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Assistant: Title: The Star and the Curse
        Author: chichichihyo chichichihyo 
        Chapter: 1/2 
        Summary: Chigiri Hyoma, beloved rising star of the screen, gets caught in a scandal he didn’t cause — accused of being the third party in a messy celebrity relationship involving top star Michael Kaiser and Alexis Ness. His public image in ruins, Chigiri is forced to take a break from the industry by his manager and close friend, Isagi, who sends him to a quiet countryside town where Chigiri is expected to lay low. There, he meets Kunigami Rensuke — a rugged, unlucky mechanic who’s heard enough about Chigiri to be annoyed from the start. But as sparks fly and egos clash, Chigiri starts to shed his “perfect idol” image and reveals his bold, unapologetic self.
        Contents: Chapter 1: Chapter 1
    

    


  

  
  
    
    The flashing of camera shutters didn’t hurt as much as the sharp sting in his chest. He had seen the headlines a dozen times already, but each time he looked, they seemed to scream louder than before. 
  “Chigiri Hyoma: Third Party?”
 The words glared back at him from his phone screen, burned into his brain like a brand he couldn’t scrub off no matter how many times he blinked. He stared at them blankly, curled up in a defensive ball on the black leather couch of his manager’s office. His knees were tucked under his chin, arms wrapped tightly around his legs as if trying to physically shield himself from the media storm outside. It wasn’t true. None of it. He hadn’t done anything wrong—at least, not what they claimed. But those d@mn pictures painted a different story. Kaiser had leaned in close during a commercial shoot to whisper something in his ear—something that had made Chigiri recoil, not lean in—but the photographer had caught the exact moment where their faces were close enough to look intimate. As if on cue, Ness had stormed off set right after, eyes red and voice cracking as he cursed them both in front of half the crew. And just like that, the press pounced. It was too good a scandal to ignore: the rising star and the notorious forward, caught in what looked like a lover’s betrayal. “People are idiots,” Chigiri muttered under his breath, swiping bitterly through the sea of tweets flooding his mentions. Most of them weren’t even subtle. Accusations, hate, death threats—some fans could be vicious when they thought their favorite ship was sinking. And worse when they thought someone else was steering the boat. Across from him, Isagi let out a long, frustrated sigh. He sat at his desk, dark circles under his eyes from managing damage control all night. His phone buzzed every other minute. Still, he paused his calls to give Chigiri his full attention, his voice calm but heavy with warning. “I told you to stay away from him,” he said. Chigiri snapped his head up, his voice defensive. “I did. He came to me, Yoichi. What was I supposed to do? Run screaming in the other direction and cause a scene?” “I’m not blaming you,” Isagi replied gently, rubbing his temples. “But you know how this works. He's got a bigger fanbase. A louder voice. If it’s between you and him, they’re going to side with him. Every time.” Chigiri pressed his lips into a hard line, the back of his throat burning. “So what then?” he whispered. “I just let them tear me apart while I sit here and do nothing?” “No.” Isagi stood up, crossing the room with a purpose as he grabbed a plain brown folder from the side table and tossed it onto the couch beside Chigiri. “You’re going to disappear. Just for a little while. Until this mess blows over.” Chigiri eyed the folder warily. He opened it—and immediately recoiled. “A farm?” he asked, disbelief thick in his voice. He flipped through the printed pictures inside: an old barn, a dirt road, a field of yellowing grass. “You’re sending me into exile like a disgraced medieval prince?” Isagi looked entirely too smug for someone who had just upended his life. “Technically, it’s not a farm. More like a rural auto shop. My cousin lives there. Small town. Quiet. No press, no fans, no cameras. You’ll be safe. And off the grid.” Chigiri gawked at him. “You’re kidding. You have to be kidding. I don’t do cows.” “There are no cows.” “I don’t do bugs either.” “There are bugs,” Isagi admitted with a shrug, like that wasn’t a deal-breaker. “But you’ll survive. My cousin’s name is Rensuke. Kunigami Rensuke. Mechanic, keeps to himself. Not much of a talker. He owes me a favor.” Chigiri looked horrified, like he’d just been sentenced to prison. “You’re dropping me in the middle of nowhere with a random lumberjack?” “He’s not a lumberjack. He’s a mechanic. Big difference.” “They both sound like axe murderers!” “You’ll be fine. Just... don’t provoke him.” A few days later, somewhere far away from the glitz and chaos of Tokyo, a dusty mechanic garage rattled with noise as Kunigami Rensuke slammed the hood of a rusty truck shut. He wiped sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, smearing grease across his cheek in the process. The summer heat clung to everything, making the air thick and sticky, and the old fan spinning above the office door barely helped. “Rensuke!” came a voice from behind the building. “The gas tank blew up again!” Kunigami groaned loudly and rolled his eyes, already knowing who the voice belonged to. Sure enough, Bachira popped his head into view, holding a fire extinguisher upside-down and looking way too cheerful for someone who may have caused a mini explosion. “It wasn’t me this time, I swear!” Bachira beamed. Kunigami surveyed the damage from afar with a tired expression. “That makes it three broken things today. Are you trying to get us shut down?” “You’re the town’s bad luck charm,” Bachira said cheerfully, already skipping back toward the workbench. “Maybe I should sage you or something.” Kunigami wiped his face with a rag, shaking his head. “Or maybe you should stop trying to ‘fix’ engines with glitter glue.” “Or the cars are mad because they don’t get enough love.” Bachira replied. “You're the only person I know who talks about engines like they have feelings.” The sound of Kunigami’s phone buzzing in his back pocket interrupted their banter. He pulled it out, expecting another part delay or maybe a message from the auto supplier. Instead, it was a text from Isagi. 
  YOICHI:
He’s on his way. Don’t punch him. Babysit him. Please. Also yes, he’s pretty. Kunigami stared at the message for a long second, scowling. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Before Bachira could ask, the crunch of tires on gravel turned their attention to the road. A sleek black car—a model so expensive it looked alien in their sleepy town—slowly came to a stop outside the garage. The driver didn’t even get out to open the door. Bachira actually gasped, his eyes lighting up like it was Christmas. “No way. Is that… that’s him, right?!” From the backseat stepped someone who looked like he’d fallen out of a fashion magazine: long, glossy pink hair tied in a low bun, sunglasses that probably cost more than the garage’s yearly rent, and a duffel bag slung over one shoulder like it held precious jewels instead of clothes. Chigiri Hyoma. He took one look at the building and sighed like someone being led to execution. Then, he turned toward Kunigami, gaze sweeping him from boots to hairline. “You must be the babysitter,” Chigiri said, sliding his sunglasses down just enough to meet his eyes. His lips curled into a slight smirk. “Didn’t think I’d be sent to live with a lumberjack.” Kunigami crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t think I’d be stuck housing a diva.” The first night didn’t go well. Chigiri hated everything. The creaky floorboards. The plain, scratchy bedsheets. The toilet that didn’t even have a bidet, which Kunigami had laughed at like it was the most absurd thing he’d ever heard. “I’m not trying to be a brat,” Chigiri snapped as he stood in the tiny bathroom, staring at the outdated fixtures in horror. “But how do you live like this?” Kunigami, sitting at the kitchen table with a cold beer in hand, didn’t even look up. “Like a normal person?” “You call this normal?” Chigiri emerged dramatically from the hallway, towel over his shoulder, expression twisted in disbelief. “There are no skincare products in the cabinet. You have one kind of soap.” “Works fine,” Kunigami said with a shrug. “I bet you use 3-in-1 shampoo, too.” “I do, and it’s efficient.” “You’re a lost cause.” Kunigami finally looked up. “You’re literally impossible, why don't you go back then?.” Chigiri crossed his arms. “I can’t go home, thanks to the pretty blonde and his psycho boyfriend.” Kunigami leaned back in his chair, giving him a skeptical glance. “You celebrities are all the same.” “And you country guys are all the same,” Chigiri shot back. “Grumpy, sweaty, emotionally repressed—” Kunigami froze, eyes narrowing. “If you wanna survive here, princess, you’re gonna have to get your hands dirty.” Chigiri raised an eyebrow. “That supposed to be a threat or an invitation?” Kunigami’s ears turned noticeably pink as he walked away without answering. Mornings came early. Too early, in Chigiri Hyoma’s opinion. It was already nearing 9 a.m. when he finally dragged himself into the small-town garage that had somehow become his temporary hideout. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, hair loosely tied up, and his iced coffee clutched like a lifeline in one hand. He yawned with theatrical flair, making no effort to hide the drama in it, as if daring the humid summer air to challenge his right to be tired. The garage was already alive with motion. The hum of cicadas buzzed just beyond the open doors, blending with the twang of country music drifting lazily from an old radio balanced on a shelf. Inside, the metallic clink of tools echoed faintly against the concrete floor, punctuated only by the occasional grunt of frustration. Kunigami Rensuke was already deep into his work. He stood hunched over the hood of a beat-up truck that looked like it had seen better decades, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and dark grease streaked across his forearms. Sweat glistened along his temple and neck, dampening strands of his orange hair, which clung stubbornly to his skin. He didn’t look up as Chigiri entered. From where he leaned against the doorframe, Chigiri observed him for a moment before speaking. “So, do you always start your day by torturing unsuspecting pieces of metal, or is this just a special show for me?” Without glancing up, Kunigami’s voice came out flat but unmistakably amused. “Some people wake up early and do their jobs. Others... just show up to pose for cameras and drink overpriced coffee.” Chigiri took a long, deliberate sip of his iced latte, the straw audibly slurping as he made eye contact with Kunigami’s back. “Ah,” he sighed, “so this is the infamous small-town charm Isagi keep telling me about. No wonder you’re all single.” Finally, Kunigami straightened, wiping his hands on a stained rag before tossing it