Chapter Text
The Tokyo afternoon had settled into that peculiar lazy gold that only exists on days when no one has anywhere to be. Rain streaked the windows of the &Team dorm in gentle diagonals, turning the city outside into a watercolor painting of grays and soft blues. Inside, the living room was a sprawl of limbs and blankets and the quiet hum of existence that comes when nine people have learned to breathe in the same space.
Taki was half-buried under a fuzzy throw blanket, his head resting against Harua's shoulder while Harua's fingers absently played with the ends of Taki's hair. On his other side, Maki had somehow managed to drape himself across both Taki and the arm of the couch, his phone dangling precariously from one hand as he scrolled through something that made him snort every few seconds. Kei and Fuma had claimed the large floor cushions—Fuma's legs thrown over Kei's lap, Kei's arm stretched behind Fuma's shoulders. Nicholas was sprawled upside down on the recliner, feet dangling over the back, while Euijoo sat cross-legged on the floor beside him, leaning back against Nicholas's dangling arm like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Jo had somehow ended up as the anchor of the couch, his long frame stretched from one end to the other, with Yuma tucked into the curve of his side like a cat seeking warmth. The drama playing on the television had long since faded into background noise—some melodrama about first loves and missed chances, the kind of show that made everyone pretend they weren't paying attention while secretly absorbing every word.
Kei, perched on the arm of the couch nearest the kitchen, was the only one who seemed to be watching with any real investment. His eyes were soft, focused on the screen where the male lead was about to confess his feelings under a rainstorm. At twenty-nine, Kei had seen enough of love—the messy, beautiful, heartbreaking reality of it—to recognize the fantasy being sold on screen. But that didn't stop him from leaning forward slightly, his heart still young enough to hope.
"The first time I fell in love," Yuma said suddenly, his voice carrying that dreamy quality it got when he was thinking about something far away, "I was fifteen. He was in my dance class. I didn't even know I liked boys until I saw him smile."
The confession landed softly in the room, no different than if Yuma had announced what he wanted for dinner. That was the thing about &Team—somewhere along the way, they'd stopped treating these revelations as revelations at all. They were just facts, like birthdays and blood types and favorite ramen toppings.
"I had a girlfriend in middle school," Maki chimed in, not looking up from his phone. "She was sweet. But then in high school, there was this guy in my literature club who used to read poetry out loud, and I was like... oh. Oh. So yeah. Both."
"Both is good," Nicholas said from his inverted position, and everyone could hear the grin in his voice. "I think I always knew. Boys, girls, everyone in between—if you're cute, you're cute. Taiwan was... not always the easiest place for that conversation, but my parents came around."
EuiJoo shifted on the floor, his fingers tracing patterns on Nicholas's arm. "I didn't figure it out until I was nineteen. Which feels late, looking back. But I was so focused on training, on debut, on everything except myself. And then one day I looked at another trainee—" he paused, a small smile tugging at his lips, "—and I thought, 'Oh. That's why I never understood what the girls were talking about.'"
"Gay awakening through dance practice," Fuma said dryly. "Classic."
"Shut up, you came out at twenty-two."
"And I'm still the first one of us to do it publicly." Fuma's voice carried no pride, just a simple statement of fact. He'd been twenty-two, nervous, convinced that telling the world he was gay would end everything he'd worked for. Instead, the world had mostly shrugged, and his members had hugged him so tightly he'd thought his ribs might crack. That night, EuiJoo had cried—happy tears, he'd insisted, though his face had been a mess—and Kei had ordered enough takeout to feed a small army. The memory still sat warm in Fuma's chest, even years later.
"I was twenty when I figured out the pansexual thing," Jo said quietly from his spot against Yuma. His voice was soft, the way it always was when he talked about something that mattered. "I kept waiting to care about gender. About parts, about labels, about all of it. And I realized I just... didn't. If I like you, I like you. Everything else is just details."
Harua's fingers paused in Taki's hair. "Omnisexual, baby," he said, tapping Taki's head gently. "That's me. I notice the gender, I just don't care about it. Different flavor, same meal."
"Beautifully put," Kei laughed.
The conversation drifted then, the way conversations do when people are comfortable enough to let silences breathe. The drama played on, the rain fell, and somewhere between one commercial break and the next, Nicholas's voice cut through the haze.
"Hey, Taki."
Taki blinked, surfacing from the warm fog of half-sleep. "Hmm?"
"You never answered. What about you? When did you fall in love?"
The question was simple. Casual. The kind of question friends ask each other on rainy afternoons when there's nothing better to do than share pieces of themselves. Taki should have had an answer. Everyone falls in love, right? Everyone has that story—the first crush, the first heartbreak, the first time their heart stuttered in their chest because someone smiled at them.
