietly, “being able to afford your own food doesn’t mean you have to…stop accepting things from people.”
Sendou’s fingers tightened around the glass.
“I’m not trying to be difficult,” he murmured. “I’m just… used to handling things alone now.”
That hit harder than it should have. He wasn’t saying it in defiance or pride.
He was saying it like reality.
Aiku sat back, arms folded loosely, eyes softening in a way he hadn’t expected.
“You don’t have to handle everything alone today,” he said.
Just quietly. Just honest.
Sendou’s expression froze—caught between wanting to accept the warmth of those words and the rigid professionalism drilled into him from all angles.
“…Today is fine,” Sendou said finally. Neutral. Controlled.
But his voice scratched slightly on the edges.
Aiku heard it.
He didn’t push again. Didn’t comment on the water. Didn’t argue.
But he watched.
And he remembered the boy who used to let Aiku wrap arms around him when he shivered, who’d accept warmth without thinking it meant debt.
He watched the man now, hands still wrapped around warm water like it was the only heat he was allowed.
And Aiku wondered—not for the first time—
When did he stop letting people take care of him?
Chapter Text
Aiku had barely taken another sip of his coffee when he noticed the shift.
Sendou’s posture—normally immaculate and upright—wobbled for a breath, his elbow nudging the table. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that would draw a stranger’s attention. But Aiku was not a stranger. He saw the way Sendou’s breath caught, how he blinked too slowly, how his hand slipped from the warm glass and went instead to—
His coat pocket.
Not gentle, not smooth, not elegant.
A sudden, almost desperate rifling.
Aiku’s eyes narrowed.
“What are you looking for?”
Sendou didn’t answer immediately. He pulled out a small bottle: plastic, empty — then hissed under his breath, annoyed.
“Damn. Forgot I finished these.”
He looked up at Aiku then, eyes a shade too glassy under the dim café lights.
“Do you have painkillers?”
Aiku blinked. “…What?”
“My head’s killing me,” Sendou muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I usually take something before shoots, but—” He shook the empty bottle lightly. “—I forgot I ran out.”
It shouldn’t have sounded normal.
But it did—too normal.
Too practiced.
Aiku silently reached into his own bag. Athletes always carried emergency stuff. He pulled out a small pack, turning it over to check the expiration date. Good. He opened it—
Then froze.
“Sendou… these are strong.”
They weren’t casual over-the-counter tablets. They were the kind you took only when you’d been hit in the face with a football at 120 km/h and couldn’t blink without feeling like your skull was cracking.
Sendou held out his hand expectantly.
“It’s fine.”
“No,” Aiku said, closing his fist around the packet. “It’s not.”
Sendou’s jaw tightened. “Aiku, my head hurts. Just give them.”
“You shouldn’t take these on an empty stomach.”
“It’s fine.”
“I’m used to it.”
“I’ll be okay.”
He threw all three excuses at once, voice sharp for the first time since they reunited—sharp not like the old Sendou’s cocky fire, but sharp like something brittle snapping.
Aiku’s eyes narrowed.
“Used to it?”
Sendou immediately regretted saying that; Aiku saw it in the twitch of his expression.
The silence thickened.
Aiku placed the painkillers on the table but rested his palm over them, keeping them out of reach.
“You haven’t eaten anything,” he said quietly.
“I don’t need to.” Sendou’s voice was curt, eyes avoiding Aiku like the truth might burn. “My stomach reacts better if I don’t.”
“That’s not how bodies work, Sendou.”
“Well, mine does.”
Aiku’s lips pressed into a thin line.
He wasn’t angry.
Just… frustrated. Concerned. And something else he didn’t want to name.
He studied Sendou again—really studied him.
The faint tremor in his fingers.
The way his eyes strained under the café lights.
The way he’d flinched earlier.
The thinning around his temples.
The tiny line of tension between his brows, constantly fighting off something.
Aiku leaned forward.
“When’s the last time you ate?”
Sendou rolled his eyes. “Not this again.”
“Answer.”
“Aiku—”
“When?” he repeated, voice deep but quiet, the captain tone slipping in without force.
Sendou looked away.
The heater hummed.
The air felt tight.
“…Morning,” he muttered finally.
“What did you eat?”
Silence.
Just one beat too long.
“…Coffee.”
“That’s not food.”
“It’s enough.”
Sendou reached for the painkillers again, more impatient now, but Aiku pulled them back.
“You’re not taking these without food,” Aiku said.
Sendou’s eyes flashed with irritation. “I said it’s fine. I’ve done it before. Plenty of times.”
“That doesn’t make it safe.”
Sendou leaned back, shoulders stiff. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Then stop acting like someone who needs one.”
The line landed between them with a thud.
Sendou froze. Slowly, his hand lowered back to the table.
His lashes dipped, shadows clinging under them.
“…My head hurts,” he whispered, more subdued now. More tired. “Just give them to me.”
“No,” Aiku said, quietly but firmly. “Not like this.”
Sendou swallowed, throat bobbing.
His voice dropped to a bare, strained murmur:
“I have a shoot in less than an hour. I need to be functional.”
“Then eat something.”
“I can’t.”
The words slipped out before Sendou could stop them.
And Aiku’s heart dropped.
There—right there—was the raw truth he’d been trying to hide.
The world he lived in.
The rules carved into his days.
The expectations strapped around his ribs.
Aiku exhaled slowly.
“Sendou…”
But Sendou lifted his chin, reclaiming that model’s composure with painful precision.
“I drink water,” he said thinly. “That’s enough.”
“For a human being? No.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then help me.”
“I can’t.”
The honesty was so quiet it hurt.
Aiku looked at the painkillers in his hand, then at Sendou’s too-bright, too-dull eyes.
He made a choice.
“You’re not taking these until I get you something small to eat,” he said, stern but gentle. “A cracker. A bite of bread. Something. If you faint on a shoot, it’s worse than eating.”
Sendou’s fingers curled into fists inside his sleeves.
His pride fought.
His training fought.
His manager’s warnings echoed in his skull.
But his headache throbbed too hard.
His body trembled too visibly.
His façade slipped just enough for Aiku to see the weakness underneath.
“…Fine,” Sendou whispered.
Reluctant. Defeated.
But honest.
“Something small.”
Aiku nodded and stood.
“I’ll get something small.”
And for the first time since they reunited, Sendou didn’t argue.
He just sat there—head bowed slightly, hands wrapped around the warm glass like it was the only thing anchoring him.
Aiku watched him for a heartbeat longer.
When did he get this fragile?
Here is the long, detailed continuation, keeping everything subtle, emotional, and tense—Sendou’s decline quiet but unmistakable, Aiku caught between worry and helplessness.
Aiku returned a few minutes later carrying the smallest, safest thing he could find:
a plain, palm-sized cracker—barely anything, but enough to line a stomach.
He placed it gently on the table.
Sendou looked at it like it was a threat.
“…That’s huge,” he whispered.
“It’s literally the size of my hand,” Aiku said, sitting again. “You’ll be fine.”
Sendou didn’t reach for it.
He stared down at his warm water instead, jaw tight, shoulders wound so tense they barely moved when he breathed.
Aiku pushed the plate a little closer—not forceful, just enough that Sendou couldn’t pretend he didn’t see it.
“Take one bite,” Aiku said softly.
“Just one.”
Sendou’s throat moved.
He looked away.
His fingers curled around the glass, knuckles whitening.
“My stomach will react,” he murmured.
“To a cracker?” Aiku asked, voice low. “You played ninety-minute matches on bowls of ramen and chocolate bars. You can handle this.”
“That was then,” Sendou said thinly.
The meaning hit Aiku harder than he expected.
He didn’t say I can’t.
He said I’m not the same anymore.
After a long silence, Sendou reached out—hand trembling so slightly it hurt to watch—and picked up a corner of the cracker. Not even the whole thing. Just a piece the size of his fingernail.
He brought it to his lips.
Paused.
Closed his eyes like he was bracing for impact.