toward Chigiri. He didn’t bother softening his expression. “You can either help wipe down windows or keep standing there looking pretty. Your choice.” There was a brief silence as Chigiri caught the rag one-handed, glancing at it like it might be contagious. Then, he sighed and gave an exaggerated shrug. “Fine. I guess it’s time to see whether this charming little town can survive me cleaning windows.” That was how it began. Something small. Unassuming. The first day, he cleaned half of one window before loudly complaining about the swarm of bugs that hovered nearby. He swatted at them with all the drama of a tragic stage play. Kunigami didn’t respond beyond a grunt that could’ve meant “tough luck” or “you missed a spot.” The second day, Chigiri insulted the make of a car older than both of them, questioning aloud whether it was powered by coal or just sheer willpower. Kunigami simply grunted again. But by the third day, something had shifted. Chigiri no longer waited to be asked. He still arrived later than necessary, often yawning into his coffee and dressed in the most mismatched combinations of old T-shirts and colorful shorts that absolutely did not belong to any designer collection—but he arrived. And somehow, the garage didn’t feel quite as much like Kunigami’s private space anymore. It started to feel shared. Kunigami began to notice things. Like how Chigiri would hum soft melodies under his breath while he worked—usually whatever song had been playing on the radio earlier. He’d fidget with the knobs on the old stereo when Kunigami left the room, subtly changing it to something more melodic and mellow. Over time, the playlist shifted from gritty country anthems to a blend of acoustic guitars and indie vocals. And though he complained often and loudly about dirt, heat, and the “criminal lack of air conditioning,” Chigiri’s complaints started to sound less like avoidance and more like routine. Familiarity, even. Then, one afternoon near the end of the week, Chigiri walked in wearing an oversized gray hoodie that dwarfed his frame. His long hair was tied up messily, strands falling loose around his face. His hands were already smudged with grease, a smear across his wrist where he’d clearly tried to scratch an itch without thinking. Kunigami arched an eyebrow from under the hood of the truck. “You dressed up just for me?” he asked, tone dry. Chigiri rolled his eyes and tugged his sleeve higher. “Please. I dressed down for me. Believe it or not, I do like comfort. Not everyone needs to suffer in silence to prove they’re working.” Reaching over, he plucked a wrench from the tray and gave Kunigami a knowing smirk. “Besides, you can admit it. I’m better company than that squeaky-ass drawer you keep trying to fix.” Kunigami stared at him for a moment, longer than necessary. Then he huffed a short breath, almost like a laugh. “Marginally,” he said. And somehow, that small exchange felt like more than just teasing. It felt like something blooming, slow but certain. At night, they didn’t say much. Chigiri had started lingering after the garage closed, wordlessly grabbing a cup of tea or a soda from the fridge and sitting beside Kunigami on the front steps. Sometimes he had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, other times he’d bring a piece of fruit or leftover pastries from the diner in town. Kunigami would pop open a can of something cold—beer or soda, depending on the night—and they’d just... sit. There was something sacred about the silence. About the chirping of insects, the rustling of the wind in the trees, and the low creak of the porch as they shifted their weight. In that stillness, the chaos of the outside world felt distant. The city lights. The camera flashes. The constant pressure to perform. Gone. And for Chigiri, that quiet was a kind of relief he hadn’t realized he needed. He didn’t check his socials. Not anymore. The notifications were still there—thousands of them, each one screaming for his attention like digital ghosts—but he left them untouched. He didn’t open Ness’s cryptic crying selfie, didn’t watch Kaiser’s video where he denied everything while still twisting the narrative enough to make Chigiri look guilty. Instead, he learned how to change oil filters. He mocked Kunigami’s taste in music. He teased him for not knowing how to make decent coffee. And through it all, he slowly stopped pretending to be okay. One late afternoon, a summer rainstorm rolled in from the hills. It swept through the town without warning, winds kicking up dust and leaves as the first heavy drops began to fall. “Sh@t,” Kunigami muttered, dropping his wrench as thunder cracked in the distance. He scrambled to pull the garage doors shut, tugging the chains quickly as the rain poured in sideways. Chigiri didn’t move. He was already sitting on the workbench inside, legs swinging lazily beneath him, watching the storm through the open side window. “Rain smells better here,” he said, voice low and thoughtful, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. Kunigami looked over at him, water dripping from his hair and clinging to his shirt. “That’s because it’s not mixed with city smog and exhaust fumes,” he replied, toweling his arms off with a rag. Chigiri’s eyes were distant, gaze fixed on the rippling puddles forming outside. “Isagi said you’re unlucky,” he said quietly. Kunigami let out a humorless laugh. “That’s one way to put it.” “Why?” Chigiri asked, turning to him with genuine curiosity. There was a pause. Then Kunigami shrugged, leaning against the wall beside him. “Stuff breaks around me. Pipes. Engines. Sometimes people. I’ve had two cars explode, a pipe burst through my bathroom wall, and the mayor’s cat bit me when I was ten. It’s like I was born cursed.” Chigiri tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “That sounds more like a sitcom than a curse.” Kunigami smiled faintly. “Maybe. But the punchlines aren’t always funny when you’re living them.” Another moment of silence passed between them, filled only by the rhythmic sound of rain tapping against the roof. Then, Chigiri’s voice dropped. “Can I tell you something?” Kunigami turned his head, his expression softening. “Yeah.” “I hated the version of me they put on screen,” Chigiri said. “The one with perfect posture, perfect lines, perfect answers. I spent years curating that image. Making sure I said the right thing. Smiled the right way. Pretended I was exactly who everyone wanted me to be.” He paused, his voice trembling just slightly. “I thought if I played the part well enough, they’d love me. But now? The moment something went wrong—something I didn’t even do—they turned on me. Like I never mattered at all.” Kunigami’s jaw tightened as he listened. “Do you know how terrifying it is,” Chigiri whispered, “to be hated by millions of people who’ve never even met you?” Kunigami walked over, not touching him, but sitting close enough for Chigiri to feel the warmth of his presence. “I don’t know what it’s like to be famous,” Kunigami said carefully. “But I know what it’s like to be the one people blame. To be misunderstood. To be written off because of rumors or one mistake.” Chigiri looked at him, eyes glossy with something unspoken. “You’re not the only one with a reputation you didn’t ask for,” Kunigami added. The storm outside continued, but for the first time in a long while, the storm inside felt like it was beginning to quiet. Chigiri let out a shaky laugh. “You know what’s weird?” Kunigami glanced at him. “What?” “You’re the first person I’ve talked to in weeks who doesn’t care that I’m Chigiri Hyoma. The actor. The scandal. The mess.” He met Kunigami’s gaze. “You see me. Just... me.” There was a long, loaded pause. Kunigami held his stare for a moment, then finally said, voice steady and honest, “That’s the only version that matters.” And for once, Chigiri didn’t reply with sass or sarcasm. He didn’t hide behind a joke or a dramatic sigh. He just breathed—deep, real, and for the first time in a long time—free. It was starting to become a rhythm. Not one dictated by alarms or strict schedules, but something quieter, steadier. Something that settled into Chigiri's bones without him even realizing. Each morning began the same: sunlight spilling through thin curtains, golden beams creeping across the sheets like fingers tracing along the quiet creases of a lived-in morning. Chigiri would wake up late, limbs tangled in the covers, hair a chaotic mess of crimson strands sticking out in every direction. He’d groan softly, rubbing sleep from his eyes before sliding out of bed with a lazy stretch. The house was always warm by then, filled with the scent of sun on old wood and faint engine grease that drifted in from the open window facing the garage. He’d shuffle into the small kitchen, grumble under his breath about the pitiful excuse for coffee stocked in the pantry, and reluctantly make himself a mug. No oat milk. No imported espresso shots. Just plain, bitter instant—because Kunigami wasn’t one for anything fancy. By the time Chigiri made his way down to the garage, Kunigami had already been up for hours. He’d usually be under a car or elbow-deep in some dusty engine part, grease smudging his forearms and sweat dampening the collar of his shirt. The first few days, Chigiri had tried to fill the space with idle chatter—asking about tools, teasing Kunigami about his playlist, commenting on the small town’s lack of anything remotely exciting. But lately, they didn’t talk much in the mornings anymore. Not because anything was wrong, but because the silence between them had stopped being uncomfortable. In fact, the quiet had grown strangely comforting. That particular morning, Chigiri had wandered into the garage barefoot, still cradling his half-empty coffee mug in one hand while holding an ancient, faded magazine in the other. He found a seat—well, more like flopped dramatically—on a stack of old tires, his legs swinging idly as he flipped through the brittle pages without much focus. He was mostly just watching Kunigami. Kunigami, focused and silent, was crouched near the rear wheel of a weathered pickup, replacing brake pads with steady hands. There was a light sheen of sweat on his brow, his concentration intense, every movement precise. The silence stretched again, broken only by the occasional clink of metal tools and the hum of cicadas from outside. “You know,” Chigiri murmured suddenly, voice breaking the stillness like a pebble in water, “I used to hate silence.” Kunigami didn’t look up, but there was a pause in his movement, a quiet shift in the air that told Chigiri he was listening. “I always thought... if I didn’t say something, do something, people would think I was boring. Like I was only worth what I could perform or say. Like silence made me invisible.” Kunigami adjusted a wrench, tightening a bolt. “You’re definitely not boring.” The words were simple. Unembellished. But somehow, they carried weight. Chigiri glanced over with a slow smirk curling across his lips. “Wow. Was that a compliment from the infamous sour mechanic?” Kunigami didn’t