Without You

My mind in a vice grip
Your legs still wrapped around my head
In that hotel suite
Cigarette ashes on my bed
They stain the sheets - I see you nude, dancing around my room
As if you ain’t a thousand miles back home

But it’s cool I’ll probably see you soon

I can’t go to that thrift store
Without smelling sex in the dressing room
Can’t hear my favorite film score
Without sweet nothings played on loop
It’s kind of rude, won’t let me loose
As if you weren’t a thousand miles back home
But it’s cool I’ll probably see you soon

I can still feel you kiss me

I thought I was ready 
to see you off on that flight
I said goodbye - but as the clock, it ticks on by
I realize I’m still holding you close
As if you ain’t a thousand miles back home

But least we got telephones

Whoever said “out of sight, out of mind”
Fucking lied
‘Cause you’re not by, by my side
Still keep me up at night
I can still feel you kiss me

-Holywatr, “Without U”

—

It’s painful, honestly, the way she does it.

She steps into the cafe like she owns it, despite the oversized hoodie and ridiculously short denim shorts that looked worn out and threadbare but are probably designer and worth more than what you make in a month. The cap on her head, the large sunglasses, and the mask cover her - because without them someone might recognize her face as one that’s been on a million screens, a thousand advertisements, all over the world.

She looks, almost, like she doesn’t care. She looks like any other young woman grabbing an overpriced, oversweetened dose of caffeine that she’ll probably snap a picture of for her Instagram story before leaving half-finished on a sidewalk somewhere. She reaches the counter and mutters an order to a barista that doesn’t deign to even look up from the tablet he punches her order into.

Every movement she makes is painful to you. Her nonchalance - her indifference - stings. It’s a sharp spike poised above your ribs, giving you tiny little jabs of bright pain.

She steps aside from the register and saunters to the waiting area. A hand slips into her oversized tote - which, like the rest of her attire, hid a ludicrous price tag beneath its ragged exterior - to produce a phone that she idly scrolls as she waits. 

It’s then that she sees you. 

Dark glasses turn. The mask hides her expression. You imagine it’s hiding a regretful sigh, or one of disgust at something unpleasant that she’ll have to take care of - like a full trash can that needs to be emptied.

The barista calls her name - not her real one, not here, out in public - and she takes the plastic caffeine container, loaded with an obscene amount of ice and whipped cream and those stupid fucking chocolate sprinkles she loves so much. She walks over to the corner booth where you’re sitting, sits across from you.

The mask drops. The glasses come off. 

Minatozaki Sana was many things. Idol, model.

Today she is just a young woman throwing away a toy she’d grown tired of.

—

“You look like you’re doing well,” she says, flatly. Her eyes, often so full of mirth and mischief and something she wanted people to interpret as joy - they look dull and uninterested today, as though she’d had to force herself to be here, to see you.

You don’t know what to say. What could you say? This was one of the most popular woman on earth, one of the most gorgeous, and you’d spent the last few years catering to her every whim. You’d seen her at her highest, supported you through her lowest, fucked her throughout. Those lips had wrapped themselves around your cock, whispered filth against shower tiles as you took her from behind, spilt her hopes and dreams and deepest insecurities on those quiet nights between shows when all you did was hold her in her hotel room while she cried about how she believed everyone around her wanted her just for her looks and not for the girl beneath them —

And now she was greeting you with the same interest she had given the barista moments earlier.

“I’m good,” you manage, although the words that leave your lips seem to come from a voice that isn’t yours. 

“How’s your mom?” she continues, even as she takes her drink and stirs it absently, taking a short sip of the sugar water within.

“She’s good, she’s good,” you answer. The words cost you something to say, because speaking to her isn’t free anymore, not now. “The doctors say she’s responding well to the treatment. They say she’ll be out of the hospital in a few weeks.”

“Good,” she says. Her eyes don’t meet yours. She takes another sip of her drink. “Which hospital is she at?”

“She just got transferred to the Women’s Hospital, the one on 6th street.”

Sana nods, barely, but doesn’t make eye contact.

“How are you?” you ask, because that was how conversations worked, right? She asks how you are, you answer, you ask her how she is, she answers. You don’t have the courage or the brain cells to manage much more than that - not now, not when the woman sitting across from you is who she is. 

Silence. It’s only for a few seconds as he stirs her drink with that green paper straw she hated so much. The world thought they knew everything about Minatozaki Sana, but her hatred of paper straws is something only you know about her. It’s an intimate thing, amidst the myriad of other intimate things you know of her.

But none of that knowledge is able to bridge the silence between you. It lasts only a few seconds, but they feel like forever.

“How are the girls?” you add, hoping a simpler question might prompt more conversation, might produce something, anything out of her to fill this painful, terrible silence.

“They’re good. Tour wrapped up. Just the encores in Seoul to go.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you… how was… uh, the cities?”

She looks up at you, finally, at the random words spilling from your mouth in some vain attempt to maintain some semblance of normalcy. She’s stunning - even without an ounce of makeup or the small platoon of makeup artists and hairstylists that make her look the way she does on those screens and advertisements - but today she looks tired, and uninterested, and done with it.

Done with you.

“They were good,” she answers, finally. Her attention returns to her drink to the sugar, water, and caffeine concoction on the table between you, as though it were a third participant in this awful, painful conversation. Silence returns, for too long.

“Sana, I-”

“Listen,” she says, at a volume and with a tone that rattles you. “We both know why we’re here.”

You don’t say anything. How could you?

“We can’t do this anymore,” she says. Her eyes falter for a moment - just a moment - before she wrestles them back in line. “It was fun. But it was a dream. Time to wake up. It’s over.”

Your words fail you. Two years - two years you’d spent with this woman - and they’re all gone, all over, just like that - a dream to be woken up from, a toy to be discarded.

You want to say something. Want to tell her the past few years have been the best of your life, that you’d seen cities and done things and had experiences that you’d long thought only existed in movies or k-dramas or fanfiction - and that she was at the center of all that, the source of it, the only reason why you were able to experience it all and that you will thank her, with every second of the rest of your life, that she picked you out of the thousands of men at that concert two years, eight months, three days and sixteen hours ago—

“Sana-” you begin, but no words follow.

“I don’t need a manager that will just get up and leave me randomly,” she states, the words somehow sharp and cold at the same time. “I need someone I can depend on. Whenever, wherever. You’re not that person. Not anymore.”

She lets the words lie there in the space between you for a moment that felt much longer than it actually was. Something painful flares in your chest.

“The company will send you the rest of your pay,” she continues. “And the non-disclosure agreement, of course.” The glasses and mask come back on, covering up those gorgeous features of hers. Her eyes catch yours before the glasses cover them up and there’s something there that hurts you - the indifference, the nonchalance, the arrogance of this woman for tossing you aside like some unwanted trinket she’d grown bored of.