And took the tiniest bite Aiku had ever seen a human take.
He chewed once.
Twice.
Then stopped, brow pinching, breathing hitching.
Not dramatically, but in a way Aiku recognized instantly:
Pain.
Nausea.
Strain.
“Sendou…” Aiku said quietly. “Hey, breathe. Slowly.”
Sendou pressed his fingertips to his temple.
He swallowed the minuscule bite with effort, like his throat didn’t want to cooperate.
The cracker piece fell back to the plate from his slackening fingers.
“My head—” Sendou muttered, voice shivering. “It’s getting worse.”
Aiku’s posture straightened instantly. “How bad?”
“Bad.”
Sendou wasn’t dramatic.
He wasn’t whining.
He wasn’t exaggerating.
This was the truth—simple and raw.
His hand went to his pocket again as if searching for something that wasn’t there, breaths growing uneven. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, hair falling over his eyes as he pressed the heel of his palm against his brow.
“That light—” he whispered. “Hurts.”
Aiku reached across the table and gently moved the candle so its flickering didn’t hit Sendou’s face. Then he looked at the painkillers again, his worry sharpening.
“Sendou—”
Before he could finish, Sendou’s phone vibrated sharply on the table.
The screen lit up with his agency’s name.
Sendou’s eyes widened.
He answered immediately, forcing his voice to steady. “Yes—hello?”
Aiku watched the shift in his expression.
From pain,
to tension,
to a sudden, tight dread.
“…Starting early?” Sendou echoed softly. “But—I—yes. Yes, I can be there. I’m nearby.”
A pause.
Then a quiet, resigned:
“I’ll hurry.”
He hung up.
His hand dropped the phone onto the table, and for a moment he didn’t move. Just sat there, breathing through another pulse of pain that clearly wasn’t fading.
Then—
“Give me the painkillers.”
Aiku inhaled sharply. “You haven’t eaten enough.”
“I can’t,” Sendou whispered. And then he said it again, voice almost cracking:
“I can’t, Aiku.”
It wasn’t attitude.
It wasn’t stubbornness.
It was desperation.
Sendou grabbed the edge of the table like he needed something to hold onto.
“My head is killing me. I can’t show up like this. I won’t be able to see straight on set.”
His breath shook.
“Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll pay you—double, triple—I don’t care. I just need it.”
Aiku felt something inside him twist painfully.
“Sendou—”
“Please,” Sendou said again, leaning forward, eyes almost fevered with pain. “I need to work. I have to go. If I mess up today—if I delay anything—I’ll get hell for it.”
He wasn’t being metaphorical.
Aiku could tell.
“I don’t have time,” Sendou whispered, pressing his hand to his forehead. “Please. Aiku. Please just give it.”
Aiku’s fingers tightened around the packet.
His heart pounded.
This wasn’t the old Sendou—loud, fiery, annoying, too proud for ridiculous things.
This was a version carved down, polished too sharp, stretched too thin.
“Sendou,” Aiku said quietly, steadying his voice, “I am not giving you these unless you eat a little bit more.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No—Aiku—you don’t understand—if I eat now—my stomach will—my body—”
“Then tell me.”
“I don’t have time to explain!” Sendou snapped, then immediately flinched at the sound of his own voice. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just—my head—please—”
He looked like he was going to break.
Not loudly.
Not in any dramatic way.
Just quietly. Inwardly.
The way people do when they’ve learned to suffer silently.
Aiku reached across the table and put a hand over Sendou’s trembling one.
“Breathe,” he murmured. “First, breathe.”
Sendou’s lips parted, breath stuttering.
And for a moment, the world felt balanced on the edge of something fragile.
Because Aiku had a choice.
Because Sendou would take the pills on an empty stomach the moment he left, even if it hurt him.
Because he needed to work.
Because he was hurting.
Because he wouldn’t stop pushing himself until he broke.
And Aiku—watching that trembling hand, listening to that strained breath—felt something old and aching stir inside him.
Aiku rises the moment Sendou does—too fast, too abruptly—and the chair legs squeal across the floor. But Sendou is already swaying, already pale, already bracing himself against the table with a tremor he tries to hide behind anger. It’s the kind of anger that isn’t aimed so much as thrown, desperate, choking, and Aiku can see it coming a second too late.
Sendou’s jaw clenches. “This—” he gestures vaguely, almost losing balance, “—this is why I ghosted you.”
Aiku freezes. “…What?”
“Because you’re—” Sendou’s teeth grit, breath shuddering, “so unbelievably insensitive. Every time I need something, every time I actually ask for help—you don’t. You never do. You just sit there and lecture me.”
The words are blunt-force, unfair, the kind meant to wound because everything hurts and someone has to be the target. Aiku doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, because if he does, he’s afraid everything will spill out—every worry, every ache of remembering Sendou curled into him years ago, shivering against his chest.
“Sendou,” he tries, voice low, “you’re not thinking straight. You’re in pain—”
“Exactly!” Sendou snaps, whipping around so fast the room tilts beneath him. Aiku takes a half-step forward on instinct, but Sendou flinches away as if physical proximity is betrayal. “When I need something simple—just one stupid pill—you tell me no. Like you know anything about what I have to do today. About how much work I have. About—”
His hand flies up to clutch his temple; the headache is a sharp, throbbing spike behind his eyes. His vision momentarily tunnels, and he stumbles forward a single shaky step. Aiku reaches out again, but Sendou’s already turning his back, shoulders trembling with adrenaline and nausea he won’t admit to.
“That’s why I stopped talking to you,” Sendou mutters, voice raw and rising with each word. “Because you never help when it actually matters.”
Aiku feels the accusation like a blade under the ribs. “That’s not fair and you know it.”
But Sendou’s already storming away—or trying to. His gait hitching, slightly staggering, but fueled by sheer frustration and humiliation. Before Aiku can process what to do, Sendou’s manager appears at the entrance, phone to his ear.
“Sendou,” the manager calls, “the shoot’s moved up. We need to go. Now.”
Sendou doesn’t even look back at Aiku. He just marches straight past him, brushing his manager’s sleeve in a silent let’s go. His fingers tremble slightly, nails pressing into his palms, the headache a vicious spike behind every step.
“Buy me something strong,” Sendou mutters under his breath, barely audible. “For the headache.”
The manager glances at him once—sees the drawn face, the uneven breaths, the way Sendou presses his knuckles into his brow—and nods without question.
“Alright.”
No concern. No hesitation. Just compliance.
Aiku watches them leave, throat tight. Sendou’s shoulders are hunched, his scarf wrapped too tight, his steps uneven—but his back never turns enough to show even a flicker of regret for the words he threw like sharp stones.
Aiku stands there long after they’re gone, staring at the door, wondering how many cold winters Sendou survived alone before he decided Aiku was the enemy.
~
The manager walked quickly, shoulders squared against the winter wind, but his expression didn’t reflect the cold—only irritation, focus, and a tight schedule ticking like a metronome behind his ribs. Sendou’s footsteps had been dragging minutes earlier, his voice strained, his face tight with pain, but none of that mattered now. Not really. What mattered was getting him in front of the camera.
Upright. Presentable. Functional.
Everything else was noise.
He cut through a side street toward the nearest pharmacy, eyes already flicking through the shelves in his mind. Something strong, Sendou had said. He remembered the way the boy’s hand pressed into the side of his head, his breath short, his voice nearly pleading—but the manager had learned a long time ago not to respond emotionally to things like that.
If you got sentimental, you couldn’t do this job.
Sendou was an investment. A brand. A schedule with legs.
And right now that schedule was compromised.
The manager stepped inside the pharmacy, the warmth barely registering. His gaze swept the aisles, assessing labels like he was scanning a contract. “Strong” was vague, but enough to go by. Something fast-acting. Something that would pull Sendou back to performance mode long enough to get the shots done.
He reached for a box—high dosage, well-known for getting rid of headaches that incapacitated lesser employees. He didn’t bother reading the warnings; he already knew them. Not on an empty stomach. May cause dizziness. Not to be used for prolonged periods.
