"Great rehearsal," Kenji said, swinging his bag over his shoulder."Eighty or bust," Suki chirped, hooking one arm through Ryuzí's."See you tomorrow," Miyako added, already folding her script.Aoi checked her planner. "Dawn palette first."Haruto nodded, thumbed the strap of his bag as if fastening himself to something small and steady. "Goodnight."
They left in their usual clumps. Haruto lingered a second at the sink, rinsed a brush, wiped his hands on his jeans. The sink light made the water look silver. He put his earbuds in, music ready but not playing. He wanted the quiet.
Outside, rain had started again—first a mist, then heavier. Haruto tightened the strap and took the side route that cut behind the gym. Fewer people. Faster walk. Five minutes to the station.
"Hey." The voice slid out of the shadow where the alley forked.
Haruto froze. He didn't turn. He tried not to.
"Look who it is." Shaun's silhouette moved into the light, umbrella abandoned, hair dotted with drops. Daichi lounged nearby, hands in pockets. Riku waited back against the fence, expression blank.
Haruto slowed. "I don't want trouble."
"You never do." Shaun's laugh had no humor in it. It pinged off the brick.
Daichi twirled a coin between his fingers. "Afternoon, Picasso."
Haruto kept his face forward. "Please—let me pass."
Shaun took a step. "You always say that. Always 'please.' What, too good to talk?"
"I just want to go home," Haruto said.
"And we want a show," Shaun replied, too easy. "Open your bag. Let us see the masterpiece."
"No." The word was small.
"Wrong answer," Daichi said.
Riku's shoe scraped. "You look nervous tonight."
Haruto slid his shoulder away. Shaun mirrored him. The alley shrank.
"Just a look," Shaun said. "Just a peek. You're always so careful with your paper. We're curious."
Haruto crossed his arms. "Give it back if you take it."
Daichi grinned, then hooked his fingers under the bag strap and gave it a yank. Haruto's hand shot to it. The strap held for a heartbeat, then went—snap. The sound ripped the air.
"No!" Haruto lunged. Not fast enough. The bag hit the ground. Notebooks thumped. The sketchbook slapped open, elastic breaking, pages fanning.
"Oops." Daichi's voice had that delighted, cruel edge.
Haruto crouched. "Please—don't—"
Riku stepped on a page with the flat of his shoe and held it there. He squinted like a critic. "What's this? Lovers?"
Shaun prodded the drawing with the toe of his shoe. Haruto's stomach sank. Suki's laugh, Ryuzí's profile—Ryuzí turned his head in that tiny way when Suki said something stupid and he was trying not to smile. Haruto's pencil lines were a memory in graphite and humidity now.
"You draw him a lot," Shaun said, reading the page aloud like a headline. "You worship him, huh?"
"He's my friend." Haruto's arms wrapped around himself. The rain wet his hair at his collar.
"Friend," Daichi echoed, the word stretching into mockery. "You keep saying that. Bet he doesn't even know your name."
"Shut up." Haruto's voice was brittle.
"Oh, did we bruise feelings?" Shaun's hand came down, casual. He pushed Haruto in the shoulder—not hard, but definite. Haruto stumbled. The cold of the pavement bit into his knees as he steadied himself.
"You'll cry if we push harder?" Riku asked, sounding bored.
Haruto swallowed and rose. "Don't say his name."
Shaun's eyes went flat. "Say my name instead?" he taunted. "Tell me what you're going to do."
Haruto's fingers curled into fists at his sides. "I'm not here to entertain you."
"You're already entertaining." Daichi nudged the drawing with his foot. The smudge of graphite bloomed as rain kissed it. The lines blurred. Haruto almost moved to cover it with his hands but Daichi pushed his hand back.
"Come on," Shaun said, stepping closer, breath warm with breath-mint, gum. "Tell us how much he means. Tell us he's your whole world. Make it worth our time."
Haruto took a breath as if breathing might steady an earthquake. "He's decent," he said finally. "He's kind."
Shaun laughed—short, mocking. "Kind. Cute word for 'weak.' You're weak, too. You think the nice boys keep things clean. They don't. They put on faces."
"Don't—" Haruto tried to stop himself. He had to stop himself. If he rose in anger they would only laugh louder. If he begged—worse. He learned that lesson months ago.
"Say it," Daichi said. "Say you love him, and we'll let you go."
"No." Haruto's voice was steady but thin. "No."
Shaun's hand moved, a light, testing shove to Haruto's chin. Not to hurt; to provoke. "Then what are you doing, always looking at him? Documenting? Cataloguing your pride?"
"You don't know him." Haruto's words came out in a rush now, not loud, but edged. "You don't know anything."