But it’s fleeting. The lenses are opaque and dark and you wonder if you’ll ever see those eyes this closely again. She gathers her things.

“Bye,” she says, and for a moment you imagine there’s regret, or sadness, or something soft and fragile in her voice - but then you realize it was probably your imagination, your heart protecting itself from being shattered into a million pieces right there on the floor of some fucking chain coffee shop.

She leaves. 

Her drink sits on the table, barely-touched, left behind.

—

“We miss you, bro.”

Pikachu was a good guy. He was on the other side of the world, but the wonders of modern technology meant you could still pick out the genuine tone in his words and the worry behind them.

“Thanks, dude. I miss you guys too. How’s Buzz?”

“Aw, you know,” Pikachu answers. “It is what it is. You know she’s… she’s dating someone else now, right?”

You don’t have to ask who he means by ‘she’. It was common knowledge now, and had been plastered all over the k-pop blogs when news of it broke. The ‘ideal couple,’ they were called, because they both looked like marble statues of the fucking Olympians brought to life.

Buzz, on the other hand, was a little short and scrawny; but admittedly, most men looked scrawny next to her new boyfriend.

“Tell him to keep his head up,” you answer. “He’s a good guy. I heard he’s getting into acting after the tour is done?”

“He is,” Pikachu replies. “The other managers want him to stay on, but I think he wants a break from it all. He accepted a role last week. It starts filming at the end of the year.” 

There’s a moment of sad silence between you, a melancholy, an acknowledgement that the brotherhood that had formed between the three of you was reaching its natural end, and there was nothing any of you could do to stop it. It was fleeting, momentary - three men brought together under the most ridiculous circumstances - but you treasured it, cherished it all the same. You shared some of the best of years of your life with them, and now that time was coming to an end.

A dream to wake up from.

“How’s your mom?” Pikachu asks, and you answer - she’s doing fine, the doctors have run the tests and prescribed the drugs, but she’ll need a little more time in the hospital to recover. Pikachu is thoughtful and genuine, and makes a promise to come visit her, and you, someday.

“And how’s…” he hesitates for a moment, knowing he was approaching sore, still-bleeding territory. “How are things with you and Sana?”

You gather yourself for a moment. The wound was still fresh. You’re still trying to get over the way she did it, the way she threw you left you behind like that fucking drink she left on the table. Anger flares for a moment. You hide it.

“We’re done,” you answer, and the words leave a lump in your throat as they pass. “She… she broke things off after I came back home for mom. I saw her last week in person on her way back to Seoul. Said she needed someone that wasn’t going to just leave at random times. You know how she is - needy as fuck. Threw me aside like a piece of trash but hey, at least she did it to my face.”

You manage a sad chuckle. Pikachu is supportive. He’s a bro, he knows what to do. He tells you she was a bitch to break things off with you the way she did, when she did. He tells you she’s a spoiled brat, that she’s used to people doting on her 24/7/365 and couldn’t handle someone who had other priorities. He goes off on how needy she always is, and how she’s constantly seeking the attention and approval of everyone around her, and how exhausting that is for everyone. 

He says the right things, and you knew him well enough to know that he meant them.

The call nears its end. Pikachu has a team meeting to attend in ten minutes, where the managers and the crew will be discussing the wrap-up of the European leg and begin preparations for the finales in Seoul. He mentions, offhandedly, that Momo and Chaeyoung have been at odds in the past few weeks, and that management wants him to take care of it before the finales start.

For a moment, you consider telling him something - a secret you’d long held. Something he should know.

“Take care of yourself, bro. I’ll talk to you soon, alright?” he says, before you can formulate the words.

“Yeah,” you answer. The secret dies on your lips.Talking about her was the last thing you wanted to do. “Soon, bro.”

—

At the hospital, your sister tells you to go home - she’d gotten some time off work and could watch your mom for a while. You often fought with your sister in the way siblings do, but you loved her, and she loved you, and her insistence that you “go home and shower the depression off” was her way of showing it.

Your apartment wasn’t as kind to you as you’d hoped it would be.

Relics of the past few years are everywhere - tour merch, clothes and trinkets and souvenirs from the cities you’d visited on tour, photos of you and some combination of Pikachu or Buzz or even a few of the girls at some bar in Mexico City, a coffee shop in Prague, in front of the Space Needle in Seattle. Nayeon and Jeongyeon looking like an old married couple as they posed in front of the Eiffel Tower. Mina looking ethereal on the foggy streets of Berlin. Chaeyoung in Amsterdam at a thrift shop, smiling brightly at Pikachu, standing next to her with arms full with a pile of clothes she was going to try on.

And then, a framed picture - you and Sana somewhere in Tokyo, before the tour. Chaeyoung had snapped it with one of those silly vintage film cameras of hers, and it’s suitably artsy - a little out of focus, a little more candid than either of you were expecting. But your arm is around her, and you’re both a little tipsy from the half-empty wine bottle on the table beside you, and she’s smiling at you like-

You swear. You grasp the frame and hurl it across the room. You don’t hear the crash it makes as it slams into the wall. You bury your face in your hands.

The shattered glass glitters like stars on your living room carpet.

The past floods back, merciless.

—

“It fucking sucks.”

“I know it does,” you answer. “But they don’t know, Sana. They don’t know.”

She sighs, her breath a warm rush of air against your collarbone. She nuzzles closer into your neck, and her hair fills your nostrils with her scent - she smells like springtime, like something new, something bright. 

“It’s all they see,” she continues, her voice weak in a way none of her fans have ever heard. “They see the ads, the fashion shows. I’m just a mannequin. The lipstick. The sports bra. My tits pushed up to my chin on stage-”

“They’re great tits,” you answer, softly, a nervous smile wobbly on your lips - one that you’re relieved to find is mirrored on her own. 

“They’re great tits,” she repeats, playfully, and she straightens her back slightly and gives them a little shake. They’re small, modest, and on stage they’re more bra than breast - not that you gave a damn, not when they’re there, in front of you, and they’re naked and bare, nipples still tight and taut. After you’ve looked your fill she settles back against you, wrapping an arm around your torso and a warm, naked thigh over yours. You can feel the heat between her legs, and the neat patch of hair above her cunt on your hip. A trickle of something warm drips onto your hip. 

“I just wish they saw more,” she continues. 

You lie there with her in a long but not uncomfortable silence. She makes a pillow of your shoulder and chest. Your left hand weaves through her hair, the silken strands falling between your fingers at the end of each stroke.

“I don’t,” you say.

She looks up at you, those doe eyes of hers wide. 

“You don’t?” she asks, surprised.