Irrelevant.
Sendou wouldn’t be taking them long term. He just needed to look alive for the next few hours.
The manager grabbed a second option, even stronger, just in case. Better to have backup. He checked out with barely a nod to the cashier and continued walking, boots tapping briskly against pavement.
He wasn’t thinking about the way Sendou had swayed earlier, nor the glassy fog in his eyes. He didn’t think about how the kid had nearly begged. None of that changed anything.
Sendou had a job.
The manager’s only responsibility was making sure he could perform it.
He slipped the painkillers into his coat pocket, already running through the next steps—transport, wardrobe, makeup, shooting order. Everything had to keep moving. There was no time for fussing or concern or the softness civilians entertained.
Sendou would take the pills, he would steady himself, and he would work.
That was the system.
And the manager, without a flicker of guilt, kept walking, the pharmacy door closing behind him like it was sealing off the last place anyone might have asked him if the boy was alright.
Sendou didn’t even make it all the way into the dressing room before he snatched the box from his manager’s hand.
He didn’t ask which kind they were. He didn’t bother reading the instructions. He just tore the foil open with a sharp, desperate motion and tipped two pills into his palm. His manager said nothing—not a warning, not a reminder, not Aiku’s faint echo of “not on an empty stomach.” Just a silent expectation: hurry up.
Sendou swallowed them dry.
They scraped down his throat, bitter and chalky, and for a moment the taste alone nearly made him gag. But he forced them down, pressing a hand to his forehead, breath shuddering as the room wobbled slightly around him.
He sat. Or maybe he fell onto the stool. It didn’t matter.
All that mattered was the pounding in his head—sharp, stabbing pulses behind his eyes that made every breath feel too loud. He closed his eyes and waited, jaw tight, fingertips tremoring against his knee.
And then—slowly, like fog burning off under a weak sunrise—the pain began to loosen.
The pressure eased. The stabbing receded. His vision steadied.
The headache was… gone.
For a moment, Sendou exhaled a fragile, aching breath that trembled all the way out of him. Relief washed through his chest like quiet warmth, almost enough to make him lightheaded with gratitude.
Then the pain hit somewhere else.
A hot twist bloomed low in his stomach, first like a pinch, then a tightening, then a slow, nauseating cramp that curled inward. His throat convulsed once—not enough to vomit, just enough to warn him.
Empty stomach.
Right. Aiku had said something about that. You shouldn’t take these without—
“Shut up,” Sendou whispered under his breath, though Aiku wasn’t there.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, breathing carefully as his insides churned. Not agony—just that deep, hollow sting of strong medication hitting nothing but acid. A strange, burning weight settled in his gut like a stone dropped in a lake.
It hurt.
But the headache was gone.
And that was enough. It had to be enough.
He pressed his fingertips into his temple—no throb, no spike of pain, nothing. His head was finally silent. Clear. Usable.
He could work.
Sendou pushed himself upright, swallowing back the nausea the same way he swallowed everything else. The manager popped his head in, expression flat, clipboard in hand.
“Five minutes. They’re ready for you.”
Sendou inhaled, long and steady through his nose. His stomach knotted harder, but he refused to hunch or wince. He pulled his posture straight, lifted his chin, smoothed his hair.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m ready.”
He wasn’t.
But his headache was gone.
And that was all anyone needed from him.
Chapter Text
The set lights were soft, diffused through layers of white mesh to give everything that dreamy, ethereal glow the brand wanted. Sendou stood in the center of it—tall, elegant, still as a sculpture—wearing a dove-gray suit with an open collar, the fabric resting perfectly along his sharper-than-ever collarbones.
He didn’t sway, blink too long or tremble.
But his stomach twisted hard, a deep acidic pain that pulsed under his ribs. He should’ve eaten something before taking that painkiller, but there was no time—not with the shoot being moved up. He breathed through it, jaw tightening, kept everything invisible. You learn fast in this world: pain disrupts the face, ruins the shot. The camera never wants discomfort.
The photographer snapped another burst of shots.
“Beautiful, Sendou-kun. Chin up. Eyes a little colder.”
He complied instantly, the shift so subtle and controlled it was almost inhuman. He tilted his head. His long eyelashes dipped, then lifted—perfect. His expression slid into that blank, polished elegance the brand loved: neither bored nor engaged, a gentle aloofness that sold clothes better than any smile.
He didn’t wobble, but the edges of the world felt too bright. Flash after flash ate at his peripheral vision. His pulse thudded in his temples. The pain in his stomach throbbed harder every time he breathed too deep.
“Brilliant. Change for the next look.”
He stepped off the platform and walked to wardrobe. His hands were cold—slightly clammy—so he kept them hidden in his sleeves. The stylist didn’t notice, only fussed with his collar and hair.
“You’re doing great. A little fatigued today, sweetheart?”
“I’m fine,” Sendou murmured.
He said it by reflex, the same way he breathed.
The second outfit was a structure-heavy coat layered over a thin turtleneck, the kind of thing that trapped heat under studio lamps. By the time they were finishing the last shots, sweat clung lightly along his spine. The pain in his stomach had mellowed into something duller but deeper—like pressure, like a stone wedged under bone.
But he never faltered.
Never complained.
Never asked for a break.
The moment the director called, “That’s a wrap,” Sendou exhaled quietly, as if he’d been holding most of his oxygen inside to keep his body from shaking.
His manager clapped his shoulder. “Good work. Go home and rest, yeah? Tomorrow’s early.”
Sendou nodded, lifted the hood of his designer coat, and slipped out into the evening.
The cold air hit him like needles—his hands immediately tucked deeper into his sleeves. The painkillers had stopped the migraine, barely. The stomach pain lingered stubbornly but familiar, almost comforting in its predictability. He could endure this. He always did. He walked down the dim street, breath puffing in small clouds, layered up in expensive wool and cashmere that looked soft but weighed him down like armor.
He didn’t notice the three guys waiting until one leaned against the wall edge and stepped into his path.
“Oie. You’re Sendou, right?”
The tone wasn’t admiration.
Sendou’s shoulders tensed, chin lifting just enough to seem composed.
“Yes. Excuse me.”
“Aww, look at him,” one jeered. “Still acts all high-and-mighty. Just like back in U-20.”
Another snorted. “Shame, really. You were a good footballer. Should’ve stayed on the pitch instead of becoming some… runway pretty-boy.”
Sendou’s stomach twisted—this time not from the medication.
He tried to walk past, but one moved in front of him again, hands tucked in a cheap padded jacket, breath smelling faintly of cigarettes.
“Weak, aren’t you? Quit because it got too hard?”
He didn’t answer. Silence was easier. Safer. His pulse picked up, but his expression stayed cool, uninterested, elegant—exactly as he’d been trained.
The third one circled behind him. “He looks tired as hell. Probably hasn’t eaten in days.” A mocking laugh. “Models don’t, right?”
A hand brushed his shoulder.
Not hard.
Not friendly.
Possessive.
He flinched before he could stop himself.
“Oh? He reacts!” the man laughed. “Thought you were some emotionless doll.”
Sendou stepped back, but his balance wavered—not visibly, but enough that he felt the floor shift a fraction beneath his shoes.
He shouldn’t have taken that painkiller.
Should’ve eaten.
Should’ve—should’ve—
Another hand hooked into the sleeve of his coat. “C’mon, show us that spirit you used to have. The striker attitude. Trash talk a little. Do something.”
Sendou’s throat tightened.
He was too cold.
Too drained.
Too lightheaded.
“I said excuse me,” he repeated softly, voice low, steady, carefully controlled.
They mocked the gentleness of it.
“Wow. So pathetic now.”
“Should’ve stayed in football, man. At least there you weren’t this… fragile.”
“Or maybe you were always this weak.”
The fingers on his coat squeezed.
Sendou inhaled sharply—the pain in his stomach flaring. He didn’t have the strength to yank his arm free.
The street was quiet.
