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Kuro isn’t pretty.
He knows this fact – has known it since he could recognize himself in the mirror – but it’s been something that he’s kept tamped down in the deepest recesses of his mind. But there are some moments where the thought climbs up from the depths and knocks on his door until he’s forced to confront it. Like now, as Kuro adjusts the outfits for Ra*bits backstage. It was a last-minute request, Kuro still feeling a bit groggy from the all-nighter he pulled to get them finished, so this is the first chance he’s gotten to see how they fit on the members and make any final tweaks.
Luckily for his outfit fittings, there’s a full-length mirror in the dressing room, allowing Nazuna and Kuro to make assessments about the costume in conjunction. Unluckily for Kuro’s self-esteem, he can’t see Nazuna in the mirror without seeing himself in it at the same time. He’s a full head taller than Nazuna, towering behind him like a late-night shadow. And as Nazuna rearranges his bangs, the thought reemerges, settling in his gut like food poisoning.
Kuro isn’t pretty.
Nazuna is pretty. Kuro understands (although he’ll never forgive) how Shu wanted to preserve him like a piece of fine art. He’s small, slight, with porcelain skin that has charming freckles splashed across it. His asymmetrical marigold hair floats around his face, framing it flatteringly. Even as he passed puberty, his baby cheeks seemed never to disappear, lending to his overall cutesy image. But most striking are his eyes, like two glittering rubies mounted delicately into his face, the kind of eyes that catch you from across the room and don’t let go.
In contrast, Kuro is all uneven edges and hard shapes. He’s got a tall nose, an asymmetrical jaw, and eyebrows that can’t seem to unfurrow themselves no matter how at ease he feels. His hair looks like it might impale you if you touched it, and his muscular build often looks out of place in an industry full of slim pretty boys. The worst part, Kuro thinks, is the way scars mar his body, some of them visible on his arms and collar depending on the style of shirt, but many more on his chest and torso, the skin discolored and tight. Whenever he sees himself in the mirror, they jump out at him, as if to taunt him that he can never fully leave his past behind, that he’s really just a violent good-for-nothing in body and heart.
Kuro wishes, not for the first time, that he wasn’t born with this face.
“Kuro-chin?” Nazuna looks up at him in the mirror, dragging Kuro out of the maelstrom of negativity beginning to take shape in his mind. “You’ve been quiet for a little while. Is there anything you wanna change?”
“Sorry, Nito. Spaced out for a second. Turn around for me.” Nazuna complies, the sleeves of the festival robe fanning out elegantly as he does. “Looks pretty good. Just need to pin this part.” Kuro fishes out a safety pin from a nearby toolkit, and gathers some of the loose fabric by Nazuna’s waist, realizing with a pang of worry that he’s even skinnier than his last recorded measurements.
“Thanks, Kuro-chin,” Nazuna beams, twisting this and that way to appreciate the backside of the costume, “and sorry again for the super late notice. You keep on saving my life, so I definitely need to treat you to coffee sometime.”
“‘S not a problem,” Kuro says. “I like sewin’ stuff anyway, so you’re already kinda gettin’ me a present.” He stands out of the way, and thankfully, out of sight of the mirror. “Can you round up your brats for me?”
“Ra*bits!” Nazuna hollers into the doorway. “Come get dressed!”
A high-pitched, “coming, Nii-chan!” is accompanied by the sound of shoes squeaking against the tile floors and a panicked “Mitsuru, no running, you’re gonna tear the costume!” Nazuna sighs and Kuro chuckles as the three second-years enter the room in varying degrees of disarray and bashfulness.
“Alright, which one of you wants to get fitted first?”
“Ooh, me! I do! Kiryu-senpai!” Mitsuru exclaims, bouncy as ever, his hand shot up high like he’s answering a question in class.
“Stand in front of the mirror, Tenma.”
The rest of the fittings proceed without much issue, besides a hem or a safety pin here and there. It’s straightforward work that Kuro can carry out without much thought, so he’s not distracted enough to not lapse back into his thoughts from earlier. Nazuna is the standout visual of Ra*bits, but the others are lookers in their own way. Mitsuru has a boyish charm to him, his sunny expression matching the warm tones in his skin, hair, and eyes. Hajime is the opposite, all pastels and mildness, like the morning dew on a flower. And Tomoya complains often about his plainness, but he’s not without his own handsome features – naturally thick eyebrows and long legs that make him seem taller than he is. As they crowd together, testing their mic packs before they go on stage, Kuro can’t help but note how well they fit their concept. Like usual, he’s warmed by his protectiveness towards them, but undercutting it this time is an emotion much more ugly and sour: envy.