Taki opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He searched his memory—really searched it, the way you search a room when you've lost something important. There were moments, weren't there? Times when his heart had beaten faster, when his cheeks had felt warm, when he'd wanted to be near someone. But when he pulled those memories out and held them up to the light, they looked different than everyone else's stories.
There was the time he'd watched Fuma and Kei perform together, the way they moved like two parts of the same body. Taki had felt something then—awe, maybe. Admiration. The kind of feeling that made him want to practice until 2 AM so he could be that good too. But love? Romantic love? The word felt wrong in his mouth, like trying to force a key into a lock it wasn't made for.
There were the anime characters he'd declared "attractive" to anyone who would listen. But when he really thought about it, he didn't actually want to date them. He just liked looking at them. The way you might like looking at a sunset or a particularly well-drawn piece of art. Appreciation, not attraction.
His silence stretched on. One second. Five. Ten.
Harua shifted beside him, the movement jerking Taki's shoulder. "Taki? You okay?"
"I..." Taki's voice came out strange, hollow. "I don't know."
"What do you mean you don't know?" Maki had finally looked up from his phone, his brow furrowed. "Like, you don't remember? Or you don't want to say?"
"Both? Neither?" Taki pulled his knees up to his chest, suddenly feeling very small. "I just... I can't think of anything. Anyone. I've never—" He stopped, swallowed. "Have I ever been in love?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and strange. Around him, his members were exchanging looks—not judgmental ones, not unkind ones, just the kind of glances people give when they sense something important is happening and they don't quite know what to do with it.
"Everyone falls in love eventually," Nicholas said, but even he sounded uncertain. "Maybe it just hasn't happened yet."
"Maybe," Taki echoed, but the word felt like a lie.
He didn't sleep well that night. The dorm was quiet, everyone tucked into their rooms, the familiar sounds of breathing and occasional snoring filling the darkness. But Taki lay awake, staring at the ceiling, running through the question over and over like a scratched record.
When did you fall in love?
When did you fall in love?
When did you fall in love?
---
The days that followed were strange. Not outwardly—Taki still laughed at Maki's jokes, still let Harua braid his hair, still showed up to practice on time and gave everything he had. But inside, something had shifted. A door had opened that Taki hadn't known existed, and now he couldn't figure out how to close it.
He started paying attention in a way he never had before.
He watched the way EuiJoo looked at Nicholas when Nicholas wasn't watching—soft and full and a little bit terrified, like Nicholas was something precious that might break if held too tightly. He noticed how Kei's face changed when he talked about his exes, that particular mix of fondness and ache that came from loving someone who wasn't yours anymore. He saw the way Jo's hand would find Yuma's in crowded rooms, not possessive, just... connected.
Is that what love feels like? Taki wondered. Is that what I'm supposed to feel?
He started watching dramas differently too, paying attention to the confession scenes, the first kisses, the way characters would describe their feelings in breathless monologues. “My heart races when I see you. I can't stop thinking about you. You're the first thing on my mind when I wake up and the last thing before I fall asleep.”
Taki tried to apply those descriptions to the people in his life. His members. His friends. The strangers on the street who caught his attention for one reason or another.
Nothing fit.
His heart raced when he danced, when the music was just right and his body moved without thinking. But that wasn't about anyone—that was about the joy of movement itself. He thought about his members constantly, but that was because they were his family, his coworkers, his entire world compressed into nine bodies. And waking up? His first thought was usually about what they were having for breakfast or whether he'd remembered to charge his phone.
Maybe I'm broken, he thought one night, lying in bed while everyone else slept. Maybe there's something wrong with me.
The thought burrowed into his chest like a splinter, small but sharp, impossible to ignore.
He started researching in secret. Late at night, when the dorm was dark and everyone else's breathing had evened out, Taki would pull out his phone, turn the brightness all the way down, and type questions into the search bar like they were secrets he was confessing to a priest.
Why haven't I ever fallen in love?
Is it normal to not have crushes?
What does romantic attraction feel like?
The answers were confusing. Some people said he just hadn't met the right person yet. Others said he might be "late bloomer." A few suggested therapy, which made Taki's stomach clench with anxiety because what if there was something wrong with him? What if a doctor could diagnose him with some kind of romantic deficiency?
Then, one night, his search took him somewhere different.
What is aromantic/asexual?
The page loaded, and Taki began to read.
Aromantic: experiencing little to no romantic attraction to others.
Asexual: experiencing little to no sexual attraction to others.
Many aromantic and asexual people still desire close relationships, but those relationships may look different from traditional romantic partnerships. Some aroace people form queerplatonic relationships. Others live happily without any partnerships at all. The key is that there is nothing wrong with you—you are not broken, and you are not alone.
Taki read the words once. Then twice. Then a third time, slower, letting each sentence sink into his bones.
Little to no romantic attraction.
Little to no sexual attraction.