skip a beat. “Don’t get used to it.” But Chigiri didn’t respond with another joke right away. Instead, his gaze lingered, shifting into something softer. His magazine hung forgotten in his lap as he studied Kunigami—not just with curiosity, but a kind of admiration he hadn’t realized had been building over the past days. There was something deeply grounding about Kunigami. The way his brow furrowed in focus, how his muscles moved under worn flannel and grease-stained denim, how his hands—calloused and capable—handled everything with a careful, unspoken confidence. It was a quiet kind of strength. Unshowy. Unbothered by attention. It was different from the world Chigiri came from. In his world, people wore masks with smiles painted on, hands always reaching—grasping for something just out of reach. Fame. Approval. Control. Every conversation was calculated, every gesture rehearsed. Kunigami wasn’t like that. Kunigami wasn’t reaching. He was here. And that made him infinitely more dangerous than any costar Chigiri had ever worked with. Because Kunigami wasn’t acting. That evening, after the sun had dipped below the treeline and painted the sky in shades of rose and violet, Chigiri’s phone buzzed with a familiar ring. He answered lazily, lounging on the porch with his legs up on the rail, only for Reo’s bright grin to immediately fill the screen. “Still alive out there?” Reo teased, eyebrows raised. “Didn’t get murdered by the country boy yet?” Chigiri snorted, adjusting the angle so that Kunigami—just visible behind him, towel over his shoulder, wiping his hands—was in frame. “I think I’m wearing him down,” he drawled, flashing a lazy smile. Nagi, who appeared in the corner of the screen mid-yawn, blinked at the camera. “He’s cute,” he mumbled, voice drowsy. “A little rugged for you, though.” Reo leaned closer to the screen, voice more curious now. “But more importantly… you look relaxed. Like… scary relaxed.” Chigiri froze for a split second. The words caught him off guard—not because they were wrong, but because they were exactly right. He glanced to the side, toward the horizon where fireflies were beginning to flicker in the tall grass, and the golden light cast soft shadows across the porch. “I think…” he began, voice quieter now, “I needed this more than I realized.” Later that night, the air had turned crisp. Chigiri pulled a blanket from the back of the couch before stepping outside, where he found Kunigami sitting alone on the porch bench. He didn’t say anything as he walked over, simply dropped down beside him and, without ceremony, draped the blanket over both of them like it was the most casual thing in the world. Kunigami looked at him, puzzled. “What are you doing?” “Sharing,” Chigiri replied, tone smooth and automatic. “Don’t flatter yourself.” Kunigami chuckled quietly. “You’re weird.” “And you’re terrible at accepting affection,” Chigiri muttered, but there was no bite in his words—just the smallest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The silence returned, heavier now, but not in a bad way. It was thick with everything neither of them had said yet. Everything waiting just beneath the surface. After a while, Chigiri began to fidget with the edge of the blanket. His voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “Did Isagi ever tell you why I really agreed to come here?” Kunigami turned his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “No. He just said you needed space. A break.” Chigiri nodded slowly, staring down at the wood grain beneath his bare feet. “That’s what I told everyone. But the truth is… I wasn’t scared of burnout. Or losing my job. I was scared of something worse.” Kunigami waited. “I was scared of waking up one day and realizing… none of it made me happy. Not the fame. Not the interviews. Not the applause.” He didn’t expect Kunigami to respond immediately. But when he finally did, his voice was calm and steady. “Then maybe this place isn’t your punishment,” he said, eyes on the fireflies blinking gently in the distance. “Maybe it’s your reset.” Chigiri turned to look at him—really look. There was no pity in Kunigami’s face. No awe. No idolization. Just understanding. And that was more intimate than any fan’s praise. Because Kunigami wasn’t trying to fix him. He was just seeing him. And somehow, that was far scarier. The morning sunlight had barely begun to filter through the thin curtains when Chigiri stirred in bed. With a soft sigh, Chigiri swung his legs over the side of the bed and padded into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes. There, on the fridge, a familiar sticky note greeted him in Kunigami’s scrawled handwriting: 
  “Working early. You wanted scissors last night, right? Check the drawer. Don’t break anything. -K”
 A dry laugh escaped Chigiri's lips. He hadn’t meant it seriously when he mentioned it. It had been a half-hearted comment during a restless night, murmured as he twisted a strand of hair between his fingers, frustrated with how long and unkempt his curls had become. He never thought Kunigami would actually listen—or remember. But now, standing alone in the quiet kitchen, the note still fluttering slightly from the fridge’s hum, Chigiri found himself thinking about it more seriously. He glanced toward the drawer, then toward the mirror in the hallway. His reflection stared back: red strands cascading over his shoulders, long and sleek—his signature look, one meticulously maintained by stylists for the sake of cameras, commercials, and magazine covers. But those cameras weren’t here anymore. There were no stylists, no interviews, no handlers shaping his image. There was only him. And the raw, unfiltered silence of a life paused. Chigiri opened the drawer. The scissors felt colder than expected in his hand. He hesitated for several seconds, staring at them like they were a decision he couldn't unmake. Then, slowly, deliberately, he lifted a lock of hair and snipped. The first strand hit the floor. And then another. And another. Until it was done. When Kunigami returned a little after noon, arms full of groceries and boots damp from a sudden drizzle, he was expecting the usual—maybe Chigiri scrolling on his phone, maybe lounging on the couch, maybe arguing with someone online out of sheer boredom. He definitely wasn’t expecting this. He froze in the doorway, his keys still dangling from his fingers. Chigiri was in the kitchen, barefoot, wearing an oversized flannel Kunigami immediately recognized as his own, paired with gray sweatpants that were slightly too long on him. But that wasn’t what stopped Kunigami mid-step. It was his hair. Gone were the flowing, theatrical red curls. In their place was a short, uneven bob that curled softly at his jawline, still damp at the ends, with some strands sticking out in awkward angles. It was messy. Imperfect. Untouched by professional hands. And Kunigami thought he looked stunning. “You... cut your hair,” Kunigami said finally, voice low with surprise. Chigiri glanced up from the grape he was chewing, his expression unreadable at first. “Yeah,” he replied casually, like he hadn’t just chopped off years of branding in one morning. “Felt like it.” Kunigami swallowed hard, trying not to let his eyes linger, but failing miserably. “It looks... good.” Chigiri raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a smirk. “You can just say I’m hot, Kunigami. It’s fine. I won’t sue you for harassment.” Kunigami cleared his throat and turned toward the counter, beginning to unpack the groceries with more force than necessary. “I’m not saying that.” “You did. In your head,” Chigiri said, almost sing-song, clearly enjoying himself. “I regret coming back,” Kunigami muttered under his breath. But behind him, Chigiri’s smile softened, almost imperceptibly. He said nothing else. And neither did Kunigami. But for both of them, the silence didn’t feel empty. That night, the temperature dropped unexpectedly, and clouds rolled in across the countryside like a quiet warning. Kunigami threw on a jacket and headed out to run a quick errand, but the second he turned the key in the ignition, his truck coughed and gave up. “Not again,” he groaned, banging his palm against the steering wheel. He popped the hood, fiddled with the cables, cursed under his breath, and still, the d@mn thing refused to start. From the kitchen window, Chigiri leaned against the frame, arms crossed, sipping on tea as he watched the growing disaster. “Your car cursed again?” he called out, too amused to pretend concern. Kunigami wiped his hands on his jeans, already annoyed. “Yeah. I’ll deal with it.” Without a word, Chigiri walked over to the key rack by the door, grabbed his spare car keys, and tossed them toward him. Kunigami caught them mid-air. “Wait... really?” Chigiri shrugged, leaning against the doorframe now, looking far too nonchalant. “What, you think I’m gonna let that cursed-ass metal coffin explode with you inside it?” Kunigami stared at him, then at the keys, then back again. His face shifted—something unspoken flickering in his expression. “Thanks,” he said quietly, and turned to leave. But before he could reach the car, he stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “Hey,” he called, voice a little rough. Chigiri looked up, brows raised. “Yeah?” Kunigami hesitated for a second, then said, “I know you don’t believe it yet... but people are gonna see you. The real you. And they’re gonna regret ever trying to bury that.” And with nothing more, he got into Chigiri’s car and drove off into the dark. Chigiri stood in the doorway long after the headlights disappeared. His heart was still beating a little too fast. It rained the next morning. Not the violent, thrashing kind that arrived with a storm's fury, but the slow, steady kind of rainfall that seemed to hush the world into stillness. The kind that softened everything it touched—rolling hills in the distance blurred to watercolor, rooftops dulled to muted slate, and even the tight, unspoken weight lodged deep in Chigiri’s chest felt just a little less sharp under the gray light filtering through the windows. He sat curled up in the corner of the living room couch, legs tucked beneath him, hands wrapped around a ceramic mug that radiated gentle warmth. The scent of black tea with a hint of ginger drifted up with the steam—Kunigami’s usual choice besides his bitter instant coffee. He always made the tea before heading out for morning runs or errands, leaving it exactly the way Chigiri liked it, but never once acknowledging that it was on purpose. Not in words, anyway. It had become a quiet ritual between them, never discussed, never questioned. Chigiri had learned to find comfort in the quiet that filled this space. It wasn’t the kind of silence that screamed with expectations or hid behind the pretense of peace. It was genuine. Soft. But today, for some reason, it felt heavier. Dense with something unsaid, like the rain pressing down against the roof, persistent and unrelenting. His phone buzzed on the armrest beside him, cutting through the quiet like a needle through cloth. 