“No,” you answer. Your free hand reaches up to the side of her face, brushing a few strands of hair aside and behind her ear. “I don’t want anyone else to see what I see.”

She scoffs, hisses through her teeth in the way she does when you do something silly, which was often. “You’re just saying that because you’re the one that gets to fuck me, and you’re a selfish shit.”

“Maybe,” you answer, “but I don’t think the whole world needs to see the Sana that I see.”

She props her chin up on your chest. Her eyes are wide and her cheeks full and she looks like something someone drew for a manga.

“I don’t want to the world to see the girl that cries over cheesy slice-of-life animes,” you continue. “I don’t want them to know that you hate olives, or that you think Sailor Venus was the best sailor scout. I don’t want them to know what sound you make when you cum, or the way your forehead wrinkles when you’re thinking too hard.”

Her forehead wrinkles. You reach up and forcefully smooth the skin down, and she smiles.

“You’re a real sweet talker. But you’ve already got me naked and in your arms and I’m dripping your cum on the sheets. You can cut the sweet stuff.”

“No, I don’t think I will.”

She kisses you, and her lips are soft and sweet in the way your words try to be. 

“Let them see the mannequin,” you say, softly. “Let them see the idol, the model. They don’t need to see what’s beneath. They don’t deserve it.” 

Her eyes are glassy, watery. “The important people deserve the real Sana,” you continue. “Save the real Sana for the girls. For your family and friends.”

You almost add ‘for me.’ Two simple words, and they’re right there, right there on the tip of your tongue and it would take just a slight rush of air, a small vibration of your vocal chords and they would be there, out in the open, between you and her - a declaration, a statement, a demand.

But the words don’t come. She’s here, in your arms, and her eyes tell you she’s waiting for them, but they don’t come.

The moment passes. She nuzzles back into your neck and you feel something moist hit your chest beneath her eyes.

“You’re too good to me,” she says, and it’s an accusation and a warning.

You ignore both.

—

You’re angry again when you wake up. Did you dream it all? It was all so vivid, so real, that it felt like you were inhabiting your past self for a few moments. 

You can almost feel her warm body on top of yours, almost feel her tears on your chest. 

But she’s gone, and you’re alone, and the past doesn’t matter anymore, because the past is past, and she’s still gone, and you’re still alone.

The glass still glitters on your carpet - traitorous, mocking shards of light.

—

She liked to dance. Half-naked. Drunk.

You’re in a hotel room somewhere in Europe, a ridiculously expensive one that had a nightly rate that probably approached half or more of your paycheque. You’re a few weeks removed from that quiet night together, when she confessed her discontent with how she was seen by the world. You’re also a few hours removed from when she was on stage, dancing and singing and looking for all the world like the perfect idol, the perfect model  - performing for people that saw her as just that and nothing else.

You’d been ready to call it a night and head to sleep after a long day - concert days were always utterly exhausting - but Sana had called, and you’d heeded it. You always did. The other girls were busy, or off doing their own thing, she’d said, and she was bored and wanted someone to drink with.

You knew for a fact that the girls were either off with Pikachu and/or Buzz, or off having their own after-party at some bar in the city - and that Sana wasn’t invited to either. But you keep that to yourself.

She’s gorgeous, all perfect skin and long limbs and long, flowing hair that’s free and unbound, without hairclips or ties or the myriad of ridiculous sprays and products that her stylists use to have her hair fall just so. 

She’s wearing a simple thong that does little to hide the curve of that cute little ass of hers - and a sports bra from that brand she hates, the one that presented her like she was a gym rat when in reality she hated even the idea of working out. It pushes her tits together and up, almost to her chin, the way she hates, but right now she doesn’t care. She’s too busy dancing.

She’s dancing to the group’s latest song, the one about having a strategy. It’s a choreography you’ve seen a hundred times, but not while she’s drunk and has a near-empty bottle of some local beer with a name you can’t pronounce in one hand, not while she’s in her underwear, and certainly not for an audience of one - yourself.

“Step four, got you on the floor

Make you say, “More, more, more!”

She sways and flails her arms around in a mockery of the actual choreography, before giving up altogether and taking a long swig from her bottle that drains it. She wipes her mouth clean with the back of a hand, before giving you a wicked smile.

The song continues in the background, playing in shrill, piercing notes from her phone, but all you hear are the words leaving her mouth - each slowed and slurred by alcohol. The drinks blur the sharp edges of the world, and make her more gorgeous than you’d ever seen her.

“Say it,” she says, the words leaving her mouth in a tipsy mumble. “Say the words.”

From the hotel room couch, you stare at her, puzzled and enraptured all at once.

“What words?”

“From the song. ‘More, more, more.’ Say it.”

You smile at her. She’s swaying - drunk, swaying, more beautiful than she was on stage mere hours before, when she was in front of thousands.

She gently tosses the empty bottle at you, which you catch. Her hands go to the hem of her sports bra.

“Say it,” she says playfully, the cutesy voice snapping back like a mask she’d slipped on - trying and failing to sound threatening, her silly smile and blushing cheeks betraying her futile attempt to seem so. “Say it, and I’ll strip for you.”

“Sana,” you say. “You’re drunk. I’m drunk.”

“Say it!” she says, her voice lower now, closer to a growl, but it’s playful, and not at all threatening.

You slouch on the couch, defeated. Your mouth opens. “More, more, more,” you say, out of tune.

The bra comes off. She pulls it over those small, round breasts of hers, over her head and her long, luxurious hair. She lets it dangle from her fingers, before she tosses it at your face.

Before you can even process it she’s on you - straddling you on the couch, hands in your hair, mouth crushing yours. Her lips are eager and hot and slick and you kiss her back, your tongue finding hers, your hands wrapping themselves around her body. Your fingers claw at her, dig at her soft, warm skin, squeezing a firm ass cheek, caressing the dip of her spine.

“You want me, don’t you?” she says, the words a harsh tumble, a breathy gasp between kisses. She’s kissing you hard, pressing your lips almost painfully against your teeth. “Say you want me,” she says - her tone a demand now, a low tone, a far cry from the cutesy tone of moments before.

“I want you, Sana,” you answer, the words coming from somewhere raw and primal inside you, a place of instinct and old desire.

She breaks the kiss. Her face hovers just a few inches from yours. Her cheeks are flush with the alcohol, but her eyes are clear - bright, shining, glimmering in a way that you’ve seen nowhere else in your life.

“You want me, right? Me. Me.”

“Yes,” you answer, on instinct. “Yes, Sana. You.”

She kisses you again. It’s rough and almost painful as her teeth graze your lips - but she soothes it with a swipe of her tongue. She captures your upper lip between both of hers and sucks. Your hands land on her ass and you squeeze each cheek, making her break the kiss to moan softly into your mouth.