He thought about all the times his members had talked about crushes, about dates, about that fluttery feeling in their chests when someone smiled at them. He had never felt that. He had nodded along, offered support, celebrated their happiness—but he had never felt it.
He thought about the way Nicholas and Maki talked about finding people attractive. The way they could look at a stranger and feel something immediate, something physical. Taki had never understood that. He could appreciate that someone was good-looking the way he could appreciate a painting or a well-designed building, but the idea of wanting to do something about it? The idea of feeling drawn to someone's body in a way that wasn't just admiration for their dancing or their fashion sense?
Nothing.
This is me, he realized, and the thought should have been a relief. Finally, an answer. Finally, a name for the thing that had made him feel so different.
Instead, the panic set in.
Because if he was aromantic—if he was asexual—then what did that mean for his future?
He would never fall in love. He would never have that moment his members talked about, the one where the world shifted and suddenly everything made sense. He would never hold someone's hand and feel his heart race. He would never kiss someone and feel fireworks. He would never come home to a partner who loved him in that particular, exclusive way that romantic love was supposed to be.
I'm going to die alone.
The thought hit him like a physical blow. He curled into himself, phone falling to the mattress, breath coming too fast. Around him, the dorm was silent. In the room he shared with Yuma and Harua, he could hear the soft rustle of Harua turning over in his sleep, Yuma's steady breathing. They were all there, so close, and yet Taki had never felt more alone in his life.
He couldn't stay here. If he started crying—and he could feel the tears building behind his eyes, hot and insistent—he would wake them up. He couldn't explain this. Not yet. Not when he barely understood it himself.
Taki slipped out of bed, moving on silent feet. The hallway was dark, but he knew the dorm by heart. Past the door to the room where Kei, Maki, and Jo slept—he could hear Maki's faint snoring through the wood. Past the room where Fuma, EJ, and Nicholas slept—a sliver of light under the door; someone was still awake, maybe reading. He didn't stop.
The kitchen was cold and empty, lit only by the soft glow of the rice cooker's digital clock. Taki leaned against the counter, pressed his fist against his mouth, and let the tears come.
Fuma had always been a light sleeper. It was something about the way he'd been trained—first as a dancer, then as the sub leader, then as someone who had learned to listen for the small sounds that meant someone needed him. That night, he'd woken up to the sound of a door opening, then soft footsteps padding past his room.
He'd glanced at the other beds. EuiJoo was curled on his side, face peaceful. Nicholas had kicked off his blankets, as usual. Neither of them had stirred.
Fuma waited. Counted to thirty. Then, when he heard the faint sound of the kitchen faucet dripping—someone had turned it on and off—he got up.
The kitchen light was off, but the hallway light spilled in enough for him to see the silhouette hunched against the counter. Shoulders shaking. Breath hitching in that particular way that meant someone was trying very hard not to be heard.
"Taki?"
Taki flinched, spinning around. Even in the dim light, Fuma could see how red his eyes were, how wet his cheeks. He looked young—younger than his twenty-one years self, young and scared and so terribly lost.
"Fuma," Taki breathed. "I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep. I'm fine."
"You're in the kitchen crying at two in the morning."
"I'm fine."
Fuma didn't argue. He just crossed the kitchen, pulled out a chair at the small dining table, and sat down. Then he patted the seat beside him.
Taki hesitated for a long moment. Then his shoulders slumped, and he shuffled over, collapsing into the chair like his strings had been cut. He didn't look at Fuma. He stared at his own hands, clenched in his lap, knuckles white.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The refrigerator hummed. The tap dripped. Somewhere in the distance, a car splashed through the rain-soaked streets.
Then Taki said, very quietly, "Fuma, can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"When you realized you were gay... were you scared?"
The question hung between them. Fuma thought about that night eight years ago, sitting in his childhood bedroom with his hands shaking, a message half-typed on his phone. He'd been twenty, already a trainee, already surrounded by people who loved him—and he'd been terrified that telling the truth would make all of it disappear.
"Yes," he said finally. "I was terrified."
"But you told everyone anyway."
"Eventually. But I had to figure it out myself first." Fuma reached out, resting his hand on Taki's knee, grounding him. "Why are you asking?"
Taki was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, like he was confessing something shameful.
"I think... I might be aromantic. And asexual."
The words landed softly, but Fuma felt their weight. He didn't react—didn't gasp or pull away or say anything that might make Taki feel judged. He just sat there, hand on Taki's knee, waiting.
"I've been researching it," Taki continued, the words coming faster now, tumbling over each other like he was afraid he'd lose his nerve. "And it fits. It fits so perfectly. I've never had a crush. I've never wanted to date anyone. When everyone was talking about love earlier, I couldn't think of a single person who made me feel that way. And I thought—I thought maybe I was just broken, or late, or something. But I'm not. I'm not broken, there's just... nothing there. There's never been anything there."
"Okay," Fuma said.