No manager.
No cameras.
No Aiku.
No teammates.
Just him, the cold, and three voices tearing into memories he didn’t allow himself to revisit.
He lifted his chin slightly, that perfect model posture.
Not defiant—just poised.
“Let go,” he said voice calm, almost delicate.
It only made them laugh louder.
“Pretty boy thinks he’s still someone.”
“Go pose somewhere else.”
“Quitter.”
Something inside him flickered. Not anger. Not shame. Just exhaustion so deep it felt like sinking.
He tried again to pull his sleeve free—slower, weaker than he wanted it to look.
The world blurred at the edges.
The cold seeped into his bones.
They might’ve kept going.
They might’ve dragged it out, tormented him more.
But footsteps approached at the far end of the street—a crowd turning the corner—and the men released him like nothing happened.
“Tch. Whatever. Go starve yourself for your next gig.”
“Yeah. Good luck, quitter.”
They left laughing.
Sendou didn’t move for a few seconds.
He just stood there, layered in luxury, breath trembling in the cold, stomach churning painfully, head too light and body too heavy—feeling smaller than he had in years.
Then he pulled his hood up again, steadied his posture, and kept walking.
Quiet.
Graceful.
Composed.
Exactly the way the industry had taught him to be.
The door to his apartment sticks, like always. The frame is warped from years of never being fixed, and Sendou has to shove his shoulder into it before it gives with a low groan. The sound echoes through the silence of the place—silence so total it feels like the whole flat is holding its breath.
He steps inside.
The lights are off. There’s no reason for them to be on. The entryway is bare except for a pair of shoes he kicked off some morning weeks ago and never touched again. The walls are dull, the paint slightly yellowed, and the floor creaks under his weight because no one takes care of it. No framed photos. No decorations. No plants. Nothing personal.
Just a mattress on the floor in the bedroom, a tiny table, and a kitchenette with mismatched cabinets that might fall off their hinges someday.
People online imagine him going home to marble floors and panoramic windows.
If only.
Sendou shuts the door quietly, like he’s afraid the place will collapse if he closes it too hard. His whole body aches—stomach curled in on itself, head still faintly throbbing from the aftershock of the earlier migraine. The painkillers are strong, but the price he’s paying for swallowing them on an empty stomach twists deeper each time he breathes. His limbs feel light, hollow, like someone scooped out all the weight inside him.
He drops his bag onto the floor. It thuds too loudly.
He winces.
He wasn’t going to eat. He never eats after a shoot, especially not after the manager’s glare, the silent reminder that his body needs to stay exactly the same. But Aiku’s voice—annoyingly gentle, frustratingly right—keeps drifting into his mind.
“Not on an empty stomach, idiot. You’ll hurt yourself.”
And he did.
He really did.
“Tch…” Sendou mutters to the empty room and drags a hand through his hair. He hates that he’s thinking about Aiku. Hates that his chest tightens every time he remembers how he snapped, how he blamed him, how Aiku just looked at him like he wasn’t angry—just worried. It makes something inside him twist in a way he doesn’t want to examine.
Fine. Something small.
Just to take the edge off.
He walks into the kitchen. It’s barely more than a strip of counter and a couple cabinets. The fridge hums weakly when he opens it. Inside: a bottle of water, a half-used tub of something he can’t remember buying, and a packet of udon noodles he keeps around for emergencies.
He pulls out the noodles.
He doesn’t bother turning on the overhead light; the glow from the hallway is enough. He fills a pot, turns the stove on, and waits. His vision swims once or twice—his body protesting, weak from the lack of food, dizzy from the adrenaline crash after the anti-fans. Their voices still ring in his head:
“Pathetic pretty-boy.”
“Should’ve stayed on the field if you weren’t so weak.”
“You look sick, man. Can’t handle real sport anymore?”
Their hands had been on him—too close, too rough, pushing at his shoulder, tugging at his clothes—and Sendou had been too exhausted to even shove them back properly. He hates how that makes him feel. Hates that despite years of modeling, years of building a thick skin, he still gets rattled.
The pot boils.
He drops the noodles in and stares at them until they soften. He doesn’t add anything—no seasoning, no toppings. Just plain noodles in plain water. Enough to line his stomach. Enough to make the pain stop stabbing.
He sits at the tiny table. The chair wobbles under him.
The first bite feels… wrong. Heavy. His throat tries to push it back up. He makes himself swallow anyway.
Then another.
And another.
Halfway through, he has to put the chopsticks down and breathe carefully through the ache spreading across his abdomen. He presses a hand to it, fingers trembling.
“Stupid…” he whispers to himself. “Should’ve just taken Aiku’s advice…”
The room is silent.
The noodles steam softly.
Sendou stares at the bowl, eyes unfocused, shoulders sinking. He looks so small in the dim room, wrapped in designer layers worth more than his entire apartment, sitting alone in a place that feels more like a storage unit than a home.
He forces himself to take another bite. Because he has a schedule tomorrow. Because the pain can’t get worse. Because he has to stay upright.
Because no one else will take care of him.
Not really.
He keeps eating anyway.
Sendou pushes another mouthful of plain noodles past the tightness in his throat, chewing slowly, mechanically. The warmth settles into his stomach with a muted ache, but at least the sharp, twisting pain from earlier is fading. His headache has dulled into something distant, something tolerable. The whole experience feels like his body is begrudgingly accepting the reality that he finally fed it.
He stares around his apartment as he eats—at the stained walls, the flickering hallway light, the unpacked boxes he shoved into a corner years ago and never touched again.
The place looks more like an abandoned unit someone forgot to renovate than the home of a working model.
But home was always a loose word anyway.
Why would I fix it? he thinks, poking the noodles with his chopsticks.
Why would I waste money on a nicer place when I’m never here?
He only comes back to sleep, maybe shower. That’s it. Most nights he doesn’t even make it here—he crashes in studio dressing rooms, on couches at the agency, in the backseat of a van while being ferried from set to set. He’s worked too long, too hard, and too constantly for a real home to matter.
And the truth is… he doesn’t want to be here long enough for it to matter.
A pretty penthouse?
Floor-to-ceiling windows?
Designer furniture?
Pointless.
People love to imagine models going home to glossy, luxurious lifestyles. They don’t realise that most of the time, the only thing Sendou wants is a place to collapse for a few hours where nobody is taking his picture or asking him to do something. He doesn’t need marble countertops for that. He barely even needs a mattress.
It’s fine, he tells himself, swallowing another bite. The food sits better now, the ache loosening. This place does what it’s supposed to. Nothing more.
He leans an elbow on the table, eyelids heavy. The warmth in his stomach spreads slowly upward, softening the tension in his shoulders. He sighs—quiet, almost embarrassed by the relief—because even something as simple as eating feels like breaking some invisible rule he trained himself to follow.
He wonders if his manager will notice tomorrow.
Probably not.
The guy never looks closely unless Sendou can’t stand upright.
He’d only say something if it made me slow, Sendou thinks bitterly. He won’t care about this.
He pushes the empty bowl aside and stands, legs slightly shaky but better—much better than before. The room is still cold despite all the layers he’s wearing, and exhaustion clings to him like a second skin. He drags himself to the bedroom, flicks the light off, and drops onto the mattress without bothering to wash up.
The sheets are cold.
The room is silent.
His body sinks instantly.
As he pulls the thin blanket over himself, the last thought that drifts through his mind is strangely soft:
Aiku would’ve made me eat properly.
His chest tightens at that—something uncomfortable, something he doesn’t want to think too hard about.
So he doesn’t.
Sendou turns his face into the pillow, exhales through the dull ache still lingering in his stomach, and lets the heaviness pull him under.
Sleep comes fast.
Sendou wakes up the way he always does—slowly, stiffly, with a dull ache behind his eyes that never fully leaves. His alarm buzzes from somewhere on the floor, buried under clothes and old press passes. He shuts it off without bending down, nudging it with his foot until the sound stops.
The apartment is cold.
Of course it is.