You kiss a trail - down her cute little chin, down that slender, swan-like neck of hers, to her upper chest. Your tongue drags along her collarbone. Then you dip your head, find the tight, taut nipple atop her left breast, and latch onto it with your lips. You suckle.

She gasps. She swears. She writhes.

“Fuck,” she gasps into your ear, the word leaving her lips like a growl, sounding very much unlike the idol, very much unlike the mannequin that brands dress in their clothes and trot out in front of the cameras. “Fuck, it feels so good when you do that.”

Your tongue works its magic on her. Months of fucking this woman have shown you what to do, taught you how to wrest a gasp or moan from those sweet lips of hers. The tip of your tongue swirls around her nipple, first clockwise then counter-clockwise, pressure constant, maintaining suction with your lips.

She’s trembling now, her hands digging painful furrows into your scalp. She’s hot and drunk and bothered and she needs more, so you give it to her. 

You switch to her right breast, lathering it with the same attention you gave her first. Your hand leaves her ass to squeeze her free breast, streaked now with your saliva. You capture her nipple between your index finger and thumb and give the tight bud a pinch. She moans and gasps. You grunt, deep and raw, against her nipple as she begins to gyrate atop your painfully hard cock, still trapped beneath your sweats.

“Ohh, you like that, do you?” she hisses in your ear, a question with an obvious answer - one that leaves your mouth in an involuntary groan.

“You like fucking me, don’t you? Love having the hottest, most popular girl in the group - in Korea - on your cock.”

“Fuck, Sana, just-”

“You love knowing the girl from the stage, the girl in all the ads, the girl on everyone’s phone - you love that she’s gonna ride your cock until you fill her with your cum, don’t you?”

“Yes, Sana. I do. Just fucking put it in-”

“What would the fans think? What would they say, if they found out their perfect angel from the MVs and variety shows and makeup ads loves begging for her fucktoy’s cock?”

“Sana-”

“-like a fucking dirty little whore.”

“You’re not, you’re not just a-”

“Say it, Woody,” she says, your pet name leaving her lips in a hot, sexy hiss directly into your ear. “Say it again, toy.”

She grinds on your cock - and you can feel her hot wetness, even through her soaked thong and your moistened sweats - from the base of your cock to its tip.

“More-” you hiss through your teeth. “-more, more.”

One hand grasps the back of your scalp, pulls your head backward so her eyes can look directly into yours. They’re dark, those eyes - half-lidded, dark, filled with something dark and dangerous.

There’s something else in them, too. Something that looks like insecurity. Something that looks like sadness.

The other hand reaches between you. They grasp the waistband of your sweats and pull them down, freeing your painfully stiff cock.

“Such a good little toy,” she spits. “Suck a nice cock for me to fuck myself on. A good fuck. That’s all you want, isn’t it? A good fuck. That’s all you ever wanted from me.”

Silence - for a split second. Something flickers in her eyes.

“Sana-”

She frees your sore scalp from her hand, uses it to reach between you and pull her flimsy little thong aside. With her other hand she guides your tip to her cunt and in that split second before she slides down your shaft you can feel the heat of her on your tip. 

A drop of her juices drips from her lips and onto your shaft. She slides down your cock.

The breath leaves your lungs and hers. You’d had this woman probably hundreds of times in the last two years, and this moment never failed to take your breath away - or hers. You’d had her in every way imaginable, in every place, sometimes with other men or women sharing the experience. But you never tired of the excitement, the intensity, and the pleasure of this moment.

She doesn’t waste her time. Not tonight. Not when she was needy and full of your cock and more than a little drunk - on alcohol, on the adoration of her fans, on you.

She rides you. The alcohol lends her passion but takes her coordination in exchange, and she’s sloppy and her rhythm isn’t what it is when she’s sober. It’s rough and messy. Her pace falters, then quickens when she realizes she’s slacking, then slows again when your tip hits a particular spot inside her.

For a few moments you’re paralyzed by the sight and feel of her. She’s gorgeous and naked and sweaty and you watch as a drop of sweat makes its way down her neck and upper chest and onto your tongue, where you lick it off her slick skin. She’s hot and tight and wet. She’s moaning and sighing and gasping. She’s everything and it’s already almost two much, just a few minutes in.

Your hands tighten around her hips as they grind up and down on your lap, taking your cock in and out of her body with each movement. Her own hands brace herself on your shoulders. She’s sober enough to remember what you like. She’s lucid enough to remember that you loved it when she moved her hips in those small little circular motions - a motion that grinds her slick, taut clit against your crotch with each movement.

Those small, round breasts of hers sway in front of you, nipples taut. The sports bra she hated so much left sore red marks on her skin where they confined and shaped her torso into something it wasn’t. You bend and drag your tongue along the horizontal line beneath her breasts that its ribbing left behind. One of her hands grasps the back of your skull again, and pulls it towards her left breast. You suckle from her nipple again.

“Such a good fucking toy for me,” she says, the words leaving her lips in a messy, half-slurred tumble. Your mouth on her nipple draws a gasp from her throat before she continues. “You feel so big inside me, baby.”

You switch to her other breast, taking her nipple between your mouth and sucking hard. She moans in response. Her back arches, giving you more of her. Her pace quickens.

“Fuck, fuck,” she gasps. “Love your- ah - love your mouth on my tits.”

You want to respond, but couldn’t tear your lips away from her sweat-slick nipple long enough to say anything.

“They’re so small,” she says, softer now, a little quieter. “Not - oh, fuck, yeah right there - not as… as big without the bra. The fucking… the fucking fanboys want the big tits, though-”

That’s when your mouth leaves her. Your eyes find hers.

“You’re perfect-”

Your words are cut off when her hand finds your scalp again, nails digging deep into your scalp this time. She ceases her movements, leaving you hilt deep inside you. Her eyes find yours. They’re red and glassy - from the beer and the pleasure and something else. She’s angry and upset and somehow fragile, all at the same time.

“Shut the fuck up,” she snaps. “Shut up. Just shut up and fuck me.”

She releases your scalp. She resumes her pace. Your cock slides in and out of her slick, hot little cunt. You want to say something, want to stop, even - but she’s one of the most gorgeous women in the world, quite literally your dream girl, and that stupid, all-consuming, primal need for pleasure overcomes your concern for her wellbeing. The animal part of you wins. It often did.

You grasp her hips instead. That same animal part that renders you unable to think of anything else drives you, gives you that irresistible need to claim her, make her yours. You drive up with your hips as best you can despite your position and her weight on your lap, spearing your cock into her slick cunt, timing each thrust to meet the moment she grinds down on you. 

She gasps, moans, screams at one point when you hit a spot inside her that makes her see stars. She whispers filth - about her body, about her ownership of you, about what you’re doing to her cunt.