"That's it? 'Okay'?"
"What else am I supposed to say? You're telling me something about yourself. I'm listening." Fuma shifted in his chair, turning to face Taki fully. "Is that all? Or is there more?"
Taki's face crumpled. "I'm scared, Fuma. I'm so scared. Because if I'm aromantic, that means I'm never going to fall in love. I'm never going to have what everyone else has. I'm never going to come home to someone who—who looks at me the way EuiJoo looks at Nicholas, or the way you look at Kei. I'm going to be alone forever, and everyone's going to pair off and have their own lives, and I'm going to be the one left behind."
The words poured out of him, raw and messy, the kind of confession that only comes in the dark when you've been holding it in for too long.
"And the worst part is," Taki continued, voice cracking, "I don't even know if I want those things. I don't know if I want to fall in love. I don't know if I want someone to hold my hand or kiss me or any of it. But I'm supposed to want it, right? Everyone wants it. Everyone talks about it like it's the most important thing in the world. So if I don't want it, what's wrong with me?"
"Nothing," Fuma said, firm and clear. "Nothing is wrong with you."
"But—"
"Taki. Listen to me." Fuma leaned forward, catching Taki's eyes in the dim light. "You are not broken. You are not wrong. And you are not going to be alone."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." Fuma's voice was steady, unwavering. "Because you have us. You have eight other idiots who love you more than anything in this world. And I know it's not the same. I know romantic love is different. But Taki, you have never been alone, and you never will be. Not because someone's in love with you. Because you're family. And family doesn't leave."
Taki's breath hitched. "But what if everyone finds someone? What if you all get married and have kids and move out and I'm just..."
"Then we'll have the world's most chaotic apartment in the building next door, and you'll come over for dinner every night, and we'll still be annoyingly clingy even when we're old and gray." Fuma reached out, grabbed Taki's hand, squeezed it tight. "Love isn't just romantic, Taki. The love we have for each other? That's real. That matters. And if you never want anything more than that, that's okay. That's more than okay."
Taki was crying again, but it was different this time—less desperate, more like something releasing. "You really think so?"
"I know so." Fuma pulled him forward, wrapped his arms around him, held him close the way he'd held all his members at one point or another. "And I'm proud of you. For figuring this out. For telling me. That takes guts."
"I haven't told anyone else."
"You don't have to. Not until you're ready."
"What if I'm never ready?"
"Then you never tell them. Or you tell them when you're eighty. Or you write it on a cake and make us all read it at your birthday party. There's no timeline, Taki. There's no right way to do this."
Taki laughed—a wet, shaky sound, but a laugh nonetheless. "A cake?"
"I'm very committed to dramatic reveals."
They stayed like that for a while, Fuma's arms around Taki, Taki's face buried in Fuma's shoulder. At some point, Fuma started rubbing slow circles on Taki's back, the way he did when any of them were upset, and Taki's breathing gradually evened out.
"Can I ask you something else?" Taki mumbled against Fuma's shirt.
"Anything."
"How did you know? That you were ready to tell everyone?"
Fuma was quiet for a moment, thinking. "I didn't," he admitted. "I just... reached a point where keeping it inside felt worse than the fear of telling. It's not about being ready. It's about being tired. Tired of hiding, tired of pretending, tired of feeling like there was something wrong with me that needed to be a secret."
"But you were scared anyway."
"Terrified. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely type the message." Fuma pulled back slightly, looking at Taki's face. "But then I sent it. And EuiJoo called me within thirty seconds. And he said—" Fuma's voice softened, "—he said, 'Okay. So? You're still you. Come eat dinner.'"
Taki smiled, small but real. "That sounds like EuiJoo."
"That's exactly EuiJoo." Fuma squeezed his shoulder. "And that's going to be all of us, Taki. When you're ready. Not before. But when you are, we'll be here. Every single one of us."
Taki nodded, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Thank you, Fuma. For... for being awake. For listening."
"Always." Fuma stood up, stretched. "Now come on. You need sleep, and I need to not be found sitting in the kitchen at 2 AM by Nicholas, who will absolutely make fun of me."
Taki laughed again—still shaky, but warmer this time. He let Fuma guide him back toward the hallway, toward the room where Yuma and Harua were still sleeping soundly.
"Fuma?" Taki whispered at his door.
"Yeah?"
"I love yo—" the words hung in Taki's tongue. Saying it felt awkward. "Just... I love you."
Fuma's smile was soft in the darkness. "I love you too, Taki. In whatever way you need me to."
---
It took Taki three weeks to be ready.
Three weeks of research, of late-night conversations with Fuma, of sitting with the label and trying to make it fit. Three weeks of watching his members and realizing that his love for them wasn't less than romantic love—it was just different. Three weeks of learning that being aroace didn't mean he was incapable of love, just that the shape of his love didn't match the shape society had told him it was supposed to take.