Ra*bits thank him politely again as they leave to go on stage, telling him with a pure twinkle in their eyes that they hope he enjoys the performance. Kuro musters a smile and replies that he’s looking forward to it. The boys leave, and Kuro roams around the room, gathering his materials. As he exits, he catches himself in the mirror again, and flinches.
If he spends a bit longer in the hallway, delaying his arrival to the performance, no one notices.
–––
“Hey, sorry I’m late,” Kuro says, kissing Keito quickly on the lips in greeting.
Keito hums. “You are. Sit down, I have a meeting with Sakuma in 15.”
“Well, good mornin’ to you too.” Keito’s looking as composed as usual in a button-down shirt, while Kuro has bedhead and didn’t even bother changing out of his sweatpants before coming. They’re in a quaint coffee place in ES, their colleagues milling about around them as the world begins to wake up. Kuro sits down at the tiny circular table, and takes a sip of the coffee already waiting for him. Black, just how he likes it. Keito, on the other hand, is on – “is that your third shot of straight espresso?”
Keito gives him a look. “What?”
Kuro sighs. “I worry about you sometimes.”
“Don’t. This will be my last one.” Keito replaces the cup in his hand with his planner, colorful sticky tabs spilling out the sides. “In any case, Akatsuki has a busy week. We’ll be performing two songs at the charity event at the Rose Stadium on Tuesday, with an afterparty with the higher-ups afterwards that I want you both to attend, so bring our suits along with our stage outfits. We’ll have our regular radio appearance on Wednesday night.” He flips the page. “Kanzaki has a drama shooting and I have a meeting on Thursday, but you’re free. We have Friday off, which I’d like to use to fine-tune the choreography for our new song again. And on Saturday, we have a photoshoot in the afternoon with an interview afterwards.”
Kuro stiffens at the last item on the agenda. A photoshoot means cameras, and afterwards, magazines with his face all over it. Even worse, he happens to be in a unit with two of the prettiest people he’s ever known, making himself appear even more unsightly in comparison. Lately, it feels like his looks are the only thing on his mind, and walking around a community of almost entirely idols has been doing a number on him.
“Uh, danna?” he asks tentatively.
“Yes?”
“About this photoshoot… I’m just thinkin’, maybe it’s best I sit this one out?” He smiles sheepishly.
Keito huffs, immune to Kuro’s puppy-eyes tactics by now. “Kiryu, if you had an issue, you should have raised it when I proposed the job. You and Kanzaki need to drop that habit of following whatever I do without question – Akatsuki is no longer that kind of unit. In any case, it’s going to be difficult to explain to the directors that a member is suddenly unable to come a week before the event. What’s your reasoning?”
“I just… You and Kanzaki are like…” Kuro gestures vaguely to Keito’s whole person. “And I’m like…” Another vague gesture to himself.
“I don’t follow,” Keito says dryly.
“You know I’m not good with words. I just. Don’t wanna drag you guys down with my face.”
“What’s this about your face?”
Kuro sighs. “I’m not… pretty like you guys are.”
For a few moments, the clinking of cups and squeaking of moving chairs fills the silence between them. Then, Keito pushes up his glasses, exasperated. “Kiryu. With all due respect, that is the most absurd thing that has ever come out of your mouth.”
“It’s true,” Kuro protests.
“It’s patently false. Where did you even get that idea from? Trolls on the Internet? I, your friends, and your fans are always commenting on how handsome you are.”
“That’s the thing!” Kuro exclaims, a little too loudly. “It’s always ‘handsome’ or ‘rugged’ or whatever. Which is usually fine because masculinity is Akatsuki’s sellin’ point, but when it comes to these high-fashion magazine shoots, I always stand out… Don’t think anyone’s said I’m pretty.” He rubs at his face in frustration. “Ugh. Forget it. This is makin’ me sound like such an ungrateful asshole.”
“No. It’s important that you get your grievances off your chest instead of carrying them to the grave.”
“You’re weirdly morbid sometimes, y’know?”
Keito shrugs off the comment. “If you’re truly feeling uncomfortable, I’ll call the director and get approval for your absence. However, your low self-confidence will be an issue as an idol. Perhaps attending and getting positive results will do you some good.”
“Yeah,” Kuro says, defeated. Keito’s too damn convincing sometimes. “Forget it. I’ll go.”