But you hear none of it. You hear something else - something she’s not saying.

I’m lonely, she says. I’m afraid they love me for my body and for my face and not for my heart.

Her head, which had been thrown back after a particularly deep and throaty moan, bends forward to find yours. Her hair falls around her face, framing it in waves the color of chocolate. Her eyes look for and find and lock on to yours.

“Gonna… fuck, I’m gonna cum.”

“Do it, Sana. Show me.”

“You want it, don’t you? Want this hot cunt to cum on your cock. Want this fucking whore from the ads to- to-”

“I want you, Sana-”

“Fuck, fuck, oh god, fuck!”

Her body surrenders to something deep and primal within her. Her torso locks up; her thighs quiver as they tighten as best they can around your hips; her spine arches as she throws her head back and lets a broken, throaty moan leave her spit-slick lips. Her cunt squeezes and pulsates around your cock, almost painfully. 

It takes her a while to recover. She collapses into your arms, breathing heavily. She’s buried her face in your neck. You stroke her hair with one hand, trace the elegant line of her spine with the other. You feel a trickle of her juices slide down the base of your shaft and down your balls.

Eventually, she gathers herself. She brings her mouth to your ear, and with a voice that is a far cry from the cutesy, airy tone she uses in front of the cameras, she whispers.

“Your turn.”

You grasp her torso, press it to yours, and turn her onto her back on the couch. She lets out a soft little yelp, and her breasts give the most adorable little bounce. Her lips curl into a surprised smile. You smile back. You stay there for a second, on top of her, your cock still buried inside her and a drunk, silly smile on both of your faces. It’s short, fleeting, but it was there.

Then you start fucking her. 

She gasps and moans and cries. The same mouth that was making cutesy noises and talking to her fans is swearing now, spilling filth and obscenities with each thrust you make into her tight little cunt.

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck me harder, god, just fucking use me-”

Her pleas are cut short when you hook your arms under her knees and push them against her chest. She’s folded in half now, her legs near horizontal against her own chest. She’s defenseless. You start drilling her into the mattress. She can’t do much else than just take each hard, deep thrust - not that she would want to.

You fuck her so hard into the mattress that you’re grunting with each thrust, heavy exhalations of air with each movement, as though you were powering through a set at the gym. She’s quiet now - the voice fucked out of her - her mouth open in a frozen O, her eyes curling towards the back of her head. There’s only the hot, repeated slap of skin, the protests of the couch beneath the two of you, and the slick, wet sound of your cock slamming in and out of Minatozaki Sana’s tight little cunt.

“You like that, Sana?” you manage to spit through gritted teeth. “Like how I fuck you?”

“Y-yes-” she answers, just barely. Her fingers claw at your biceps, seeking something to ground herself amidst the assault your fucking is placing on her body. It’s almost too much, and her body screams at her to beg you to stop - but the thought doesn’t even enter her mind. Not when it’s too good, you’re too deep, and you’re pushing her closer and closer to-

“You’re so fucking tight, Sana,” you spit as you lean down to kiss her deeply. She moans into your mouth. You’re fucking her all the while. Her knees bounce up and down in your peripheral vision, and her feet dangle helplessly above your head. “So fucking tight. I love using this pussy. Love using you-”

You almost regret saying the words as they leave your mouth. It’s almost too much. It reduces her to something less than what she is. It reduces her to a toy. It makes her a-

“Yes! Fuck, fuck yes - ah, oh god - just use me. Use my body. Cum inside me, breed me, just fucking use me!”

You fuck her harder. Your cock pistons in and out of her body and you forget any semblance of care for her or her wellbeing, physical or mental. She’s just a cunt now, just a warm wet hole - one that’s tight and pulsating and squeezing around you and she’s hissing now, begging in your ear, begging to be used just as you currently are, begging to be bred and filled with cum-

“Fuck, Sana I’m cumming, gonna cum inside you-”

“Do it, yes, use me. Use this fucking body. Use this cunt. Cum inside it!”

You bury yourself inside her. Her legs are pressed almost flat against her torso as you drive as deep as you can inside her tight, grasping cunt. You let go, and you fill her with thick, warm cum - long ropes of semen that paint her cunt white.

“Oh fuck, there’s so much - I can feel it. So warm. So thick. You’re filling me up, breeding me, fuck-”

You bury your face into her neck. It takes a long time for your senses to return to a functional state. You breathe deeply. Every inhale carries her scent - sweat, sex, something sweet, something Sana.

You let her legs fall from your arms. She keeps them tight around your hips. You give her small, grinding thrusts with your softening cock as you push your cum as deep inside her as it can go. She lets small whimpers leave her throat with each movement you make. They’re light, airy sounds. Wordless, but passionate.

You eventually gather the strength to raise yourself from her neck. Her face is one you’ll never tire of seeing - blissful, blushed, fucked-out and satisfied.

But her eyes are glassy. They look fragile. There’s something there-

-and it’s gone. A mask - that of the sly, sexy vixen she likes to occasionally wear with you and a select few others - snaps into place.

“Fuck, that was good,” she says, a wicked smile curling her lips - one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You fuck me so good, baby.”

You bend to kiss her. She kisses you back, her lips saying things that her voice never could. 

She thinks she has you fooled, thinks you can’t see the version of her that is soft and vulnerable and more than a little insecure with her belief that no one would want to see it. She thinks her masks are too thick, her walls too high, and that all the world wants from Minatozaki Sana is the pretty mask and the pristine wall - but she’s wrong, even if she doesn’t know it.

Tomorrow the two of you will get on a flight to the next tour stop, right along with her group members and the dozens of other crew that are needed for such productions. Tomorrow night she’ll sing and dance and laugh and smile at thousands of fans, and for just a few hours, mask in place, she’ll belong to them.

But the Sana behind the masks and the walls belongs only to you, only if she only appears from behind them for a few seconds at a time.

—

“They don’t know what it is,” your sister says on the phone - six words that no one around the world wants to hear, followed up by three more: “They’re running tests.”

“Jesus Christ,” you swear, running a hand through your hair, damp with sweat. You’re suddenly sick. You hold your hand over your mouth for a moment, as though you were keeping this morning’s breakfast in your stomach.

“She doesn’t… she doesn’t look well,” she continues. “She says she’s fine, tells me not to worry, but-”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“No, it’s fine. For now. You shouldn’t come until we know what it is. Where are you, anyway?”

Your sister knew little about your job - enough to know that you did “backstage work” for some k-pop group and were often travelling, but that was the extent of it.

“Barcelona,” you answer, but it’s irrelevant now. “I’ll… I’ll talk to my boss, get some time off and-”

Your sister says your name. She says it in the tone she uses when she wants you to listen to her - the same one your mother used when she wanted the same.