The blanket never holds heat long.
He shuffles through his morning motions: splash cold water on his face, brush his teeth, drag a comb through his hair until the reddish strands fall the way stylists prefer. Every movement is rote, rehearsed, the kind that doesn’t require his mind to be awake.
But when he pulls on his shirt and steps in front of the mirror—
He stops.
His reflection stops him.
Sendou freezes, eyes narrowing as he takes himself in. The soft morning light does him no favors; it highlights every angle of his collarbones, every shadow under his eyes, the way his shoulders look narrower than they used to.
He lifts his shirt a little, fingers brushing the ridges of his ribs.
Visible.
Too visible.
“…Pathetic,” he mutters.
His voice is flat, almost annoyed, as if his body has inconvenienced him by existing like this. His jaw tightens, and he drops the fabric, letting it fall back into place.
He’s gotten too thin. He knows it.
His manager knows it.
The stylists whisper about it when they pin clothes to his frame.
But this is normal.
This is the modelling industry.
You shrink.
You compress yourself.
You become an aesthetic instead of a person.
He huffs and tears his gaze away from the mirror, forcing himself to keep moving. He grabs his coat, checks his phone for schedules, ties his shoes. Everything mechanical again. Back on track.
But that single thought he tried to ignore wedges itself into the back of his mind like a splinter.
Would things be different if I didn’t quit football?
He tries to push it away.
No. This is better. This is what I chose. Football wasn’t… it wasn’t for me.
…Wasn’t it?
He remembers the weight of a ball at his feet.
The heat of running until his lungs burned.
Aiku yelling at him to keep up, teasing him for complaining about the cold.
The raw, stupid joy of scoring.
His chest tightens.
He forces himself to look away from the mirror. He slings on his bag with more force than necessary, nearly yanking the strap.
This is his life now.
This is the path he carved.
The industry demands thinness; he adapts. That’s all.
…Still, the thought lingers.
If I stayed… would I still look like this?
He locks the door behind him without waiting for the answer.
Sendou stands just outside his door, fingers numb from the cold, scrolling through the glowing screen of his phone. His morning schedule is already stacked—two fittings, a magazine spread, a commercial storyboard meeting, and the shoot he thought was supposed to be the last big thing today. Tight, but survivable.
Then a new notification pings. Email. From his manager.
Subject line: UPDATED SCHEDULE – URGENT
Sendou already exhales sharply before he opens it. Last-minute changes always mean someone messed up, and he’s the one who’ll pay for it.
The email loads, a wall of text and bullet points, times crammed into every available slot.
And there it is:
Added: Surprise collaboration shoot – 13:00. Lunch break removed.
Great.
Perfect.
He gets to starve through another afternoon.
Whatever.
He scrolls further, mostly skimming. His vision is still a little fuzzy from waking up, attention drifting—
Then a name jumps out at him.
He freezes.
Special guest model: Aiku Oliver
His breath catches in his throat.
No. No, no, no.
Of all people.
Of all days.
Of all possible combinations.
“…you’ve got to be kidding me.”
He scrolls back up, sure he misread, but the letters sit there bold and cruel.
Oliver Aiku.
Captain of Blue Lock.
His ex-best friend.
The person he bumped into by chance just yesterday.
The person he absolutely, completely, does not ever want to see again.
His stomach turns—not from hunger this time, but pure dread.
It’s like the universe looks at Sendou’s life every morning and thinks,
How can I make this worse today?
Before he can overthink it, he jabs the call button on his manager’s contact. It rings once.
“Shuuto,” the manager answers, voice clipped, already busy. “You saw the update?”
“Yeah.” Sendou tries to keep his tone even, but he hears the tension anyway. “Do I have to do this?”
“Yes.”
Not even a beat of hesitation.
Sendou’s jaw clenches. “I mean—paired with him? Today? Can’t you—switch me with someone else or reschedule or—literally anything?”
“No.”
Paper rustles on the other end, as if the manager is already moving on. “The client specifically requested you for the concept, and the agency agreed. It’s locked in. Be at the studio by twelve. Don’t be late.”
“But—”
Click.
The call ends.
Sendou lowers the phone slowly, staring at the darkened screen as if it personally wronged him.
Fantastic.
Perfect.
Really top-tier misery.
He tucks the phone into his pocket with more force than necessary and starts walking, shoulders tense, the cold biting through even his carefully layered clothes.
Seeing Aiku again was the last thing he wanted.
The last thing he prepared for.
And now?
Now he has to spend an entire shoot shoulder-to-shoulder with the one person he ran from the hardest.
Fuck my life, he thinks, and for once, he doesn’t even bother to soften it.
Chapter Text
The studio lights are brutal—white, clinical, cutting through every shadow like knives. Sendou holds his pose anyway, spine long, chin angled, eyes half-lidded in that cold, elegant way the brand always wants from him. He’s done this a thousand times. His body knows what to do even when his head is pounding and his stomach is hollow.
But today, there’s an unwanted variable.
Aiku.
Aiku stands next to him in the frame, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing nothing but layered designer pieces that intentionally show off the sculpted lines of his torso. The photographer keeps praising him:
“Beautiful posture!”
“Perfect turn—yes, like that!”
“Oliverrrr, that jawline is crazy, hold it—!”
And Aiku just adjusts, effortless, natural in front of the camera.
Sendou hates how good he is at this.
Hates it even more that the compliments sound exactly like the ones Sendou got in the first months of his career—back when the job still felt special, when being called “gorgeous” made his chest fill with pride instead of dread.
Now it just reminds him how far he’s fallen inside himself.
Aiku shifts closer for the next pose—back-to-back, contrasting profiles. His arm brushes Sendou’s shoulder deliberately, just slightly, testing the waters again. Still trying to prod and poke and get a reaction.
Sendou ignores him, jaw tight.
The chin tilt.
The eye-line.
The body tension.
He focuses on the mechanics.
Not the person beside him.
Between shots, Aiku leans in, voice low enough that only Sendou hears:
“You’re really good at this,” he murmurs. “Seriously. Even after all these years… you’ve gotten even prettier.”
Sendou stiffens.
Pretty.
Of course he’d say that.
The polite, easy compliment. The default anyone uses when they don’t know what else to say.
“Sure,” Sendou mutters, looking away. “You don’t have to pretend to be nice to me.”
Aiku frowns, confused, but the photographer is already calling them to switch poses.
This time Aiku has to stand behind him, hands almost on Sendou’s waist, close enough for Sendou to see every detail of Aiku’s physique—toned muscle, warm skin, body built from real work, real energy, real food. Sendou can’t help imagining, for a split second, what he might’ve looked like if he stayed in football. Maybe he’d have muscle too. Maybe he’d stand tall instead of hollow.
The thought burns.
The scene finally ends, and the crew calls for a ten-minute break. A table is wheeled out—pastries, onigiri, fruit trays, drinks.
Sendou doesn’t even look.
He moves toward a quiet corner, but Aiku catches up easily, blocking his escape with that casual, annoying height.
“You’re not gonna eat?” Aiku gestures toward the food table. “You didn’t have anything earlier either.”
Sendou’s expression doesn’t move. “I’m not hungry.”
Aiku raises an eyebrow. “You should still eat something.”
And that—
That is the exact moment the déjà vu hits Sendou like a slap, a cruel echo of yesterday’s conversation.
Same question.
Same push.
Same stupid stubborn look on Aiku’s face.
Sendou’s chest tightens—frustration, embarrassment, exhaustion all boiling over faster than he can control.
He snaps.
“Stop it.”
Aiku’s eyes widen just slightly. “Sendou—”
“It’s none of your damn business!” Sendou’s voice spikes sharp, cutting. “I said I’m not hungry. Why do you keep pushing?! Why do you always—” His breath shakes, anger splintering into something more fragile, something he refuses to let Aiku see. “Just drop it. Stay out of my life.”
The break room goes quiet. A couple crew members glance over, startled; Sendou doesn’t care. His hands are trembling, and he hides them by crossing his arms tight over his chest.