  ISAGI:
Kaiser’s agency released another statement. Chigiri’s fingers hovered over the screen before he tapped it open, jaw tightening. 
  ISAGI:
They’re still denying he and Ness are together. They’re pinning the whole mess on you again. He stared at the screen, unmoving, eyes narrowing slightly. The faint hum of the rain against the windows seemed to get louder in his ears. 
  ISAGI:
We’re working on something. Reo and I are trying to find proof of their relationship. But until then... stay out of it, okay? Chigiri didn't reply. He locked the phone with a sharp flick of his thumb and tossed it onto the couch beside him. It bounced against the cushion and settled with a dull thud. The worst part wasn’t the lie. Not really. He had dealt with lies before, navigated through gossip columns and online hate with the grace expected of someone constantly in the spotlight. No, what truly stung was the fact that so many people wanted the lie to be true. It was easier for them to believe that he was the villain—the seductive, manipulative actor who chased attention and scandal—than to admit that their beloved golden boy, Kaiser, might be hiding a boyfriend behind the scenes. They had never really loved him, not as he truly was. Just the version of him they could mold in their minds. The sharp-tongued, beautiful enigma who glittered under studio lights and fell silent when it mattered. He’d played the part well. Too well. With a sudden, slow movement, he stood. Leaving the mug on the windowsill, he padded barefoot toward the door. His shirt clung to his back from the humidity the moment he stepped outside. Then came the rain, heavy and cold, soaking through the thin fabric in seconds. He walked off the porch without hesitation, letting his feet sink slightly into the wet grass, arms limp at his sides as the rain poured down in sheets. It chilled his skin, but it was the most real thing he’d felt in days. He didn’t hear the truck until it was nearly in the driveway. Gravel crunched under heavy tires, and Chigiri blinked slowly as the vehicle came to a stop. A moment later, the driver’s side door slammed shut. “What the hell are you doing?” Kunigami’s voice rang out, cutting through the sound of rain. He was halfway out of his jacket already, orange hair plastered to his forehead as he stormed toward him. Chigiri didn’t move. “Standing,” he replied flatly, his voice quieter than the rain but firm. Kunigami stopped a few feet away, eyes searching Chigiri’s face like he was trying to piece together a puzzle. “In the middle of a storm? Are you insane?” Water streamed down Chigiri’s face like tears, though his expression was unreadable. He turned slowly toward Kunigami, and for a long second, he said nothing. “They’re lying about me again,” he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper but laced with raw exhaustion. Kunigami’s brows drew together. His posture shifted from frustrated to concerned in an instant. “I know,” he murmured. “I saw the statement.” Chigiri took a few steps forward, close enough now that he didn’t have to raise his voice. “They know it’s not true,” he continued, every word pulled from a deeper place. “But people believe it anyway. They want to believe that I’m just some arrogant, fame-hungry mess who sleeps his way to the top. Someone they can hate and call names without guilt.” He took another step, his voice cracking faintly. “Because it’s easier than accepting that their favorite perfect boy might be gay. Might be hiding a boyfriend. Might not be theirs to worship.” Kunigami didn’t interrupt. He stood still, eyes focused, jaw clenched. “And the worst part is…” Chigiri looked up at him. “I’m used to it. I expect it now.” His breath hitched. That was the part that scared him. The normalcy of being hated. For a beat, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the rain, relentless and honest, soaking them both to the bone. Then Kunigami stepped forward. He moved carefully, slowly, like approaching a frightened animal. His hand lifted—hesitated—then gently cupped Chigiri’s cheek. His thumb brushed against the skin beneath Chigiri’s eye, wiping away something that might have been a tear… or just rain. “You shouldn’t have to be used to it,” Kunigami said softly, and his voice cracked in a way that made Chigiri’s throat tighten. “You shouldn’t have to expect that kind of cruelty.” Chigiri’s eyes locked onto his. The usual fire in them had dimmed, but there was still something flickering there—hope, maybe, or the last remnants of defiance. “I’m not going to ask if you’re okay,” Kunigami continued. “Because you’re not. But you don’t have to carry it by yourself anymore. Not when I’m right here.” He didn’t say it like a favor. He said it like a vow. The words unraveled something deep in Chigiri’s chest, a tightly knotted thread of pain and pride that he hadn’t even realized he’d been clinging to. He stepped closer, his forehead nearly touching Kunigami’s now. Their breath mingled in the cold air, warm despite the chill. The rain didn’t let up, but neither of them moved to shelter. “I don’t know why you care so much,” Chigiri said quietly, voice shaky but sincere. Kunigami looked at him, unwavering. “Because even when you’re being an arrogant pain in the ass,” he said, with the hint of a smile tugging at his lips, “you’re still more honest than anyone I’ve ever met. And maybe…” He paused, eyes softening. “Maybe I care because I don’t like seeing good people break.” Chigiri let out a short, breathy laugh. “You’re such an unlucky b@st@rd.” Kunigami huffed, the smallest smirk forming as his hand slid down to gently rest against Chigiri’s jaw. “Yeah, well… maybe not today.” The rain continued to fall. But for the first time all morning, it didn’t feel heavy. It just felt real. The next morning began in typical cursed fashion—cold. Unreasonably, bitterly cold. Chigiri Hyoma’s first coherent thought was why does my face hurt as he blinked blearily at the white puff of breath fogging in front of him. It took a second longer for him to register that he could see his breath inside the house. That was never a good sign. His second thought, naturally, was I’m going to die in this frozen cabin in the woods, and I didn’t even get my morning skincare done. Wrapped in not one, not two, but three layers of mismatched blankets, Chigiri curled up tighter on the worn couch in the living room, glaring accusingly at the fireplace like it had personally betrayed him. Which, in his opinion, it had. It looked nice—quaint, even romantic—but it wasn’t doing jack to heat the room. Somewhere in the hallway, he heard the sound of clanking tools and quiet, frustrated muttering. Kunigami Rensuke was crouched in front of the house’s ancient heater, sleeves pushed up to his elbows and a small pile of tools scattered beside him like discarded weapons in a warzone. He didn’t look up when he spoke. “It’s the regulator,” he said, voice muffled slightly as he leaned in closer. “Looks like it finally gave out. I’ll need to replace it.” Chigiri poked his head out from his cocoon of blankets, his voice filled with dramatic despair. “So what I’m hearing is—I’m going to die here. Cold and tragically beautiful. Tell the press I went out fighting.” Kunigami snorted. “You’ll survive. You’re just being dramatic.” “Hypothermia is real, mechanic man,” Chigiri snapped. “This is how it begins. I start shivering. Then I get confused and start undressing. Then I walk into the snow naked like some frostbitten nymph and never return.” Kunigami finally turned to give him a flat look, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “It’s not that cold.” Chigiri sniffed, insulted. “Spoken like someone built like a space heater. Some of us aren’t flame-forged footballers with muscles for insulation.” Kunigami stood, stretching out his back with a small wince. “I’ll drive to town after lunch. There’s a hardware store that should have the part.” There was a beat of silence before Chigiri’s voice perked up. “Can I come?” Kunigami blinked, a bit thrown. “Seriously? You hate my truck.” “I do,” Chigiri said with a syrupy smile. “But I also hate freezing to death. So really, it’s a matter of priorities.” They left around early afternoon, the sky overcast and pale with streaks of sunlight trying to break through the clouds. Kunigami’s old pickup truck rumbled down the country road, its heater working just enough to be tolerable, though they cracked the windows slightly to keep the windshield from fogging. Static-heavy pop songs played from the local country station, the kind of music Chigiri usually mocked but now didn’t mind so much. Maybe because it made Kunigami bob his head slightly, like he was half-listening and half-zoned out. Chigiri leaned his elbow on the open window, watching the trees blur past. His voice came out quieter than usual. “Do people around here know who I am?” Kunigami didn’t take his eyes off the road. “Some do. But they don’t really care.” Chigiri hummed thoughtfully. “Not even you cared when I first showed up. Kind of refreshing.” “I thought you were arrogant. And annoying,” Kunigami replied bluntly. Chigiri turned his head, smirking. “And now?” “Now,” Kunigami said with the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I think you’re still arrogant and annoying. But also… not entirely awful.” Chigiri placed a hand on his chest in mock swoon. “Wow. Be still, my heart. That’s practically a love letter.” At the local hardware store, the bell over the entrance jingled softly as Kunigami pushed open the door. Chigiri followed behind him, curious eyes scanning the rows of tools, spare parts, and the faint layer of dust that gave the place a comforting sense of permanence. The air smelled faintly of oil and old wood. From behind the counter, an older woman looked up, her eyes lighting up as soon as they landed on Kunigami. Her weathered face broke into a warm, familiar smile, and she waved as if she were greeting her own grandson returning from college. “Hey, Rensuke!” she called out brightly, leaning forward a little on the counter. “Brought a friend with you