“It’s fine,” she says. “Really. I’ll let you know as soon as the doctors talk to me. Then you can come visit if you can. But there’s no use in you taking time off work just to come home and realize this is all appendicitis or something stupid like that.”

You let a sigh out through your nose. 

“Alright,” you relent, watching as Pikachu and Buzz struggle with a particularly large container of the girls’ stage costumes and other gear. Buzz motions for you to help. “You’ll let me know the second you hear anything?”

“Of course. Take care of yourself, you dipshit.”

“You too, shitface.”

You end the call, tossing your phone into your pocket. You hustle over to the guys and help them with the container. It takes all three of you to successfully heave the large black travel container into the back of the waiting truck.

“Woody!”

Each of your heads snap to the venue door, where Sana has poked her head out. She waves frantically to you, motioning you over. She’d probably lost her phone or her airpods or her camera again and needed help finding it - or rather, needed someone to find it for her.

Pikachu gives you a tap on the shoulder as you turn to head back to Sana.

“Everything good, bud? Call looked serious.”

“Yeah,” you answer. “Nothing crazy. Just some stuff from back home.”

“Need help with anything?” Buzz asks, genuine. You glance over at the venue door. Sana is standing there with arms crossed, foot tapping.

“No, not right now. I’m good. It’s just my mom, she’s going through some health stuff. That was my sister… she said they don’t know what it is yet, but that they’re gonna run some tests-”

“Woody!” she calls, again, a little more impatient this time.

You give Pikachu and Buzz an apologetic look.

“Hope the pussy’s worth it, bro,” Buzz says with a sigh, before turning towards the rest of the containers that were awaiting loading. Pikachu shoots you an apologetic look of his own before joining him.

You hurry over to Sana.

—

A lesser man would have been more distracted. Or would a lesser man have been less distracted? It’s hard to say. Your moral compass had been somewhat warped by the last two years and the ridiculous rollercoaster of events you’d found yourself on.

Moral quandaries aside, you had to admit - you were a little distracted by the news from home, even given what was happening in front of you.

The hot, wet slap of your hips against Sana’s ass was steady and grounding, in a way, giving you something to latch on to amidst the swirl of emotions and worries and general catastrophizing going on in your head. The usual chorus of moans and sighs that accompanied the slap of your hips against her ass was muffled somewhat, replaced by the occasional wet, slick gurgle and gasp that managed to escape her lips past the thick shaft filling her mouth.

You and Pikachu fall into a familiar rhythm as you take Sana from both ends, spitroasting her at a pace that threaded the line between being too rough and being just right. It was far from the first time you’d taken Sana with someone and it spoke of her own familiarity and ease with the arrangement that she was currently taking you both without a hint of discomfort.

“Fuck, she’s so good at this,” Pikachu hisses between gritted teeth. His hand glides through the dark chocolate strands of Sana’s hair, grasping the back of her skull as he thrusts into her mouth. “So good at taking cocks. One of the best in the group at taking more than one, honestly.”

“Yeah,” you agree, after a moment. As much as it shamed you to say it, your mind was elsewhere, despite being balls deep inside one of the most gorgeous women on earth. “She’s… she’s such a good slut for us,” you manage.

The praise sends a shiver down Sana’s spine - and results in her cunt squeezing just a little tighter around your cock as it pumps in and out of her. She lets something like a moan out around Pikachu’s shaft and it wrests a groan of pleasure from his throat, too.

She lets his cock slip from between her lips. 

“Fuck,” she hisses. Saliva and pre-cum drip from the corners of her mouth and down that tiny little chin of hers. She nuzzles Pikachu’s cock, slathering her own, spit onto her pretty cheek, making it glisten in the low light of the hotel room. She looks back over her shoulder at you, and the intensity in her eyes grasps your full attention for a moment. “Fuck, you like using me, don’t you, boys?”

A reply forms on your lips. You knew this dance well, knew that she liked being praised for being a dirty little fucktoy even as she’s used like one. But the words don’t come. Thankfully, Pikachu had no such hesitations, nor your preoccupations.

“Fuck yes, Sana,” he snaps. “You’re being such a good fucktoy for us. So good at taking both cocks at once.”

“Then keep fucking me,” Sana sighs, eyes locking onto his. “Fuck me until you both cum inside me.”

She slips his cock back into his mouth. All the while you’re been fucking her, sliding in and out of her tight little cunt. The spitroast continues. The bed protests, singing its own song of squeaking springs and a wobbly frame as it supports the rough movements of the three people atop it. 

Sana moans and Pikachu groans and you do your best to fuck her, to keep your mind in the present, but it’s not. Your body responds, though, thankfully, even if your mind and heart didn’t.

“Fuck, gonna cum,” Pikachu spits. He grasps Sana’s head with both hands and his pace quickens. Sana lets a wet gurgle of a moan out of her throat even as Pikachu uses it.

The telltale pleasure at the base of your spine builds. “Me too,” you manage, and for a moment the pleasure is all that exists, all other worry momentarily forced out by the sheer satisfaction of watching this woman, this woman from all the screens and ads and concerts, being used by you and one of your best friends.

“Fuck!” Pikachu hisses, and suddenly he’s holding Sana’s scalp against his crotch as he fills her throat with cum - and the sight of it triggers your own, and your grasping her hips tight enough to leave bruises as you bury yourself inside her cunt and let go. 

Sana’s hands fly to Pikachu’s hips, nails digging into his thighs as she’s filled with hot, thick cum from both ends. The sensation of it triggers her own orgasm, and for a few wonderful moments the three of you are locked in a pleasure so deep and all-consuming that it burns away anything else resembling a coherent thought.

Sana eventually wrests her head from Pikachu’s grasp, his slick cock slipping from between her lips. Some of his cum dribbles from her lips, but most of it is still in her mouth and the back of her throat, and you watch as she locks eyes with Pikachu before swallowing it all down. 

You pull out of her, slowly, delighting in the sight of her well-fucked cunt quickly dripping your semen, appearing from her lips as a thick white mess before falling in heavy drops onto the ruined sheets.

Sana drops onto her side. Well-fucked, slick with sweat, chest heaving. Cum drips from her cunt and the corner of her mouth.

She locks eyes with you, but the look in her eyes is empty.

—

“You were distracted.”

She’s on her side, facing away from you, sheets drawn up to her chest - something she only did when she was upset with you. Everything about it was an accusation. You reach out and trace an idle pattern on her shoulder. Pikachu had left soon after the fucking had ended, mumbling something about catching up with Chaeyoung, leaving the two of you alone in a Barcelona hotel room that felt heavy with something unsaid.