Aiku tries again, softer this time: “I’m not trying to—”
“I don’t care what you’re trying to do.” Sendou cuts him off. “Just leave me alone.”
He turns away sharply before anything else can spill out, before Aiku can read more of him, before the crack in his voice betrays how thin he feels inside.
Aiku stays where he is, jaw clenched, watching Sendou walk off like the distance between them is the only thing keeping him from breaking right there on the studio floor.
And for the first time today, Aiku looks genuinely concerned.
Sendou refuses to see it.
He can’t. Not when everything inside him is one wrong word away from collapsing.
Sendou slips into the narrow hallway behind the set—somewhere dark, somewhere no one is supposed to linger. He presses his back to the wall and drags a shaky hand over his face, then up to his hairline, massaging at his temple.
His fingers tremble.
That outburst…
It wasn’t normal.
It wasn’t him.
Not the version of himself he’s built for survival in the industry.
His heartbeat still races, thudding against his ribs like it’s trying to escape.
What the hell was that…?
He rubs harder at his head, trying to dull the lingering throb that never fully went away since yesterday. The painkillers kept the headache down, but everything else—pressure, dizziness, that hollow ache in his gut—has stayed like a silent weight.
He didn’t mean to snap like that.
He didn’t even feel the anger until it was already spilling out.
Aiku had just asked him to eat.
Just like yesterday.
Just like years ago.
And something inside Sendou reacted like a pulled trigger.
Why? Why did I yell?
He swallows hard, throat dry. His mouth tastes stale, empty. He tries to breathe slow, but even the exhale feels thin.
Maybe…
Maybe it’s the food. Or the lack of it.
A memory surfaces uninvited—early in his modelling career, when the agency first put him on a “strict adjustment plan.”
A nice way of saying:
Eat less. Don’t complain. Look perfect.
Sendou remembers those first weeks way too clearly.
How he’d get lightheaded standing up.
How he’d snap at people without meaning to, flaring up like a cornered animal.
How he’d cry in bathrooms from sheer exhaustion—not sadness, not grief, just… depletion.
He thought he’d gotten used to it.
Thought after years of following the same structure, the same schedule, the same empty meals, the mood swings would’ve faded into the routine.
But apparently, the body doesn’t forget.
It just adapts until it hits a limit.
He presses the heel of his palm into his eye socket until bright sparks burst behind the darkness.
I can’t afford this now…
He’s got the rest of the shoot.
He has another fitting tonight.
He absolutely cannot let the agency see him crack—not even a little—because the consequences of that would be worse than dealing with Aiku’s stubborn concern.
His voice in the hallway is barely above a whisper, raw around the edges.
“…I shouldn’t have snapped.”
He knows it wasn’t fair.
He knows Aiku didn’t deserve it.
Even thinking about that makes his stomach twist with something unpleasant—guilt, anger, confusion. He can’t tell which.
He drags in a slow breath and lets his head fall back against the wall.
But under all of that… under the guilt, the dizziness, the hollow hunger…
There’s another thought, quieter, but impossibly persistent:
I thought I had control over this by now.
He closes his eyes, trying to steady himself.
But the truth settles heavy inside him:
He never actually had control.
He only learned how to hide the damage well enough that no one looked too closely.
Sendou forces himself back onto the set with the same smooth efficiency he uses to survive everything else. Shoulders relaxed, expression neutral, steps precise—no one looking at him would guess he’d nearly snapped in half ten minutes ago. The lights flare against him as he returns to his mark, and he breathes in once, steady enough to fake calm.
Aiku is adjusting a cuff, chatting lightly with the stylist, but the moment Sendou steps near, those mismatched eyes flick toward him—too sharp, too observant.
Sendou clears his throat softly.
His apology is practiced, edges sanded down from years of corporate training.
“…Sorry.”
He dips his head—small, polite, painfully professional.
“I shouldn’t have raised my voice. That wasn’t… appropriate. I’m fine now. Let’s finish the shoot properly.”
It’s sincere.
But it’s also glossy, rehearsed—like a prefab script for defusing conflict on set. The kind of apology expected from a model who’s learned never to show too much real feeling.
Aiku studies him for a long moment—not fooled, not buying the mask at all. But he nods anyway, voice gentle.
“It’s fine,” he says. “I wasn’t offended. I pushed too much. That’s on me.”
Sendou’s throat tightens—barely a twitch, quickly hidden—but the relief is there, sharp and embarrassing. He inclines his head again, a stiff acknowledgment, and the photographer calls them back into position.
They’re just adjusting into the next pose when a familiar voice cuts cleanly across the set.
“There you are, Sendou! Good.”
His manager strides toward them with a clipboard, face bright with the brittle enthusiasm of someone who hasn’t slept properly in days and doesn’t care who witnesses their terrible priorities.
Aiku raises an eyebrow, stepping slightly aside. Sendou straightens automatically.
The manager stops inches away and says—far too loudly:
“I need you to hold off on drinking water for the next three hours.”
Sendou freezes.
Aiku’s head snaps around.
The manager continues, oblivious:
“You’re getting a bit puffy under the eyes, and the director wants your jawline sharper. Also, don’t sit. Your posture collapses when you rest; we can’t have you looking bloated on camera. And if you need to eat, tell me first so I can approve it—your stomach looked slightly rounded in the last shot.”
Aiku’s expression shifts—slowly, darkly—his eyes narrowing in disbelief as he stares between the manager and Sendou.
The manager keeps going, gesturing at Sendou like he’s adjusting settings on a machine:
“After this shoot, we’re sending your measurements to three casting directors, so it’s crucial you don’t fluctuate. And don’t take any more headache medicine; it’ll make your face retain water. Just deal with it if it comes back.”
“…Manager,” Sendou says quietly, cheeks burning—even though he’s long accustomed to this tone, this scrutiny. “Please. Not here.”
But the manager barely hears him.
“Anyway, chop-chop. The photographer wants more intensity from you. They said you’re looking a little drained, so brighten up. You’re being paid for expression, not fatigue.”
Aiku looks like he’s watching a car crash.
Sendou forces himself to stand perfectly still, perfectly composed, controlling every muscle so nothing shows—not the humiliation, not the flicker of shame at having this aired out in front of Aiku of all people.
His manager claps his hands once. “Okay! Back to set!”
Then walks off without a glance back.
Silence settles in their wake.
Aiku exhales slowly, eyes locked on Sendou with an expression Sendou has never seen on him before—horrified concern wrapped in anger, disbelief, and something protective.
“…They talk to you like that?” Aiku asks quietly.
Sendou’s spine goes rigid.
He tries to wave it off, tone sharp from self-defense, not malice.
“It’s normal,” he mutters. “It’s just work.”
Aiku’s jaw tightens. “That’s not normal.”
“It is for me,” Sendou snaps before he can stop himself, then softens, looks away. “…This is how it works. Don’t get involved.”
Aiku opens his mouth like he wants to argue, to say something real and heavy and honest—but the photographer calls their names again.
Sendou steps forward first, slipping back into his position beneath the lights—face serene, posture perfect, as if his manager never said a thing.
Aiku watches him with a look that says he doesn’t believe the act for a second.
And for the first time today, Aiku looks like he’s genuinely afraid for him.
Sendou forces the expression onto his face the way he forces himself into every too-tight mould the industry hands him: quickly, efficiently, and without letting the strain show. His cheeks lift, his eyes widen just enough to look bright, and he angles his jaw so the cameras catch his “effortless” glow. It feels like he’s stapling the expression on. Every part of him hurts, but the pose holds.
They finish the shoot with that brittle mask glued in place. And through all of it, Aiku keeps glancing at him—little looks that slice through the façade. Concerned. Hesitant. Like he’s trying to piece together what’s wrong without spooking him. It drives Sendou crazy because he knows what Aiku must be noticing: the way his complexion has gone chalky; the faint tremor in his fingertips; how he keeps dragging his tongue across cracked, dry lips because they feel like parchment.