today?” Kunigami let out a low groan under his breath, barely audible, as if bracing for something. Before he could respond, Chigiri stepped forward with practiced ease, flashing his most charming PR smile—the one that had graced countless magazine covers and melted fans from Tokyo to New York. “I’m Hyoma,” he introduced himself smoothly, offering the woman a small bow of respect. “His emotional support celebrity.” The woman blinked for a second, taken aback, and then burst into laughter so hearty it echoed through the store. “Well, I’ll be damned,” she said, shaking her head fondly. “You always bring a little sunshine, don’t you, Rensuke?” Kunigami visibly winced and muttered something unintelligible under his breath. Chigiri just grinned, clearly entertained by how flustered his usually stoic friend looked. By the time they made it back to Kunigami’s place, the sun had dipped low enough that the sky was painted in warm hues of orange and lavender. The clouds had parted after a brief afternoon drizzle, leaving the world damp and glowing. Inside, Kunigami set the box of hardware supplies down beside the old space heater that had been acting up again. Without being asked, Chigiri dropped to the floor beside him, crossing his legs comfortably and picking up a screwdriver. He passed it to Kunigami with the kind of quiet ease that came from spending time with someone—not just in crowded locker rooms or under stadium lights—but in the slow, ordinary moments. “You know,” Kunigami said after a while, still focused on loosening a stubborn screw, “you’re actually pretty good at this.” Chigiri raised an eyebrow, smirking as he handed over another tool. “What can I say? I’m multitalented. I act, I destroy careers, I pass you wrenches. A full package.” Kunigami chuckled under his breath, the sound low and warm. “You don’t destroy anything.” That made Chigiri pause. He blinked, caught off guard by the quiet conviction in Kunigami’s voice. Kunigami looked up then, his amber eyes steady. “I’ve been watching your interviews,” he admitted softly. “Reading everything they’ve said about you.” Chigiri’s expression faltered. His voice dropped to a whisper, unsure. “Why?” Kunigami took a moment before responding. “To understand you better,” he said. “And because I didn’t want to believe the stuff they were saying. I needed to see it for myself.” For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched, but it didn’t feel heavy. If anything, it felt full—like something unspoken had finally been acknowledged between them. “You didn’t have to do that,” Chigiri said, voice barely audible. “I wanted to,” Kunigami replied simply. Chigiri turned back to the heater, cheeks warm—not just from the heat of the machine but from something else entirely. “Still unlucky,” he muttered, almost to himself. Kunigami smiled without looking up. “Only until you showed up.” That night, Chigiri fell asleep curled on the couch, wrapped in a soft blanket and the gentle hum of Kunigami’s space heater finally working like it was supposed to. The storm had passed, and the house had grown still. But it was the smell that woke him. His eyes snapped open, senses on high alert. Something was burning. The air was thick with smoke, and it wasn’t just from the heater. Heart racing, Chigiri threw the blanket off and shot to his feet, sprinting toward the source. He rounded the corner into the kitchen, fully expecting disaster. Maybe a full-blown fire, maybe a smoke cloud big enough to set off the sprinklers, maybe even the ghost of a cat yowling in warning. Instead, he skidded to a stop at the doorway, blinking in disbelief. Kunigami stood by the stove, tall and rumpled, holding a frying pan with an expression of concentrated suffering. The eggs in the pan were a mess—burnt to a crisp, yolks decimated, edges curled into tragic little blackened circles. The bacon had seen better days, probably during the prehistoric era. A loud sizzle-pop echoed, followed by a guilty hiss of smoke from the pan. Kunigami noticed him standing there and groaned. “Don’t say anything.” Chigiri crossed his arms. “I didn’t say a word.” Kunigami sighed, looking down at the carnage in the pan. “I was trying to surprise you.” “Well,” Chigiri said dryly, stepping forward and grabbing the pan with a towel to turn off the stove, “you definitely succeeded. Not sure if this was the life-affirming kind of surprise, though.” “Shut up,” Kunigami muttered, stepping back like a kid caught red-handed. Chigiri opened the fridge and started pulling out ingredients. “Back away, fire boy. Let the professional take over before you turn this into a full-scale emergency.” “I can cook,” Kunigami argued, though his voice lacked any real bite. Chigiri arched an eyebrow. “Sure. If we’re talking about cooking up a reason for the smoke alarm to need therapy.” Kunigami rolled his eyes but didn’t argue further as Chigiri pulled out tomatoes, fresh eggs, and a loaf of bread. “I have a cooking vlog, you know,” Chigiri said proudly. “From back in 2019. It’s called ‘Hot and Hungry.’ You should watch it sometime. Very tasteful. Pun intended.” Kunigami let out a laugh, short but real. “You’re the worst.” “And yet,” Chigiri said smugly, cracking an egg into a bowl, “you still let me use your eggs.” A little while later, they were sitting at the kitchen table with plates of warm tomato toast and scrambled eggs that actually looked edible. Kunigami took a bite and raised his eyebrows in surprise. “This is actually good,” he said, mouth half-full. Chigiri gave him a flat look. “Actually? The audacity.” Kunigami smirked, setting his fork down. “Didn’t realize I was living with a celebrity chef.” Chigiri placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “Praise from the fire god himself. I’m honored.” The rest of the morning passed in gentle silence, broken only by the occasional clink of dishes as Chigiri cleaned the kitchen. He hummed softly under his breath, a familiar pop tune, his voice light and clear. He moved barefoot across the floor with a kind of unbothered grace, hair tousled just right from sleep and the morning air. Kunigami sat on the couch nearby, flipping through a manual he clearly wasn’t reading, sneaking glances whenever Chigiri wasn’t looking. Every time he got caught, he’d shoot a glare that was more sheepish than threatening. Later, the rain finally cleared completely. They stepped outside into the backyard, the air crisp and clean, heavy with the scent of earth and grass. Kunigami busied himself near the shed, sleeves rolled up, fiddling with an old toolbox while Chigiri stretched out on a blanket spread across the soft grass. The sun peeked out from behind the clouds, casting a warm glow over everything. Chigiri exhaled deeply, arms stretched above his head. “Is this what retirement feels like?” he called lazily, eyes half-lidded under the sunlight. Kunigami didn’t look back. “You’re 22.” “And yet my soul is 85,” Chigiri replied without missing a beat. “Explains the constant complaining,” Kunigami shot back. Chigiri stuck his tongue out at him. “And your face explains the broken eggs.” In the early afternoon, the peaceful air was shattered by the sound of someone yelling from the front gate. “GUYS!” a familiar voice rang out. “I brought nature!” Chigiri and Kunigami turned just in time to see Bachira striding into the yard like a conquering hero, a basket of tomatoes in one hand and a pineapple cradled under his arm like a newborn child. Kunigami groaned. “Why… Why a pineapple?” “It spoke to me,” Bachira said simply, like that explained everything. “Also, my mom says hi. She still thinks Chigiri looks like a fairy prince.” Chigiri grinned. “Tell her I’m actually a demon in disguise.” “I did,” Bachira chirped. “She said she still loves you.” Kunigami facepalmed. The rest of the day drifted by with the warmth of old friend and the easy rhythm of nothing urgent to do. Bachira filled the backyard with laughter as he told stories from the nearby village—including one about a woman who claimed her rooster could predict the weather by how loudly it squawked at tourists. Kunigami attempted to fix a broken rake, only to make it worse. Chigiri took a series of selfies with the pineapple, using it as a prop for increasingly ridiculous poses. “Post that and I’m kicking you out,” Kunigami warned, not even glancing up from the rake. Chigiri held up his phone, camera aimed. “Say it with me~ ‘Most unlucky b@st@rd alive’~” “Hyoma.” “Smile~” Click. Chigiri beamed. “Perfect.” And for once, even with the chaos, the burned eggs, the pineapple, and Bachira’s rooster conspiracies, everything felt strangely perfect. That night, long after the rest of the house had gone still, Chigiri found himself staring at the ceiling of his dimly lit room, the shadows on the walls stretching and shrinking with each flicker from the streetlights outside. The silence around him was heavy, not in a suffocating way, but in a strange, persistent hum that made sleep impossible. He’d tossed and turned for over an hour, scrolling aimlessly on his phone, playing a lo-fi playlist that did nothing to settle the thoughts bouncing around his head. Eventually, he gave up. Pulling a hoodie over his t-shirt and sliding into a pair of socks, he padded quietly out of the room, letting instinct guide him through the dark hallway toward the kitchen. He didn’t expect anyone else to be awake. The soft yellow light above the stove cast a warm glow across the room, and seated at the small table near the window was Kunigami. Shirtless, his damp hair sticking to his forehead in lazy strands, he was hunched over a notebook, the kind of beat-up spiral-bound thing that looked like it had been tossed in and out of duffel bags too many times. He was scribbling something down in it with a black pen, his brows furrowed, eyes focused. Chigiri paused at the doorway, leaning a shoulder against the frame. “Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked, his voice quiet but not tentative. Kunigami glanced up, the corner of his mouth twitching at the sight of him. “Yeah,” he said after a pause. “Just… thinking.” Chigiri stepped into the room slowly, the floor cold against his feet despite the socks. “About what?” There was a beat of silence. Kunigami tapped his pen lightly against the page, as if debating whether to answer. Then, with a small shrug, he murmured, “Things I haven’t done.” The vague response piqued Chigiri’s interest more than it frustrated him. He moved closer, folding his arms across his chest as he tilted his head slightly. “Like what? Skydiving? Backpacking through Iceland? Trying bubble tea with actual tapioca?” Kunigami huffed a soft laugh through his nose but didn’t look away this time. Instead, he raised his eyes to meet Chigiri’s and held the gaze, the moment stretching just long enough to shift something unspoken between them. “Like letting people in,” Kunigami said finally, voice low and even. The words landed with weight—not because they were sad, but because they were honest in a way that neither of them expected. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was charged, a current humming quietly in the space between them, thick with things they didn’t have to say aloud. Chigiri pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down, resting his elbows on the table. “You let me in,” he said softly. Kunigami studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he allowed the faintest smile to form—a real one, not one of the polite, distant ones he wore around others. “Still deciding if that was a good idea,” he said, but there was no bite to it. If anything, there was something almost affectionate buried in his voice. Chigiri leaned forward, chin resting on one hand, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “I could ruin your life, you know.” Kunigami mirrored his posture, resting his forearms on the table, the lines of his arms taut and familiar. “Already did.” They exchanged small smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes but didn’t need to. They weren’t mocking or flirtatious—just quiet, dangerous, and soft in all the ways that mattered. And then, it started with a movie. Well—technically, days passed, Chigiri started making an offhand comment while pouring himself a glass of water, something like, “Is that the horror movie with the haunted lawnmower?” which prompted Kunigami to drop his pen, look up in sheer disbelief, and say, “You’ve never seen it?” in a tone so sincerely offended that Chigiri had to defend himself on instinct alone. “For your information,” Chigiri said, rolling his eyes as he leaned against the counter, “I was a little busy, you know, filming actual movies. Professional work. Not whatever fever dream you’re talking about.” “Not an excuse,” Kunigami said flatly, already rising from his chair and heading to the living room, his steps purposeful. “This movie is a classic.” “It’s cult horror film about a demonic lawnmower,” Chigiri countered, trailing after him with the air of someone reluctantly committed to the bit. “Exactly,” Kunigami replied without hesitation, turning on his old TV and navigating through the dusty interface of his busted streaming box like a man on a mission. Chigiri eventually gave up with a dramatic sigh and flopped down on the couch. “Fine. But if it’s stupid, I’m never letting you pick again.” “Deal,” Kunigami said. “But you’re going to love it.” An hour later, Chigiri was curled up on one side of the couch, knees drawn to his chest under a worn throw blanket that smelled faintly of pine and dryer sheets. The film was… bizarre. The horror wasn’t exactly scary, but it was weird enough to keep his attention. The jump scares were cheap but surprisingly effective, and Kunigami kept reacting just enough to make it fun. At one point, when a character was inexplicably dragged across a lawn while the lawnmower cackled like a demon, Chigiri leaned over, wide-eyed. “Is it… growling?” Kunigami squinted at the screen. “I think it just said, ‘you’re next.’” Chigiri gaped. “Oh my god.” They burst out laughing, the kind that started quiet but grew until they were wheezing, shoulders shaking. Chigiri’s hair fell into his eyes as he doubled over, and Kunigami swiped it away for him without thinking before catching himself and pretending it hadn’t happened. Halfway through the movie, the popcorn bowl sat tragically empty, and Kunigami stood to refill it, grumbling something about how Chigiri “ate all the good pieces.” When he returned, arms full of snacks and a cold soda, he paused in front of the couch and raised an eyebrow. “You’re taking up the whole couch.” Chigiri, now sprawled luxuriously across the cushions like a pampered cat, looked up at him with mock innocence. “I’m petite,” he said with a smirk, flipping his hair dramatically. “Make room for yourself.” Kunigami didn’t reply with words. Instead, he dropped down beside him without warning, elbowing him just enough to make him shift. The couch wasn’t large, and the space they ended up with was tight. Shoulders brushed. Knees bumped. The blanket now barely covered them both. “Comfortable?” Chigiri asked, voice lower now, the glow of the screen casting shadows across his features. Kunigami’s reply was gruff but not unfriendly. “Don’t flatter yourself.” Still, he didn’t move away. They didn’t notice when the movie ended. Or when another one started. Outside, a storm had rolled in—gentle, steady, the rain tapping rhythmically against the windows like background music to the hush that settled over them. The glow of the television dimmed as a ‘90s romcom began to play, but neither of them were really watching anymore. Their bodies were still pressed close. Chigiri’s breathing had slowed, his posture relaxed, and at some point, his head lolled to the side, coming to rest against Kunigami’s shoulder like it belonged there. Kunigami froze. His entire body stilled, like he was afraid to even exhale. He looked down slowly, and there was Chigiri—face turned slightly toward him, hair mussed from tossing around earlier, a faint crease between his brows as if even in sleep, his mind refused to completely rest. Kunigami swallowed hard. He could move. He should move. There was a pillow nearby—he could ease Chigiri down gently and retreat to a safe distance. But instead, without really meaning to, he shifted just enough to wrap an arm loosely around Chigiri’s waist. His hand came to rest against his side, not possessive, but present. He leaned his head down and let it touch the top of Chigiri’s hair, eyes fluttering closed. Bachira would be the one to find them the next morning, just as the first rays of sunlight began to sneak through the blinds in quiet, golden streaks that lit up the edges of the room. The storm from the night before had passed, leaving behind that peculiar stillness that made everything feel suspended in time. He pushed open the door without knocking, expecting maybe to find Kunigami passed out on the couch alone or watching some late-night documentary with one sock on. What he didn’t expect—what made him freeze halfway into the living room—was the sight of the television still playing quietly in the background, a can of soda untouched and sweating condensation on the table, and two familiar figures curled up together on the couch like the ending of some slow-burning indie drama. Kunigami had one arm slung around Chigiri’s waist, chin almost resting on the top of his head. Chigiri, for once, wasn’t poised or perfectly styled—his face was soft with sleep, turned slightly into Kunigami’s chest, hair a tousled halo against the orange fabric of the older boy’s hoodie. Their legs were tangled, a shared blanket half-draped over them, and it was obvious neither had moved much since they drifted off. Bachira stood there for a long second, blinking in awe at the domestic scene playing out in front of him. Then, with the slow grin of someone who had seen this kind of thing coming from miles away, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and expertly snapped a photo from the doorway with the stealth of a man who had done this sort of thing many, many times before. “Blackmail fuel for life,” he whispered to himself, admiring the shot like a proud artist. And he was absolutely right. But for that brief moment—before the teasing began, before he unleashed the chaos—there was something peaceful about what he was witnessing. Two people, both stubborn in their own ways, both carrying more than they ever said out loud, finding something wordless and grounding in each other. Something quiet. Something real. A boy who avoided the spotlight like it was poison, and another who had once lived inside it like a performance he couldn’t exit—both of them finding peace not in noise or fanfare, but in the forgotten hum of a late-night film, the gentle rhythm of rain that had tapped the windows hours ago, and the shared silence of breathing in sync with someone else for once. It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t loud or dramatic. But it mattered. And in that moment, it was enough. Bachira didn’t bother to knock or clear his throat. Instead, in the true spirit of Bachira, he shattered the peace like a baseball crashing through stained glass. “You two are so lucky I didn’t go live,” he announced, far too loudly for the early hour. Kunigami groaned low in his chest, the sound muffled as he stirred and instinctively tightened his arm around Chigiri, who shifted in response, blinking blearily up at the intrusion. His voice was still hoarse with sleep when he muttered, “Huh...? What time is it…” As Chigiri lifted his head, confusion slowly turning into realization, his cheek still warm from where it had rested against Kunigami’s chest, he froze. “Wait—what—why are you—” he started, voice rising as he noticed just how close they were. His face flushed a deep pink as he tried to untangle himself without falling off the couch. Kunigami jolted upright like he’d been electrocuted, blanket falling off his lap, and glared toward the source of the interruption. “Bachira,” he growled, voice low with embarrassment. Bachira just grinned wider, his phone still very obviously in his hand. “Good