Fuma had been patient through all of it. He'd answered questions Taki was too embarrassed to ask anyone else "So I'll never want to have sex? Ever? What if I change my mind? What if I don't? Is that allowed?".
He'd held Taki's hand during the bad nights, the ones where the fear crept back in and whispered that he was doomed to loneliness. He'd shared stories of his own journey—the confusion, the denial, the eventual acceptance that had let him breathe for the first time in years.
"The label isn't the point," Fuma had said one night, when Taki was agonizing over whether "asexual" or "aromantic" or "aroace" was the right term. "The point is that you understand yourself better. The point is that you're not alone. Call yourself whatever feels right. Or don't call yourself anything at all. That's allowed too."
Taki had cried at that—happy tears, mostly, mixed with relief. He'd never had anyone tell him that not having a label was an option. It felt like permission. It felt like freedom.
The night he decided to tell everyone, there was no special occasion. They were all in the living room again, this time playing some ridiculous board game that Nicholas was losing spectacularly. The energy was light, easy, the kind of chaos that came from people who had known each other long enough to finish each other's sentences.
Taki's heart was pounding so hard he was sure everyone could hear it.
He caught Fuma's eye across the room. Fuma tilted his head slightly—now?—and Taki nodded, a tiny movement that felt like stepping off a cliff.
"Hey," Taki said, and his voice came out steadier than he felt. "Can I... can I say something?"
The room went quiet instantly. That was the thing about &Team—when someone needed to talk, everyone listened.
EuiJoo set down his cards. "Of course. What's up?"
Taki stood up, because sitting felt wrong, felt too small for what he was about to do. His hands were shaking, so he shoved them in his pockets. Around him, his members were watching with varying degrees of concern—Harua's brow furrowed, Maki sitting up straighter, Kei reaching over to grip Fuma's knee like he already knew this was important.
"I've been doing a lot of thinking," Taki started. "About what Nicholas asked, that day. About falling in love."
Nicholas winced. "Taki, if I made you uncomfortable—"
"No, no. You didn't. You just... you asked a question I didn't have an answer to. And I've been trying to find one ever since." Taki took a breath, let it out slow. "I don't know if any of you have noticed, but I've never dated anyone. I've never had a crush. I've never looked at someone and felt... that. The thing everyone talks about. The heart-racing, can't-stop-thinking-about-them, want-to-hold-their-hand thing."
The room was very still.
"I thought something was wrong with me," Taki continued, and his voice cracked slightly on the word wrong. "I thought maybe I was broken, or late, or just... not trying hard enough. But I've been reading about it, and talking to Fuma, and I think—I think I finally figured it out."
He paused, looked at each of them in turn—Kei's steady gaze, Yuma's soft encouragement, Harua's barely-hidden tears, Jo's quiet intensity.
"I'm aromantic. And asexual." The words came out clear, no hesitation. "It means I don't experience romantic attraction. Or sexual attraction. I never have. And I probably never will."
Silence.
Then Kei said, very calmly, "Okay."
"Okay?" Taki blinked. "That's it? Just 'okay'?"
"I mean, is there more?" Kei shrugged, but his eyes were warm. "You told us something about yourself. We heard you. What else is there to say?"
"But I just said I'm never going to fall in love."
"And? You've never fallen in love before, and we've loved you anyway. Why would that change now?"
Taki's throat tightened. "Because I thought—I thought you'd be disappointed. Or think I was weird. Or—"
"Taki." EuiJoo stood up, crossing the room in three quick strides. He stopped in front of Taki, close enough to touch but not touching, giving him space. "Can I hug you?"
Taki nodded, and EuiJoo pulled him into his arms, held him tight. EuiJoo was the leader, the one who held them all together, and his hugs always felt like safety.
"I'm not disappointed," EuiJoo said against Taki's hair. "I'm proud of you. That took courage."
"EuiJoo's right," Nicholas said from his spot on the floor. "Coming out is scary. No matter what label you're using. And you did it anyway. That's badass."
"Badass?" Maki snorted. "Taki crying in front of us is badass now?"
"You're crying too, idiot."
Maki swiped at his eyes, which were definitely wet. "Shut up. The atmosphere is just... emotional."
Harua was already moving, joining the hug pile, wrapping his arms around both EuiJoo and Taki. "I'm so glad you told us," he whispered. "I'm so glad you figured it out. You deserve to know yourself. You deserve to be happy."
One by one, they gathered—Yuma and Fuma and Kei and Nicholas and Jo, even Maki pretending he wasn't crying while he definitely was. They formed a circle around Taki, a mass of arms and warmth and whispered reassurances.
"Does this mean we can't hug you anymore?" EuiJoo asked, pulling back just enough to look at Taki's face. "Because I need to know if I have to stop carrying you around like a doll."