"Big claim." Riku stepped on another page. The paper folded, water collecting in the crease. "You said something about his past, right? Heard he had a fight once. We heard he's the kind who pushed people. Bet you love that—danger packaged neat."
Haruto's jaw tensed. "Stop spreading lies."
"You don't get it," Shaun said, close enough that Haruto felt the heat of his breath. "We make stories. Stories stick. People listen to us." He smiled like he was making a simple arithmetic problem. "You'll be the one who looks worse when we tell them. Keep your mouth shut. Keep your faces pretty."
Daichi shoved Haruto then. Harder this time. Not a punch. A shove that knocked him back two steps so he hit his knee on the wet pavement. He dropped to one hand and tasted something metallic on his lip where it had cracked on his teeth, sharp and hot. He blinked it away.
"You okay?" Daichi asked, voice lazy.
"Fine." Haruto breathed through the burn.
"Pick it up, Picasso," Shaun said. He pushed the open sketchbook with the tip of his shoe so pages spilled even further, stuck against the grit.
Haruto went down to gather what he could. His fingers shook. He could feel the rain on his hair, the cold seeping through his shirt. Footsteps closed in around his head like a ring.
"Maybe he should stay home with his drawings," Riku said. "Keep them safe from the world."
"You know what's funny?" Shaun said. "Takeda—your hero—he'd never get this close to the gutter. He'd never let dirt touch him. Think about that. You like someone who can't stand the sight of you."
Haruto pushed the pages under his arm, turned, and rose. "Leave him out of this."
Shaun watched him like a man observing a puzzle. "Touch him and I'll—" he started, insinuation sharper than any blow. "I'll make sure everyone hears the story I tell."
"You don't have to," Haruto said. The threat had the opposite effect than intended. It hardened him. "I won't run."
Shaun's hand found the strap of Haruto's bag that had torn. He picked it up, flicked the frayed threads between his fingers. "Goodbye, then." He shoved the bag so hard the contents slid and a pencil rolled into a puddle.
Haruto lunged for it. Shaun kicked the pencil; it skittered away. For a second—too fast—Daichi's hand crossed Haruto's cheek. Not a slap; a palm that left a sting and a red impression like a branding. Haruto stumbled, the taste of iron stronger in his mouth now.
"Hey, hey!" Daichi said as if startled by his own momentum. "Careful."
Haruto crouched and gathered what he could. His sketchbook had pages stuck together, graphite smeared into soggy grey stains. One page—the one with Ryuzí's profile—had a crease that broke the line he'd drawn months to perfect. He held it up and watched the rain collect in the fault like a small wound.
"Not again," he whispered.
Shaun straightened, laughing low. "You should get better locks," he said. "Or a better boyfriend."
They left like they always did—swaggering, joking, leaving the echo of their voices smeared across the alley.
Haruto sat on the curb for a long time. The rain was louder now. He tucked the ruined pages close to his chest and felt their wetness seep through his jacket. He tasted metal still and swallowed it like a bitter pill. His knees hurt where they'd hit. His lip stung when he pressed his tongue to it.
A phone buzzed in his pocket. He fumbled, thumbed the screen, and saw group chat messages blinking:
Suki: Harutooo send the dawn frames!! 😍Kenji: Don't overwork! Rest a little!Aoi: Everyone sleep early. Rehearsal tomorrow 4:30.
He stared at the messages like they were on another world. He typed, fingers clumsy:
Haruto: Tomorrow. Promise.
No one asked if he was okay. No one would, not yet. He sat until the rain thinned, until the streetlights reflected like beacons in puddles. He wiped his hands on his jeans, tried to rub the smear off the ruined page, then gave up. He folded the paper into itself, put it into his bag, zipped it as best he could with one good hand.
He walked home through the wet streets with his head down. He went slow on purpose—fast walking pulled panic up into the throat. He passed the station where people huddled under awnings, none of them noticing the frayed strap, the bent pencil. He passed the small grocery and the noodle shop where the owner waved at regulars. Life made its ordinary rounds, unaware.
When he reached his building he let himself in with the practiced movement of someone who had done too many things alone. He went to his room, set the bag down, and pulled the pages out.
The graphite had smeared into grey ghosts. He pressed his thumb into the wet line and felt the ridge where his pencil had once been sharp. He took a clean page, placed the ruined one below, and drew the horizon again—slow, careful, a line that would not sag.
Outside his window, the rain washed the world clean. Inside, Haruto redrew the same line until his hand did not shake as much. He did not cry. He did not tell.
He sent one more message into the group chat, fumbling for normalcy:
Haruto: Sent. Sleep well.
He lied again, because the group meant breathing space. Because if they knew, everything would tilt—people would look at him and see the wet thread of his life unraveling, and he wasn't ready for that.
He sat at his desk and kept drawing.
The line stayed straight. For now.