“Great.” Keito checks his watch. “I’d better head out.” He gathers his paperwork, chugs the last of his coffee, and pats Kuro on the shoulder as he leaves. “Make sure to eat something if you haven’t.”
“‘Kay.”
It’s only after Keito’s long gone that Kuro is hit with the sinking realization of what he’s just agreed to. Now he’s going to be thinking about it all week.
He groans and slumps onto the table.
–––
“Sorry, uh, stylist? I think there’s been a mix-up.”
Kuro’s seemingly the only one seated as the other Akatsuki members, stylists, cameramen, and directors flit about, filling the dressing room with chatter and noise. Kuro can hardly find it in him to focus, though, as he’s fully occupied by the clothing he’s holding up. A sheer, purplish blouse with ruffles on the cuffs and hem. In his lap is the rest of the outfit he’s already checked: a luxurious black skirt that drops to the ankles, and pearl jewelry to boot.
A professional-looking woman in a jumpsuit approaches him. “Yes?”
“I believe these are Kanzaki’s. D’ya have anythin’ else for me?” Souma, with his dainty features and long silken hair, is the most frequent model for androgynous styles when they do photoshoots. The younger doesn’t seem to mind, embracing the challenge with the earnestness he tackles everything else with, and he’d experienced an uptick in fans because of it. Surely they’d be disappointed if it was Kuro in that spot instead.
The woman checks the tags, puzzled. “No, I’m quite sure this is yours, Kiryu-san. Did you find that they don’t fit you? We can ask the tailor to make adjustments.”
Kuro peers at where she’s looking, noting the XL tag. Now that he thinks of it, the shirt is much too broad-shouldered and tall for Souma. Something still feels off, but he can’t think of much else to say, aside from “uhh, no that’s alright. I’ll go try ‘em on.” He continues staring at the pile of clothes after she leaves, confused, before hesitantly making his way behind the partition to dress.
He pulls the garments on, surprised to find that they fit his frame nicely. Even though he’d just checked the size, for some reason he’d expected they’d be too small and he’d accidentally tear them. It feels… bizarre, the way the ruffles don’t quite sit on his body, the way the pearls weigh down his ears. Is this fabric too sheer? Can they see my scars? Did I shave recently enough? Insecurity blossoms in Kuro’s brain, the way it seems to all too frequently these days. He clenches and unclenches his fists, feeling a distant urge to punch something, but can’t find anything to soften the blow.
Swallowing, he makes his way out of the dressing area, feeling even more awkward as eyes turn to look at him.
“Kiryu-dono!” To the stylist working on his hair’s chagrin, Souma gets to his feet, eyes wide with amazement. His outfit is, for the first time, more masculine than Kuro’s – dress pants in a similar color family to Kuro’s shirt and a smart-looking turtleneck. “I say, you look magnificent!”
“Thanks, Kanzaki. Can’t help but feel like we’re switched, though.” Kuro fiddles with the skirt’s waistband, hoping it looks like it’s sitting on his hips correctly.
Souma shakes his head fervently. “Only Kiryu-dono could pull off such an outfit with such dignified poise!”
“Kiryu?”
Kuro swivels to see the last member of Akatsuki. Keito’s in a well-cut mahogany suit that makes his shoulders look broader than they actually are, and his hair is neatly swept back. He looks Kuro up and down, and Kuro wishes for once he wasn’t so good at reading Keito’s subtle facial expressions, because he swears he looks disappointed in what he sees. It cuts much deeper than Kuro’s own self-doubt, and he suddenly feels very, very small.
“Hasumi,” he breathes, trying to find the words that would wipe that expression off his face, considering flagging down that stylist and insisting they really did make a mistake after all, but before he can open his mouth they’re both whisked away by various staff to get their makeup done.
Kuro’s makeup is unusual too – they’re usually aiming to define his jaw, bulk up his eyebrows. This time there’s a shimmery powder smeared under his eyes and blush on his cheeks. They’ve also managed to tame his hair – Kuro will have to ask what product they use, because it’s a task he’s never been able to pull off – into an elegant swoosh. By the time they’re done, Kuro can’t even recognize himself in the mirror.
He feels so out of place that he can barely focus as the director calls the members over to explain the concept for the shoot. He tunes in just enough to catch that they’ll be doing individual shots first, then a couple with all of them together, followed by an interview. It must take about an hour in sum – Kuro can handle that. Just an hour of being in this bizarre getup.