Taki laughed, watery but real. "No. I still want hugs. I still want all of it. That's the thing—I still love you guys. I just love you differently than you love each other. Is that okay?"
"More than okay," Yuma said firmly.
"Can I still kiss your cheek?" Kei asked. "Because I've been doing that for years and I don't plan to stop."
"You can still kiss my cheek."
"What about our Valentine's date?" Maki piped up. "The ramen shop? Are we still doing that? Or is that too couple-y?"
Taki stared at him. "Maki, we go get ramen every week."
"Yeah, but we called it a date! Is that weird now?"
"No. It's not weird. We can still call it a date." Taki paused. "Just... not a romantic date. A friend date. A... a—"
"A platonic date," Jo said softly from somewhere behind the pile. "Those are a thing. They're allowed."
Taki turned, found Jo standing slightly apart from the group, his expression soft and unreadable. "Yeah," Taki said. "Platonic date. That's perfect."
Someone started crying—maybe Harua, maybe Kei, maybe all of them—and the hug pile collapsed into laughter and tears and the particular chaos that only &Team could create. They ended up sprawled across the living room floor, blankets dragged down from the couch, takeout ordered from three different places because no one could agree on what they wanted.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, Fuma caught Taki's eye and smiled. See? the smile said. I told you.
Taki smiled back.
---
In the weeks and months that followed, something shifted between Taki and Jo.
It wasn't dramatic. There was no grand confession, no sudden realization, no lightning bolt moment. Instead, it was a thousand small things—the way Jo started sitting beside Taki more often, the way he began bringing Taki his favorite snacks without being asked, the way he looked at Taki with something soft and wondering, like Taki was a puzzle he was trying to solve and enjoying every moment of the attempt.
Taki noticed, because he wasn't blind. But he didn't know what to do with it.
Jo was... Jo. Quiet, steady, warm. He was the kind of person who listened more than he talked, who observed more than he participated, but when he did speak, his words carried weight. He was also, Taki was beginning to realize, ridiculously thoughtful.
It started with tea. Taki had mentioned once—just once, in passing—that he liked his tea with a specific amount of honey, not too sweet, not too bitter. The next day, Jo handed him a cup that was perfect. The day after that, another perfect cup. Within a week, Taki didn't even have to ask. Jo just knew.
Then came the little notes. Jo would leave them in Taki's practice bag, on his pillow, tucked into his shoe. Nothing elaborate—just a smiley face, or a single word: "Good job today," or "You looked happy in rehearsal." Once, a small drawing of a cat that looked suspiciously like the stray they'd seen near the convenience store.
Taki kept them all. He didn't know why. He just... kept them.
"What's going on with you and Jo?" Harua asked one night, flopping onto Taki's bed. They were in their room—Yuma already asleep in the top bunk, Harua and Taki sharing whispers in the dark.
"Nothing," Taki said, but his voice came out weird.
"Taki. I've known you for years. You're blushing."
"I'm not blushing. I'm... warm."
"You're always cold."
Taki buried his face in his pillow. "I don't know," he mumbled. "He's just... nice. He's always been nice. But now it feels different. Not different-bad. Just... different."
"Do you like him?"
"I like everyone."
"You know what I mean."
Taki was quiet for a long time. Did he like Jo? He liked spending time with Jo. He liked the way Jo made him feel—seen, understood, accepted. He liked that Jo never pushed, never asked for more than Taki was willing to give. He liked that Jo remembered things Taki had forgotten he'd said.
But was it like like? Was it romantic? Taki didn't think so. He didn't feel that fluttery, heart-racing thing everyone described. He just felt... comfortable. Safe. Warm.
"I don't know," he finally whispered. "I don't know what I feel. I just know I don't want him to stop."
Harua was quiet for a moment. Then he reached over and patted Taki's head. "Maybe that's enough," he said. "Maybe you don't have to know right now."
Meanwhile, Jo was having his own private crisis.
He'd known he liked Taki for a while—months, maybe longer. It had started small, the way these things often do. A smile here, a laugh there. The way Taki's entire face lit up when he danced. The way he curled into hugs like he was made of something soft and precious. The way he said "thank you" like he really meant it.
But somewhere along the line, liked had turned into something deeper. Something that made Jo's chest ache when Taki laughed with someone else. Something that made him want to protect Taki from everything bad in the world. Something that made him lie awake at night thinking about nothing and everything.
The problem was, Jo knew Taki was aroace. Taki had told all of them, clear and honest, and Jo had accepted it without question. He'd meant it when he said "okay." He'd meant it when he said Taki's smile was enough.
But wanting something and needing something were two different things. Jo didn't need Taki to love him back. He didn't need romance or physical affection. He just... wanted to be close to Taki. In whatever way Taki would allow.
"Is it stupid?" Jo asked Yuma one afternoon, during a rare moment alone in the practice room. "To like someone who can't like me back?"