morning, lovebirds,” he chirped, entirely too pleased with himself. “Delete that,” Kunigami barked, already standing and trying to look anywhere except at Chigiri, whose hair was sticking out wildly and whose ears were still red. Chigiri ran a hand through his mess of hair and turned to Bachira with narrowed eyes. “You could’ve woken us up. Or at least had the decency to knock. You know, like a normal person.” “Oh, I thought about it,” Bachira said cheerfully, striding into the room with all the shameless energy of someone who knew he was untouchable. “Then I thought—wow, this is probably the first time Ginger here has willingly cuddled someone without panicking. I had to document it for science.” “Ginger?!” Chigiri sputtered, clearly offended. Kunigami moved toward the door, rubbing his temples like the headache had just doubled. “What do you want, Bachira?” Bachira held up both hands in mock surrender. “Relax. I just came to borrow your tools. Niko’s car is making that death-rattle noise again and apparently I have the honor of fixing it.” Kunigami pointed toward the kitchen shelf without a word. Bachira strolled over, grabbing the toolbox with practiced ease. “By the way,” he added over his shoulder, “you guys cuddle really well. It’s kinda gross. Like, get a room—but not this one, please.” The door clicked shut behind him with a theatrical little snap. Some time passed before either of them spoke again. The house was quiet now, save for the occasional hum of the fridge and the faint patter of water dripping off the eaves outside. Chigiri had retreated to the kitchen, looking like he was trying to process whether the last fifteen minutes were a dream or a nightmare. Kunigami made coffee in silence, avoiding eye contact while focusing way too hard on pouring hot water into the filter. Eventually, he slid a steaming mug across the table to Chigiri, who was sitting with one knee pulled up against his chest, spinning a spoon slowly in the dark liquid. “...Sorry about that,” Kunigami said, scratching the back of his head. “Bachira’s a menace. I should’ve locked the door.” Chigiri glanced up, his expression unreadable. “It’s fine.” “You okay?” A pause. Then a small nod. “Yeah. Just… been a while since I fell asleep next to someone and didn’t have to worry about waking up to flashbulbs.” That made Kunigami freeze for a split second, his hand hovering over his own cup. He didn’t say anything at first, just let the words settle. Chigiri let out a soft chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “Don’t let it go to your head, though. You’re still just a mechanic with one pair of jeans.” Kunigami scoffed, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “They’re comfortable.” “They’re ugly,” Chigiri countered immediately. Kunigami took a sip of his coffee. “I liked you better when you were asleep.” Chigiri raised an eyebrow. “You liked me enough to hold me all night.” There was a moment of silence—just long enough to feel it. Kunigami opened his mouth to fire back, but stopped. His gaze found Chigiri’s, and something unspoken passed between them. For all the sarcasm and snark, there was something softer under the surface. Something raw and cautious and quietly aching. “I didn’t mind,” Kunigami said after a pause, his voice lower now. Gentler. Chigiri didn’t smile right away. But the edge in his eyes dulled a bit, and he stirred his coffee slowly before replying, voice barely above a whisper. “...I know.” The day wore on lazily, the storm having washed the sky into a soft, endless blue. Chigiri eventually moved to the back steps, basking in the morning warmth like a cat, legs stretched out lazily in front of him. He wore Kunigami’s hoodie—too big on him, sleeves nearly swallowing his hands—but he didn’t seem to mind. If anything, it looked like he didn’t even notice. Behind him, Kunigami was back at work, changing the oil in someone’s pickup truck, sweat making it cling at the temples. Grease smudged across his jaw, and he wiped it with the back of his hand without a second thought. A little further off, Bachira was juggling a soccer ball and yelling advice to no one in particular. Chigiri’s phone buzzed against his thigh. It was a call from Isagi. He answered, putting the phone to his ear with a quiet hum. “Yo.” Isagi’s voice was calm but curious. “How are you holding up?” Chigiri glanced over at Kunigami before answering. “I’m… okay.” “Any drama I should know about?” Isagi asked, a touch of teasing in his voice. “Define drama.” “Anything worth leaking to the press.” Chigiri rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “If you’re asking whether I’m dating your cousin—no. I’m not.” “I didn’t say that!” Isagi said, far too quickly to be casual. “But if you were, I’d totally support it. You’d be my favorite cousin-in-law, easy.” Chigiri laughed softly, the sound real and unfiltered. “I’m just… taking it slow.” Isagi’s tone shifted, gentler now. “Good. That’s good. I’m still digging into Ness’s team—there’s something off about how they buried everything. But I might’ve found a lead.” Chigiri’s gaze drifted again, back to Kunigami, who had stood to stretch, wiping his hands with a rag. The sun caught on his broad shoulders and messy hair, and something in Chigiri’s chest unclenched slightly. “Thanks, Yoichi,” he said quietly. “For now,” Isagi added, “just let yourself breathe a little, okay?” Chigiri nodded, even though Isagi couldn’t see it. “Yeah,” he said softly, eyes lingering on the way Kunigami looked up and met his gaze across the yard. “I am.” It is been three days since the call, and now chigiri is standing in front of the mirror of Kunigami's small bathroom. “Tell me again why I’m wearing this?” Chigiri asked. The navy yukata wrapped snug around his frame, tied with a crisp white sash. It was simple, traditional, a bit faded at the edges—but it looked good on him. Of course it did. Everything did. Kunigami leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. “Because if you showed up in your usual clothes, the grannies in town would riot.” “I could’ve just worn jeans,” Chigiri said, half-teasing. “Too tight. They'd think you were gonna start a scandal at the shrine.” Chigiri snorted. “Can’t have that.” The truth was—he didn’t mind it. The yukata. The excuse to dress down and still feel like himself. No stylists. No makeup. Just fresh air and a slow evening, like the kind he never got in the city. But still, he added with a smirk, “You’re lucky I like looking good in anything.” Kunigami rolled his eyes. “Let’s go, princess.” The town’s Firefly Festival was a yearly event—an excuse to eat too much grilled mochi, lose to children at goldfish scooping, and watch glowing insects dance over the lake once the sun dipped behind the hills. By the time Chigiri and Kunigami arrived, the main square was already buzzing. Stalls lined the walkways with paper lanterns swaying above them, casting everything in warm, amber light. Bachira popped up out of nowhere with a skewer in each hand. “You guys are late! You missed the watermelon smashing!” “I have a face to protect,” Chigiri said. “Some of us don’t just run at watermelons blindfolded.” “Boring,” Bachira declared, then immediately offered him a sweet potato skewer. “Peace offering?” Chigiri took it, just barely smiling. “Fine. Truce.” The townspeople greeted Chigiri with hesitant curiosity. Not exactly starstruck, but not indifferent either. “That the actor boy?” one old man whispered. “He’s cuter in person,” his wife said loudly, smacking him with her fan. But it wasn’t judgment. It wasn’t the side-eye he braced for. It was warm. Curious. People watching with cautious hope, not claws. And when Chigiri laughed at a joke the local butcher made, or helped a little kid who tripped near the takoyaki stand, it was like he’d always been here. Like he belonged. Kunigami watched from a distance, holding an extra bottled soda, the sight of Chigiri bathed in lantern light catching him in the chest harder than he expected. Later, they climbed the hill overlooking the lake, where the fireflies started to bloom in the dark like tiny stars. “Alright,” Chigiri said, plopping onto the grass beside him. “Confess.” Kunigami blinked. “What?” “Your biggest festival regret. Everyone has one.” He hummed, leaning back on his elbows. “Okay… I once dropped my yakisoba into the river before I could eat it. I was seven. I cried for twenty minutes. My mom had to bribe me with candied apples.” Chigiri laughed, head tilted back. “Tragic. A true loss.” “Your turn.” Chigiri hesitated. Then, “I never got to go to a festival as a kid.” Kunigami turned toward him, surprised. “Seriously?” Chigiri shrugged. “Was always traveling. Or filming. Or pretending to be someone else.” A pause. “Tonight’s nice, though,” he added. “The food’s cr@p. The games are rigged. But it’s… real.” Something about his voice—so casual, so not for the cameras—made Kunigami’s chest ache. He handed him the extra soda. “Then let’s make this one count.” Chigiri looked at him. And smiled. Not the fake, charming one. Not the one that sold magazines. Something softer. Something real. “Deal.” They sat like that until the fireflies danced around them, a thousand tiny lights against the night, neither one speaking. And for once, silence didn’t feel empty. It felt full. The early morning light spilled gently through the thin white curtains, cutting across the wooden floor in lazy streaks of gold. Sunbeams filtered through the trees outside like golden fingers, casting delicate shadows that danced with the faint breeze. The scent in the air was unmistakably fresh—moist soil, dew on grass, and something else still lingering in the atmosphere: the faint, sweet tang of spent fireworks. It clung to the memory of last night’s summer festival, the echoes of laughter and crackling fire still somewhere in the back of Chigiri’s mind. He lay in bed, wrapped loosely in the soft cotton blanket, blinking slowly at the wooden ceiling beams above him. For once, there was no urgency pulling him from sleep. No early call times. No makeup chairs or photo shoots. Just the silence of the