“I wasn’t,” you lie. “I was just…”

“Just what?”

“Just… I don’t know. I’m tired. Been a long day.”

She finally turns her head to look at you. Brow furrowed, and eyebrows curled in a look of disbelief. She doesn’t say anything, just holds your eyes for a second before turning back to her side.

“Sure,” she says. “Whatever.”

“Sana-”

“You’ve been somewhere else since before the concert tonight,” she says. 

It’s quiet for a moment. It was true; your sister’s call and your mother’s condition had been at the very top of your mind, even throughout the entirety of the concert and the post-concert sex that usually followed each event. 

“I… just some stuff from back home,” you admit. “I might need to take some time away.”

Even with her back turned, the effect of your words is obvious. She tenses up, curls a little more into her pillow.

“Then go. Leave.”

Her words hit you with a little more force than you were ready for. 

“Sana, you don’t understand. I don’t want to leave, it’s just-”

“Just what?” she says, turning onto her back. The sheet slips from her chest, leaving her breasts bare - but she doesn’t move to cover herself. “Now that you’ve fucked me all over the world you don’t need me anymore, is that it?”

“That’s not what I said, Sana.”

“It’s what you want to say,” she says. She turns onto her side again. “Go. Leave. I’ll tell the other managers you quit.”

The word upsets you - the idea that you would willingly leave this life is so ridiculous to you that it takes you a few moments to gather the words for a response.

“Sana, I’m not going to quit. I just need some time away, that’s all.”

“Whatever,” she says. “I can always find another man. Pick another toy out of the next fucking crowd.”

Her words hit hard, cause a lump of something unpleasant to form in your chest. 

“Sana, please. You’re being unreasonable.”

“It’s fine. Go, leave. Quit. I’m used to being alone.”

“Alone? You have the girls-”

Sana lets out an indignant breath through her nose. “Please. They all hate me.”

“What?”

“They all hate me,” she repeats. “They barely want to work with me. You must know it by now. All that OT9, friends forever bullshit. Just a fucking act.”

“But … Momo and Mina? Your unit-”

“They hate me the most,” she answers, voice soft and vulnerable in a way you’d never heard it. “They all do. They think I’m some spoiled, attention-seeking brat. Nayeon tolerates me, and that’s because I do what she wants. You’re the only one that-… the only one who-”

She stops herself. She curls a little more into the side of the bed, as though she were protecting herself.

Silence reigns. She was right - the past few years of working with the girls had made it clear that the closeness they showed in front of the camera had been a well-orchestrated act, a perfectly-crafted mask, one put in place by the label to sell albums on the idea of a tight-knit, unbreakable bond between the girls. In truth they were like any other group of people - some got along, some didn’t, some were loved and some were hated.

You want to tell her about the call from your sister. You want to tell her about your mother. But you can’t, because you never could tell Minatozaki Sana the truth. From the moment she extended her hand and pointed at you at that concert two years ago her wish had been your command, and the very thought of upsetting her was anathema to you. The guys and some of the girls had teased you about it - about how you were more whipped than the others, more slave than fucktoy.

The truth was Sana had changed your life two years ago at that concert, and through her you’d been able to experience things that you could’ve never imagined in your wildest dreams - the sex, the travel, the money. The others saw it as slavish devotion, but in truth it was thankfulness. If being at her every beck and call was what you had to do to express even a modicum of the thankfulness she deserved for the life she had given you, then you did it gladly.

Some days, you thought that what you were feeling was something akin to love, and you deluded yourself into thinking that perhaps the great Minatozaki Sana might share in your feelings. You saw it sometimes in the way she nuzzled into your neck after sex, the way she smiled at you as she passed by you in a concert venue, the way she told you things she’d never tell the others - not even the girls. You spent most of your days together. Somedays, your face was the only familiar one she saw. You knew her better than you’d known anyone else in your life.

Your life revolved around her. She was at the center of it all. She was everything. She was, in many ways, the most important person in your world. 

Your family was the only thing more important.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” you say, because it’s all you can say in that moment.

“No, you won’t,” Sana says. “You’re going to leave me. You’ve spent two years fucking the idol, making her your whore, and you don’t need her anymore.”

“Sana-”

“Leave,” she says, in a way that brooks no argument, even if her voice begins to waver. “Leave. Quit your position, or I’ll tell the managers to fire you. Either way, you’re done with us. With the company. With me.”

She doesn’t turn to face you. Not even when you leave the room.

—

The next week is a blur. The very next day you got a call from someone at the JYP head office, informing you your contract with the company had been terminated at the request of someone in the group. You were on a plane back home the day after that.

Pikachu and Buzz did their best to intervene, but in this company the word of the girls was law. The second Sana expressed a desire to get rid of you, the company moved quickly. Before the week was out the whirlwind of the last two years had suddenly and painfully drawn to a close, and you found yourself back home in an apartment that felt very little like home.

—

The month that followed seemed surreal - in the way that normal life seems when you’d spent the last two years living a high that you still weren’t sure was actually real. 

But spending too many hours next to a hospital bed had made everything depressingly, soberingly real. 

Sana had spared the time to drop by your home city on her way back to Seoul from the final show in Europe. It was on the way, she’d said, and she had some other business in the city to attend to. Probably some appearance at a fashion show, or some brand hiring her to put on their jewelry or dress and look pretty for a few hours. You had no idea. You weren’t privy to her schedule, not any more.

And so she dropped by, broke your heart in a coffee shop, and left.

Clips from the girls’ European finale concert in London stream on your phone, its tinny speakers and tiny screen a far cry from the deep thump of the music, the rush of coordination between managers and makeup artists and stylists and backup dancers and the rest of the small army it took to put on a show. 

You should have been there. You should have been running around with Pikachu to ensure Dahyun’s piano was on stage in the right place in time for her solo. Jihyo always needed reassurance that her mic was in working order and you were one of the few people she trusted enough with her equipment. Jeongyeon had a silly habit of throwing her cowboy hat into the pit between the stage and the crowd with each solo performance, and the task had fallen to you to retrieve it every night.

But you weren’t there, in London, in a packed arena amidst thousands of fans. You were in your home city, next to a hospital bed. You watch on your phone as Sana begins her solo.

She was so far away.

—

Few things in your life could measure to the relief that came when the doctor gave you and your sister your mother’s diagnosis. Her condition could be easily managed with medication, and after some recovery while her body got used to the drugs, her quality of life would be near where it was before her hospital stay. You could almost feel the giant, oppressive weight being lifted from the shoulders of you and your sister, and while you often bickered and fought the way siblings do, you’d both spent a few minutes hugging in the room after the doctor had left.

You’re getting ready for your mother’s discharge from the hospital when you and your sister approach the nursing station to inquire about the bill.