Yuma considered the question seriously. "Is that what you think? That Taki can't like you back?"
"He's aroace. He doesn't feel romantic attraction."
"Right. But he feels other kinds of attraction. Platonic attraction. Emotional attraction. Aesthetic attraction." Yuma tilted his head. "And he definitely likes you, Jo. I've seen the way he looks at you. It's not romantic. But it's not nothing, either."
Jo's heart did something complicated. "What if I confess and he feels pressured? What if he thinks I'm expecting something he can't give?"
"Then you tell him you're not." Yuma shrugged. "You're good at that, Jo. Being patient. Being kind. If anyone can love Taki in a way that doesn't hurt him, it's you."
Jo thought about that for a long time.
And then it happened on a Tuesday, three months after Taki had come out to everyone.
They'd gone for a walk—just the two of them, because the weather was nice and the others were busy with various things. Taki had suggested it casually, the way he suggested everything, and Jo had said yes before he could think twice.
The park near their dorm was quiet in the late afternoon, golden light filtering through the trees. They walked side by side, not quite touching, close enough that their shoulders brushed every few steps. Taki was talking about something—a new anime he'd discovered, the characters he liked, the animation style—and Jo was listening, really listening, because Taki's voice was one of his favorite sounds.
"Jo?" Taki said suddenly, stopping.
Jo stopped too, turning to face him. "Yeah?"
"You've been staring at me for like five minutes."
"Sorry. I was listening."
"You can listen without staring."
"Can I, though?" Jo smiled, a little self-deprecating. "Sorry. I just... I like looking at you. Is that weird?"
Taki's cheeks pinked slightly. "No. I don't think so." He looked down at his shoes, then back up at Jo. "Jo, can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"Why do you... I mean, you're always so careful with me. You always ask before you touch me. You never push. You never—" Taki struggled for words. "You never act like you want more than I can give. Why?"
Jo's heart was pounding, but his voice stayed steady. "Because I don't want more than you can give."
"But you're pan. You experience attraction. Don't you... don't you want the romantic stuff? The kissing and the hand-holding and the... you know?"
"Of course I want those things." Jo stepped closer, slowly, giving Taki time to move away. "But wanting something doesn't mean I need it from you. And it doesn't mean I'd ever ask you to be something you're not."
Taki's eyes were wide. "Jo..."
"I like you, Taki. God. I love you " The words came out soft, almost reverent. "I've liked you for a long time. And I know you can't feel the same way. I know you're aroace. I know you don't do romance. That's okay. I'm not telling you because I expect anything. I'm telling you because I didn't want to keep it a secret anymore."
Taki stared at him. The golden light caught the edges of his hair, made him look almost unreal. "You like me," he repeated.
"I like you."
"But I can't—"
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because liking you doesn't mean I need you to like me back the same way." Jo reached out, slowly, and took Taki's hand. Taki didn't pull away. "It just means I like you. That's all it is. That's all it's ever been."
Taki's hand was warm in his. Small. Trusting.
"Oh," Taki said quietly.
"Yeah."
They stood like that for a long moment, hands clasped, the park settling into evening around them. Then Taki squeezed Jo's fingers.
"I don't know what I feel," Taki admitted. "I don't think it's romantic. I don't think it ever will be. But I know I like being with you. I know I feel safe with you. I know I don't want you to stop."
Jo's heart swelled until he thought it might burst. "That's enough," he said. "That's more than enough."
"Can we... can we try? Whatever this is? No labels, no expectations, just... us?"
"Yeah," Jo breathed. "Yeah, Taki. I'd like that."
They walked home as the sun set, hands still loosely linked, and when they walked through the dorm door and Maki immediately started shouting about "what's going on here?!" and Harua started crying happy tears and Nicholas just nodded like he'd known all along—Taki didn't let go.
Neither did Jo.
Six months passed. Then nine. Then a year.
Time passes just by a blink.
Their relationship—if you could call it that—was unlike anything Jo had ever experienced. There were no grand romantic gestures, no breathless confessions, no dramatic fights and make-ups. There was just... them. Taki and Jo, side by side, figuring it out as they went.
They went on dates, sort of. Taki still refused to call them that, but Jo didn't mind. They'd go to museums, to quiet cafes, to the riverbank where they could sit and watch the water and not have to talk. Sometimes Taki would lean his head on Jo's shoulder. Sometimes Jo would take Taki's hand. Sometimes they'd just exist in the same space, comfortable and quiet.
Jo learned to read Taki's moods—when he wanted touch, when he didn't, when he needed space and when he needed closeness. He learned that Taki showed his affection in small ways: making Jo's favorite tea without being asked, saving him a seat at group dinners, laughing at Jo's terrible jokes even when no one else did.