At some point, Aiku breaks the distance and murmurs, “You okay? You look… pale. And you keep doing that—your lips.”
Sendou’s mouth twitches. “I’m fine,” he lies with the ease of a professional. “I just can’t drink anything for the next three hours. Manager’s orders.”
Aiku stares at him like Sendou has just announced he plans to sprint into oncoming traffic. “You’re seriously not allowed to drink water?”
Sendou shrugs like it’s normal. “It’ll ruin the lines of my torso for the next set.”
“That’s insane,” Aiku mutters under his breath. “I don’t want you passing out from dehydration.”
Sendou scoffs, but weakly. “I’ve done worse.”
And then—Aiku reaches into the pocket of his hoodie and produces a small tube. Lip balm. Tossed casually at first, but the gesture softens as he holds it out.
“Here. You’re going to tear your lip open if you keep licking it.”
For a moment, Sendou stares at it. Just a small, harmless stick of balm. But his mind—already wired tight, already trained to calculate and fear anything that goes near his mouth—twists instantly.
His first thought: Does this have calories?
His second: If it does, do I need to report it?
His third, uglier still: Would my manager be angry if I used it without clearing it? Would he accuse me of cheating on my diet? Of sneaking something?
The spiral is so fast and automatic he almost misses Aiku’s face—the soft, patient concern, the lack of judgement. Aiku isn’t pushing. He isn’t pitying. He’s… genuinely trying to help.
Sendou snatches the balm before he can think himself out of it. “Thanks,” he mutters, voice slightly rougher than he intended.
He twists the cap off and, for a split second, hesitates—ridiculous, humiliating—but then he applies it anyway, slow and cautious, as though he’s doing something dangerous. And Aiku sees the hesitation. His brows knit.
Sendou doesn’t explain it. He doesn’t dare.
But he feels exposed in a way the camera never captures—because in that tiny, fleeting moment, he realizes just how warped the industry has made him… and that Aiku sees more of those cracks than he wants anyone to.
Chapter Text
By the end of the session, Aiku has cornered Sendou with a quiet persistence that’s almost gentle. “We should exchange numbers,” he says, shrugging like it’s casual, but there’s weight in his voice. Sendou hesitates, brow furrowed—he doesn’t like leaving traces—but he finally slides his phone across, entering Aiku’s digits. Aiku does the same, handing it back with a small, knowing smile that doesn’t pry but also doesn’t let go.
Before Sendou can even digest that, his manager storms over, voice sharp and accusatory.
“Sendou-kun! Did you drink water? Huh?” The words are sharp, pointed. He jabs a finger at Sendou’s chest.
Sendou freezes. He didn’t drink. Aiku, standing nearby, notices the flicker of annoyance and disbelief cross the manager’s face, the false assumption, and frowns slightly at Sendou—but says nothing.
The manager narrows his eyes, leaning closer, and then—without warning—pinches Sendou’s cheek sharply. “No?” He finally lets go, eyes scanning Sendou as if for confirmation. Satisfied, he straightens and claps his hands together. “Fine. Get in the car. We have to get to the next shoot. Measurements, prep, the works. Move it.”
Sendou moves mechanically, cheeks still stinging, climbing into the backseat of the sleek black van. The door closes, shutting out the chaos of the studio, but the exhaustion presses down immediately. The warmth of the car and the hum of the engine make his eyelids heavy, and he almost drifts off.
“…Could I… eat something?” His voice is soft, tired, tentative.
His manager glances at him without slowing, expression neutral. “I don’t have anything on me.”
Sendou exhales slowly, eyes fluttering shut for a brief second, then digs into his bag. Fingers fumble through layers of paperwork, a water bottle, chargers, until they brush against a small protein bar—the emergency ration he keeps for moments like this. He unwraps it carefully, eyes flicking toward the manager.
“You can’t,” the manager snaps, voice tight. “Too high in calories for this close to the shoot.”
Sendou presses the bar back into the bag, shoulders slumping, and rests his head against the window. Hunger twists in his stomach, a sharp, gnawing ache that no pep or caffeine can hide.
Almost instinctively, he pulls out his phone and opens a new chat with Aiku. His fingers hover for a moment before he sends a string of silly, exaggerated stickers—faces distorted, animals acting ridiculous.
Aiku responds almost immediately, laughing quietly at the absurdity, sending a few of his own.
Sendou’s lips twitch with a hint of a smile despite the gnawing emptiness in his stomach. Feeling a little braver, he scrolls through his phone and finds photos from his favorite shoot—a campaign with soft lighting, airy fabrics, and a golden glow that makes him almost forget the harsh fluorescent studio lights. He sends a few to Aiku.
Aiku’s replies are immediate: little comments about angles, the color palette, even teasing about how seriously Sendou takes his work.
For a little while, the hunger, the exhaustion, and the relentless pressure of the manager’s oversight fade. Sendou’s chest eases as he scrolls through the chat, exchanging stickers and photos with Aiku, laughter and words like tiny lifeboats in the overwhelming sea of his career.
It’s a brief reprieve—but one that reminds him that even in the middle of this grinding, suffocating world, some small connection, some semblance of normality, still exists.
Traffic locks the car into a sluggish, unmoving line of red brake lights so suddenly that Sendou’s forehead nearly clips the seat in front of him. The van jerks, and before the driver can even apologize, the manager explodes.
“What the hell is this?!” he barks, slamming his palm against the dashboard. “We’re already behind schedule—do you understand that? We have three bookings today. Three. And now we’re stuck because you can’t pick a faster route?!”
The driver tries to explain—accident up ahead, no alternative roads—but the manager doesn’t want explanations. He wants control.
And Sendou sits in the back, spine rigid, pretending to be invisible while the shouting fills the cramped van and claws under his skin.
The manager whips around. “You—don’t fall asleep. The makeup team said your eyes were puffy last time.”
Sendou blinks rapidly, straightening even though his head feels gummy, heavy.
“Yes,” he murmurs.
The van crawls forward. A few meters. Stops again.
The manager curses every time the car stalls.
And every time, Sendou’s shoulders inch a little higher, a little tighter.
By the time they finally reach the studio—two hours late—the manager hisses a final insult at the trembling driver and drags Sendou out by the arm.
Inside, everything hits at once.
Bright lights.
Shouting staff.
A stylist pushing him into a chair while rattling instructions.
A makeup artist grabbing his chin, tilting it roughly.
Someone else waving a clipboard, barking about measurements, deadlines, retakes.
Sendou moves through it all in a silent fog.
Outfits shoved into his arms.
Shirts yanked over his head.
A tape measure pressed into his ribs.
Cameras flashing again and again and again.
No breaks.
No water.
His throat feels like sandpaper. Even swallowing hurts.
“Not yet,” his manager snaps every time he twitches toward the water dispenser. “Hydration bloats the face. You want your jawline to vanish in the next shot?”
Sendou clenches his teeth so hard his jaw stings.
This is torture, he thinks as he poses again, back arched unnaturally, lights burning hot against his skin.
Torture dressed up as a job.
But he’ll never say it out loud.
Because this is the path he chose.
Because this is his life now—contracts, expectations, image, silence.
He feels himself getting slower. Movements dull. Vision a little blurred at the edges.
He nearly stumbles stepping off the platform, catching himself just before the manager can see.
“Again!” someone shouts.
“Fix his hair!”
“No slouching, Sendou-kun!”
“Rotate your shoulders more. More. No—more.”
He obeys everything.
He always does.
By the time the final shutter clicks, his muscles are trembling, and his skin feels too tight.
He bows, thanks everyone with a faint smile, and walks off set with steps that border on floating.
His manager is congratulating himself on staying on schedule.
Sendou doesn’t hear it.
His mind is somewhere far away—quiet, blank, empty.
When he finally sits down and opens his phone, he blinks at the notification lighting up the screen.
Aiku:
Can we talk again? Properly this time. It’s been years, and I want to catch up before I leave Tokyo.
Sendou stares.