“Your mother’s good to go,” said the nurse, a middle aged woman with kind but tired eyes.

Your sister gives you a look before turning back to the nurse. “Right, so, uh, should we expect the bill in the mail? Or-”

The nurse gives a sigh as she hits a few keys on her keyboard. Something flashes up on the screen.

“No, you’re settled up.”

You stand there in silence for a while.

“I don’t understand,” you say. The nurse gives another tired sigh, not bothering to look up at either you or your sister. Her mind was clearly already on her next patient.

“Your bill’s been paid,” she states, with a tone that one uses when they want to end a conversation. She gets up off her chair, gathers a clipboard, and leaves the nursing station - off to help another patient. “Make sure you don’t leave anything behind in that room. Have a good day, dears.”

—

“Things are good,” Pikachu says between sips of his beer. “And yeah, things are… good with her.”

“That’s awesome, bro. I’m happy for you two.”

“Yeah,” Pikachu says, a small smile perking up the corners of his mouth. “I still have to pinch myself sometimes. The Son Chaeyoung? Wild. I’m living a fucking Tumblr fanfic.”

You raise your own beer in a toast. He taps his against yours and you both take a long sip.

“Bro,” you begin, choosing your words carefully. “Now that I’m out of it… I… I hope you figure things out between Chaeyoung and the girls.”

Since you’d left the company, Pikachu had been candid in sharing Chaeyoung’s issues with the rest of the group, Nayeon in particular. The last conversation you’d had with Sana about her tense relationship with the girls was still fresh in your mind, and the last thing you wanted to see was Pikachu getting caught in the group’s internal conflicts.

He sucks air through his teeth. “Yeah,” he admits, “shit’s not great between her and the rest of the group. They all have their little rivalries, their little squabbles. Some more serious than others. The other managers and the company haven’t picked up on it yet, but it’s there. They hate each other. Some of them do, anyway. You know how girls are.”

“Yeah,” you agree, taking a long sip from your beer. “I do. But you should know - it goes deeper than you think. Nayeon’s sneaky. I’d watch out for that one. Same with Momo and Mina. They… have ulterior motives, I think. I… might have overheard things about them plotting to break you two up.”

Pikachu doesn’t seem surprised, which is both surprising and worrying. “That doesn’t surprise me. I… I’m going to work through it with Chaeyoung. Hopefully find a way that doesn’t involve the group imploding.”

“Good, good. How’s Buzz?”

Pikachu sighs, steering his gaze out the window of the bar and onto the streets of Hongdae. “He’s… he’s alright. He’s filming his drama, so I don’t see him as often as I used to. He’s good, otherwise. Just busy.”

“That’s awesome.”

“Yeah… anything to distract himself from her, I guess.”

You didn’t need to be told anything further. You wished you’d been there to comfort Buzz the way he’d been there to help you while you dealt with your mother’s hospital stay.

“We need to hang out before I head back home,” you say. “The three of us. I’m here until the end of the week.”

It hadn’t been that long since you’d last been in Seoul - really only two months had passed since you’d left for the European leg of the girls’ tour that had seen Sana get you fired from the company - but it already felt like a homecoming of sorts. With your mother doing much better, you’d finally had the time to head back to gather your things from the Seoul apartment the company had set you up in while you worked for the girls. Pikachu and Buzz had been helpful in getting your stuff packed and in the mail to be sent back home.

She hadn’t contacted you, despite Pikachu and Buzz telling her you were in town. No calls. Not even a text.

“For sure, bro,” Pikachu says. “Maybe we invite some of the girls? You know Jeongyeon’s always down for a drink. Tzuyu’s birthday’s coming up, and you know how wild she gets after a few. Dahyun, maybe? I’ll bring Chaeyoung… I think the other girls might be busy, though…”

No mention of her, though. Pikachu catches on to what you’re thinking.

“Hey man, I’m sorry things didn’t work out with you and her,” he continues. “She was… she is… she’s a bit of a handful. The things Chaeyoung’s told me about her…”

“Honestly,” you begin, “it’s good that she ended things with me when she did. It forced me to go back to my family. If she hadn’t gotten me fired I would’ve stayed. My mom’s okay now, but it was touch and go there for a little bit. If I hadn’t gone home, and if something shitty happened and I missed it… I never would’ve forgiven myself.”

“It all works out, I guess,” Pikachu says, but his eyes are on his bottle of beer, his fingers picking away at the label, thoughtful.

“Thankfully, the company paid for the hospital bill.”

Pikachu’s eyes shoot up to yours, and his brow furrows. “What?”

“The company. JYP. They paid for my mom’s hospital bill. It was a pretty hefty one too, considering all the tests they ran and the treatment plan they have for her. I’m dropping by the building later to thank the big guy himself, personally.”

Pikachu stares at you for a long moment, before a look of disbelief washes across his features.

“Bro, there’s no way the company’s gonna pay for some random staff member’s family hospital bill. JYP’s not a bad dude, but we’re supposed to be the girls’ secrets, remember? There’s no way JYP would pay for your mom’s hospital bill and risk having it linked back to the girls or the company - let alone go all the way over to your hometown to pay it. How would they even know what hospital your mom was at, anyway?”

“Then who… You? Buzz? You were in Europe with the girls. No one else knew about my mom. Who would-”

The two of you stare at each other for a while. Realization dawns. 

The smallest of smiles appears on Pikachu’s lips as he takes another sip of his beer.

—

Just as coming back to Seoul felt like a homecoming of sorts, so too did going to the concert feel like slipping back into a life you thought you’d left behind. 

The boom of the music, the staff members and security hustling around in the background and beneath the 360 stage, carrying mics and bottled water and discarded cowboy hats - it all felt intensely familiar. 

But you were in the crowd, not behind the barriers. There was no earpiece in your ear with the head manager telling you to fetch a new flat of water, or to find Momo’s mic, or get in place to set up Tzuyu’s bars for her solo performance. There was just the boom of the bass and the shouts and screams of the fans next to you - fans that had no idea that the man next to them had, just a few months ago, lived a life that they would have killed to experience with the girls they were paying to see.

Pikachu had been a real bro and set you up with VIP tickets for the pit, just a few feet from the stage. And there she is - right there, her back turned as the central stage covering rises and the concert begins to thunderous applause. She hasn’t seen you yet.

It doesn’t take long. It happens right at the end of the first song, when the group formation brings her in front of you.

Minatozaki Sana sees you. Her eyes lock onto yours - the same way they did two years ago, when she smiled and pointed at you and quite literally picked you out of the crowd. Her eyes widen in surprise - and then soften. Seconds pass. Her eyes are glassy.

You smile at her. She smiles back. She raises her hand - slowly, tentatively, and points at you.

She picks you again.