countryside and the occasional chirp of birds breaking the quiet. He wasn’t used to this—not anymore. Not after years of living in a world that demanded every inch of him. And yet, in Kunigami’s home, nestled in this quiet corner of the world, he had found something unfamiliar. Peace. Chigiri shifted slightly under the sheets, pressing his cheek against the pillow. The mattress beneath him wasn’t luxurious by any means—far from the five-star hotel beds he was used to—but it had a comforting, lived-in warmth. He stayed like that for a moment longer, savoring the calm, until the sharp, all-too-familiar buzz of his phone on the wooden bedside table pulled him back to reality. His body tensed. Groaning, he rolled over and reached for it. The screen lit up, and the name staring back at him made his stomach twist involuntarily. Isagi Yoichi. He exhaled sharply, already bracing himself for whatever this call would bring. With one final glance at the quiet room around him, he swiped to answer and lifted the phone to his ear. “Yo,” he said, voice rough from sleep. Isagi didn’t waste time. His tone was clipped, strained. “Chigiri, I need you to come back. It’s important.” The sleep left Chigiri’s body in an instant. He sat up, rubbing a hand over his face as confusion set in. “Wait… what do you mean ‘come back’? What happened?” Isagi’s voice remained steady, but there was a tension behind his words that wasn’t there before. “We’ve managed to calm most of it down. Your name’s nearly cleared. The agency’s been working behind the scenes, and the media’s slowly letting it go. But they want you to make a public appearance in Tokyo. Soon. You need to show your face again, remind people who you really are.” Chigiri frowned, his heart starting to race. “I thought we were still figuring that part out? You said we’d wait until it was safe.” “I know,” Isagi said quickly, almost too quickly. “Plans changed. They want you to attend a press event next week. Nothing huge, just something to ease you back in. But they’re pushing for it. If you don’t show up, it’ll look like you’re hiding.” There it was again—that word. Hiding. Like that was all he’d been doing these past few weeks. He looked down at the phone in his hand, his thoughts swirling. He’d been thinking, more and more lately, that maybe he didn’t need to go back. That maybe the quiet here, away from flashing lights and paparazzi, could be enough. But hearing Isagi speak now made that dream feel like a soap bubble—delicate, beautiful, and always seconds from bursting. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Right… Okay. I get it,” he murmured, though the words left a bitter taste in his mouth. There was a pause, and for a brief second, Isagi’s voice softened. “Hey… I know this sucks. But we’ll handle it, alright? You’re not doing this alone.” And with that, the line went dead. The silence that followed felt louder than the conversation itself. Chigiri stared blankly at the wall in front of him, the weight of it all suddenly slamming back onto his shoulders—the expectations, the responsibility, the public’s gaze. He didn’t even notice Kunigami until he heard a low voice from the doorway. “Was that Yoichi?” Chigiri turned slightly, startled, his eyes meeting Kunigami’s. The taller boy stood leaning against the frame, his damp hair tousled and a white towel slung casually over his shoulder. He’d just come from a shower, the scent of soap and something warm clinging faintly to his skin. He looked calm, unreadable—but there was a flicker of concern in his eyes. Chigiri looked away first, turning his gaze back toward the morning light outside the window. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “He says I need to go back. To Tokyo.” There was a beat of silence. Kunigami stepped fully into the room, his bare feet making no sound against the wood as he approached the bed. “Thought you were still working things out.” “I was,” Chigiri admitted, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “Guess the agency wants to speed things up. They need me to show my face. Prove I’m not running away.” Kunigami stopped at the edge of the bed, folding his arms across his chest. “And what do you want?” That question caught Chigiri off guard. He blinked, glancing up at him. “What?” Kunigami’s tone remained steady, but there was something quieter beneath it. “Do you want to go back? Or are you just doing what they want again?” Chigiri didn’t answer right away. He thought of the long walks through the quiet town. Of the late-night talks with Kunigami. Of how no one here knew him as the actor, the scandal, the broken star. They just knew him as Chigiri Hyoma. And for the first time in years, that had felt like enough. “I don’t know,” he said finally, his voice low. “I just know I have to.” Kunigami stared at him for a moment longer, then slowly exhaled. “You could stay, you know.” Chigiri’s eyes flicked up to his. “What?” “You could’ve stayed here,” Kunigami said again, softer now. “If that’s what you really wanted. This place, the quiet—it’s not much, but it’s real. You don’t have to be anything more than yourself here.” Those words settled in Chigiri’s chest like a stone. He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way his throat tightened. “But I still want to clear my name,” he whispered. “I want to be able to face people again.” Kunigami nodded once, his expression unreadable. Then, without another word, he stepped closer and gently reached out, fingers threading lightly through Chigiri’s hair. The gesture was tender, grounding. “You’re not obligated to be someone you’re not,” he said quietly. “Just don’t let the city make you forget that.” Chigiri didn’t trust himself to speak. His heart was caught in his throat, and all he could do was nod. The rest of the morning passed quietly. Chigiri packed slowly, folding clothes that barely fit in the bag he’d arrived with. Kunigami moved around the house, not saying much, but his presence lingered nearby—steady and dependable, even in silence. When the time came to leave, Chigiri stood at the doorway, bag slung over his shoulder. He hesitated. Kunigami stepped up beside him and placed a firm hand on his arm. “I’ll drive you to the station.” There was no room for argument in his tone, and Chigiri didn’t try. The drive had been quiet for quite some time now—quiet, but not uncomfortable. It wasn’t the kind of silence that demanded to be broken, nor was it weighed down by unspoken arguments. Rather, it was a silence born from everything that had already been said, and everything that no longer needed to be. The only sounds filling the space between them were the steady hum of the engine and the soft whisper of the wind threading its way through the trees lining the rural road. The sun was low in the sky, casting long golden beams that flickered through the windshield, painting fleeting patterns on the dashboard and on Chigiri’s hands, folded tightly in his lap. Every so often, Chigiri’s eyes would drift toward Kunigami, studying the hard line of his jaw and the way his brows furrowed in concentration as he kept his focus pinned to the road ahead. There was tension in his posture—something unreadable—but he didn’t say a word. He hadn’t for the last ten minutes. As the truck rumbled closer to the train station, the atmosphere inside grew heavier, more difficult to ignore. The closer they got, the more Chigiri felt that old familiar knot forming in his stomach—the one that came with goodbyes he didn’t want to say. His fingers curled slightly on his thigh, nails digging into the fabric of his pants. The small-town streets, once unfamiliar, now felt like something he wasn’t quite ready to leave behind. The vehicle rolled to a slow stop just beside the curb, the tires crunching softly against the gravel. The station loomed ahead, modest in size but teeming with the quiet bustle of people preparing to go elsewhere. Still, neither of them moved for a second. Finally, unable to take the weight of the silence anymore, Chigiri shifted slightly in his seat and spoke, his voice soft but earnest. “Thanks... for everything. I mean it.” Kunigami didn’t meet his eyes. He gave a short, almost imperceptible nod, his hands still gripping the steering wheel. “Yeah. Just... don’t forget us.” The words were simple, but they landed with weight, heavier than Chigiri expected. He hesitated, reaching for the door handle, but something held him back. For a moment longer, he looked at Kunigami, hoping—maybe foolishly—that the other boy would say something else. Anything. And Kunigami did, though his voice was rough around the edges, like he was forcing it through something caught in his throat. “Call me when you get there, alright? Let me know you’re safe. And... don’t let the city change you too much.” A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of Chigiri’s lips, fleeting but real. “I’ll try,” he promised. With that, he stepped out of the truck and onto the pavement, the noise of the station quickly swallowing him up. The air was different here—sharper, less comforting. He didn’t look back until he was halfway up the steps to the platform, and when he did, he saw the truck still parked there, Kunigami’s silhouette visible behind the windshield, unmoving. Chigiri swallowed hard and turned away. As the train pulled into the station and the crowd surged around him, Chigiri felt like he had left something vital behind. Even as he boarded the train and found his seat, he couldn’t shake the image of golden sunlight filtering through the trees, the quiet comfort of that little house, and Kunigami standing in the doorway—not saying much, but offering something real. Something safe. Something he wasn’t entirely sure he was ready to let go of.'
User: Summarize the chapter based on the content provided, ensuring to follow the set format and emphasize key aspects within the specified length.
User: Summarize the chapter based on the content provided, ensuring to follow the set format and emphasize key aspects within the specified length.
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