They’d talked yesterday. At the café.
A whole afternoon.
That counted… didn’t it?
Why would Aiku want more?
What exactly does he want from him?
Sendou wipes sweat from his upper lip with the back of his trembling hand and reads the message again, slower this time, like maybe it’ll make more sense the second time around.
Aiku is leaving Tokyo…?
Sendou’s stomach twists—not hunger now, but something else, something unsettled, uneasy. He types out a hesitant reply. But pauses.
Because he genuinely doesn’t know what Aiku expects.
Sendou stares at the blinking cursor of his half-typed reply when his phone buzzes again.
Aiku:
By the way… have you eaten dinner yet?
His chest drops. Dinner.
Right.
He hasn’t eaten since—what? This morning? He’s not even sure anymore. Everything blends together when you’re starving and exhausted and your body’s running on fumes instead of food.
His thumb hovers over the keyboard.
He could lie.
He *should* lie.
People ask that question all the time—managers, stylists, coworkers—and the easiest answer is always “yeah.” It avoids fuss. Avoids worry. Avoids conversations he doesn’t want to have.
But Aiku would probably ask *what* he ate.
Then ask when.
Then ask if he’s okay.
And Sendou doesn’t have the energy to maintain a lie right now.
So he types the truth.
Sendou:
…no. not yet.
He doesn’t add an excuse. Doesn’t say “I was busy,” or “I’m not hungry,” or “I’ll eat later.”
He just tells it plain.
Aiku replies instantly, as if he were expecting that answer.
Aiku:
I’m still not a good cook, you know.
But Barou made way too much again. Guy doesn’t understand portion sizes. We’ve got leftovers.
You could come eat some if you want.
Barou.
For a moment, everything freezes inside him—like someone cracked open a locked door in his memory and let a cold draft in.
The training grounds in the Ubers stadium.
The endless shouting.
Barou’s ridiculous pride.
Barou tossing Sendou a bowl of food with a grunt like don’t waste it, idiot while pretending it wasn’t basically affection.
Barou Shouei’s cooking was good.
Really good.
Sendou’s throat tightens—not with hunger, but with a kind of homesickness he didn’t know he could still feel.
But reality snaps back harder.
Aiku offering him food…
Aiku worrying about him…
Sendou stepping into Aiku’s space again, in this state?
No. No way.
The modelling world taught him long ago: accepting kindness meant creating expectations he could never meet. Letting someone care even a little meant risking them seeing the worst parts he’s been trained to hide.
Besides—if his manager found out he’d eaten something unplanned, it’d be another lecture. Another punishment. He can’t afford that right before a job.
His reply comes out sharper than he intends, but he doesn’t correct it.
Sendou:
theres no need. really.
its fine. we can just talk and thats it.
He stares at the message after sending it, something sour blooming low in his stomach.
Because Barou’s cooking…
Barou’s leftovers…
Aiku asking if he’s eaten…
It all feels like it’s scraping too close to the parts of him he keeps welded shut.
The parts that remember being treated like a person instead of a product.
He shuts his eyes for a moment, leaning back against the wall of the dressing room, cold plaster against his overheated skin.
Talk.
Just talk.
That’s safe.
That’s distant enough.
The hotel hallway smells faintly of polished marble and expensive room spray—the kind of sterile luxury Sendou has stopped registering after years of shoots in places just like this. He stands outside the door, hands buried in the pockets of his coat, trying to steady his breathing. His headache has dulled but not vanished, his stomach is a hollow pit, and his throat feels tight after hours of no water. The only thing he can focus on now is the glowing room number.
Aiku’s room.
He knocks.
The seconds stretch. Footsteps approach. The lock clicks.
Sendou’s shoulders relax—he expects Aiku’s familiar lazy smile, some teasing comment, something easy to latch onto.
Instead, the door swings open and—
A wall. A literal wall.
Barou Shouei stands there, bigger than memory, broader than any camera ever captured him. His tank top clings to a torso built like someone who never left the gym. His hair is longer, tied back at the nape of his neck; his expression hasn’t changed at all. That permanent scowl still carves deep shadows into his face.
For a second, both of them just stare.
Sendou’s lungs freeze. His pulse jumps. The last time he’d seen Barou was—God, he doesn’t even know. Before the modelling contracts, before the agencies, before everything turned into a grind of starvation and plastic smiles. Back when Barou used to insult him for missing goals or tease him for being dramatic. Back when they were teammates.
Back when Sendou still felt like he belonged somewhere.
Barou’s red eyes rake over him, slow and cutting, like he’s counting ribs through the coat. Judging. Assessing. Not saying a word.
Sendou can’t read his expression at all.
But it’s clear—undeniably clear—Barou recognizes him.
The silence stretches so long it becomes painful.
Finally, another voice calls from inside the room, impatient:
“Barou, what’s taking you so long? Just open—”
Niko Ikki steps into view, half annoyed, half curious. He stops mid-sentence the moment his eyes land on Sendou.
His expression shifts from confusion to surprise to something almost stunned.
“…Oh.”
Sendou’s mouth goes dry.
Niko blinks hard, like he’s making sure the image isn’t a trick of the light.
“It’s been a while,” he says, voice quieter. Then he nudges Barou’s shoulder. “Don’t just stand there. Let him in.”
Barou grunts under his breath—some low, dismissive sound—but he steps aside, the door swinging wider to make room.
Sendou hesitates on the threshold, suddenly aware of how hollow his body feels, how his legs tremble faintly beneath him, how his entire life has been performance after performance. And now he’s here, back in front of people who knew him *before* all of this.
He steps inside.
The warmth of the suite hits him instantly; it’s cozy and lived-in, with half-open suitcases, chargers sprawled across the table, and the faint smell of spices—Barou’s cooking. The smell alone makes his stomach twist painfully.
Aiku’s voice calls from deeper inside:
“Barou, who was it? Did he come—?”
Then Aiku appears around the corner, mid-sentence, stopping when he sees Sendou in the doorway, standing between Barou’s massive silhouette and Niko’s startled stare.
Sendou suddenly feels like an intruder.
Like someone stepping into a past life he abandoned.
Like someone living in a body that doesn’t belong to him anymore.
Aiku’s expression softens instantly—warmth, relief, something close to worry flickering through his eyes.
“Sendou… you came.”
And Sendou swallows hard, unsure if coming here was the worst mistake he’s made lately—or the only thing he really needed.
Alexandra_35 on Chapter 1 Mon 08 Dec 2025 05:21AM UTC
Comment Actions
nova_minty on Chapter 2 Sun 07 Dec 2025 06:28PM UTC
Comment Actions
Anonymous Creator on Chapter 2 Fri 12 Dec 2025 10:15PM UTC
Comment Actions
aleximbetterthanyou on Chapter 3 Wed 10 Dec 2025 06:01AM UTC
Comment Actions
Sophiawillson on Chapter 4 Fri 12 Dec 2025 10:02PM UTC
Comment Actions
Anonymous Creator on Chapter 4 Fri 12 Dec 2025 10:15PM UTC
Comment Actions
nova_minty on Chapter 4 Sat 13 Dec 2025 10:26AM UTC
Last Edited Sat 13 Dec 2025 10:33AM UTC
Comment Actions
Anonymous Creator on Chapter 4 Sat 13 Dec 2025 10:54AM UTC
Comment Actions
Sophiawillson on Chapter 4 Mon 15 Dec 2025 06:10PM UTC
Comment Actions
nova_minty on Chapter 4 Sat 13 Dec 2025 10:33AM UTC
Comment Actions
Anonymous Creator on Chapter 4 Sat 13 Dec 2025 10:55AM UTC
Comment Actions
aleximbetterthanyou on Chapter 4 Sat 13 Dec 2025 03:36PM UTC
Comment Actions
Anonymous Creator on Chapter 4 Sat 13 Dec 2025 04:39PM UTC
Comment Actions
nova_minty on Chapter 5 Mon 15 Dec 2025 05:19AM UTC
Comment Actions