Taki learned things too. He learned that Jo's love language was acts of service—the way he always made sure Taki had eaten, the way he remembered every tiny preference and detail. He learned that Jo needed reassurance sometimes, not about the relationship, but about himself. "Am I doing okay?" Jo would ask, and Taki would nod and say "You're perfect," and mean it.
They had their first real argument six months in—about something stupid, a miscommunication about plans. Jo had been frustrated, Taki had been confused, and they'd both ended up upset. But instead of letting it fester, they'd talked it out. Jo had apologized for assuming. Taki had apologized for not speaking up. And then they'd sat in silence for a while, holding hands, until everything felt okay again.
"I love you," Jo said one night, lying on the couch with Taki's head in his lap. The words came out without thinking, and he tensed immediately, waiting for Taki to pull away.
But Taki just looked up at him, eyes soft. "I know," he said. "I love you too. I do even if it's not the same as yours."
Jo's eyes stung. "That's enough," he whispered. "It's always enough."
---
The music festival was chaos—the good kind, the kind that came from hundreds of artists sharing one building, trading stories and snacks and exhaustion. &Team had just finished their set, and they were scattered across the shared green room, riding the post-performance high.
Taki was sitting on a couch in the corner, still slightly out of breath, when he noticed Jo being cornered by a group of idols from another group. He couldn't hear the whole conversation, but he caught snippets—"dating?" "isn't that hard?" "aren't you frustrated?"—and he saw Jo's polite, patient smile.
Taki's stomach tightened.
He moved closer, pretending to look for his water bottle, close enough to hear.
"—I'm just saying," one of the other idols was saying, a girl from a rookie group with curious eyes, "you're pan, right? So you experience attraction. And he's aroace. So he doesn't. Doesn't that feel... lonely? Don't you ever wish you had someone who could give you what you need?"
Jo's smile didn't waver. "Taki gives me everything I need."
"But not romantically. Not physically."
"Who says I need those things from him?" Jo leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. "I have my members for physical affection. They're clingy as a baby cat. And I have my friend for emotional support. And I have Taki for... Taki. He's not a checklist of things I need. He's a person I love."
The girl frowned. "But what about—"
"Do you know what it's like," Jo interrupted gently, "to be loved by someone who doesn't have to love you? Taki doesn't experience romantic attraction. He doesn't need me. He doesn't feel that pull that makes people stay. And yet he chooses to stay. Every day. He chooses to hold my hand, to sit beside me, to tell me about his day. He chooses me, not because his heart is telling him to, but because he wants to."
Jo's voice softened. "That's not lonely. That's the least lonely thing I've ever experienced."
The group of idols was quiet. The girl's eyes had gone wide, something like understanding dawning on her face.
"And for the record," Jo added, "Taki's smile is enough for me. Always enough. I don't need anything else."
Taki's heart was pounding. He'd heard Jo say those words before—to fans, to interviewers, to anyone who asked. But hearing them now, in this crowded green room, surrounded by strangers, by their acquaintance who didn't understand—it hit different.
He moved before he could think.
"Jo."
Jo looked up, surprised. "Taki? I thought you were—"
Taki didn't let him finish. He Tiptoed, cupped Jo's face in his hands, and pressed his lips to Jo's.
It wasn't a romantic kiss—not really. Not the sexual kind tho. There was no heat, no passion, no fireworks. Just the soft press of lips against lips, warm and gentle and brief. Taki pulled back after a moment, cheeks flushed, eyes searching Jo's face.
Jo looked like he'd been struck by lightning.
"What was that?" Jo whispered.
"I don't know," Taki admitted. "I just... I wanted to. Is that okay?"
Jo's smile was so bright it almost hurt to look at. "Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, Taki. That's more than okay."
The other idols were staring. Someone whispered, "Wait, I thought they weren't romantic?" Another said, "Shh, don't ruin it."
Taki didn't care. He sat down on the arm of Jo's chair, and Jo's arm came around his waist, easy and natural. They stayed like that as the green room buzzed around them, as other idols stole glances and whispered to each other, as the chaos of the festival continued unabated.
"So," Jo said quietly, just for Taki's ears, "what do we call that?"
Taki thought about it. "A kiss," he said finally. "Just a kiss. It doesn't have to mean anything more than that."
"Does it mean something to you?"
Taki looked at Jo—at his warm eyes, his patient smile, the way he held Taki like he was something precious. "Yeah," Taki said. "It means I love you. In my way. In the only way I know how."
Jo's arm tightened around his waist. "That's all I've ever wanted," he said. "Just you. Just your way."
Outside, the festival continued. Someone was calling for the next act. Staff members were running around with headsets and clipboards. The world was loud and busy and full of people who wouldn't understand.
But here, in this small corner of the green room, Taki and Jo sat together—not romantic, not platonic, not anything that fit neatly into a box. Just two people who had found each other in all the spaces between.
And that, Taki thought, was the best kind of love there was.