As they get into place, Kuro catches Keito staring again with furrowed eyebrows. Maybe he can’t handle an hour of this.
Keito’s turn comes first. As Kuro monitors the photos taken, he’s reminded of one of his favorite traits of Keito’s (of which there are many), which is that he’s professional and efficient before anything else. His high-strung disposition slips away as soon as the camera turns towards him, and he fully embodies the idol look, his gaze seductive and inviting. He manages to flaunt the stylist’s outfit while still showing off his own charms.
(He’s effortlessly handsome. This is another one of Kuro’s favorite Keito traits.)
“Looks good! Next up,” the director calls, and Kuro steps onto the set awkwardly. What’s he supposed to do in an outfit like this? His usual go-to poses are masculine, with martial-arts inspiration. He can’t even widen his stance too much, the skirt is too narrow. By the iffy reaction of the cameraman, his hesitancy bleeds through to the photos.
“Try putting your hands up to your face, or play with your skirt a little. Own it!” the director yells.
Kuro inhales. I’m pretty. I’m pretty and I look amazing in this outfit. He needs to believe in the lie for the moment. He tries an expression he hopes is demure, and heeds the director’s suggestions, even doing a little curtsie at some point. He seems to get better reactions this time, including an encouraging exclamation from Souma, but makes the mistake of looking over at Keito again, seeking his approval. He’s still frowning, not just Keito’s resting face frown, but a more pronounced one, and his face is redder than usual. He’s angry?
Kuro’s smile falls.
“Kiryu-san, I need you with me,” the cameraman calls.
“Ah, sorry,” Kuro says quickly. He tries to school his expression back to what it was before, but from the slower flashes and sighs, it’s clear it’s not the same.
“Alright, I think we’ve got enough,” the director says eventually, and Kuro steps off set, ears burning in shame for his disappointing results.
He’s counting on resolutely focusing on Souma’s shots instead of looking at Keito, but the plan quickly dissolves as Keito grabs his wrist, rather forcefully, and drags him away.
Kuro nearly trips, his heart pounding with a growing concern. “Danna?”
The other man doesn’t respond, leading them out one of the more inconspicuous exits into an empty hallway.
As soon as the door shuts behind them, Keito is cornering Kuro against the wall, pressing a searing kiss to his mouth. Kuro lets out a little gasp – Keito typically isn’t the one to initiate PDA, especially in a space like this where they could so easily be caught and put their careers in jeopardy – but readily coalesces, falling into a familiar rhythm of Keito’s lips against his own. Keito’s hands migrate to their favorite place, tracing Kuro’s collarbone, and Kuro’s respond in kind by snaking around Keito’s hips. Their makeout session continues for what seems like unusually long until Keito finally pushes away, their breaths warm and heavy between them.
Kuro’s eyes flutter open, and he can’t help but snort when he sees his boyfriend’s glasses completely fogged up.
Keito glares and takes them off to wipe them on his shirt.
“What’s this about, danna? You’re gonna ruin my makeup,” Kuro murmurs. As if he gives a shit about that.
“Idiot, stupid idiot,” Keito mutters under his breath.
“Huh, me?”
“No, me,” he says, tone sharp as ever. “When I put in a word for you, I didn’t expect them to follow through to this extent. You’re distracting. Or more accurately, I’m distractable.”
“Oh, so this was your idea?” The gears start turning in Kuro’s head.
“Hardly. I only suggested to the stylist that they should give you ‘prettier’ clothes this time.” Keito pinches the bridge of his nose. “Clearly I didn’t prepare myself for the consequences.”
A warm laugh bubbles from Kuro’s throat, the pressure from earlier beginning to alleviate. “I get it now. So when you looked disappointed earlier, it wasn’t in me, it was in yourself because your plan worked too well and you have the impulse control of a horny teenager?”
“Don’t be crude, Kiryu,” Keito snaps.
“Oh, I’m crude? What about the guy who was open-mouth kissin’ me a couple minutes ago?”
“That’s –“ he starts to argue, but clearly has no rebuttal.
Kuro laughs again, tugging Keito closer by the waist. “You’re cute.”
“I won’t accept that.”
“Why not?”
“Not until you admit you’re pretty.”
“What, so you can be right?” Kuro deadpans.
“No, because you obviously haven’t been yourself these past couple days and I have a hunch it has to do with that despicable habit of viewing yourself negatively. If it’s going to affect your productivity, it’s my responsibility as Akatsuki’s leader to take care of it. And since my lectures have been falling on deaf ears, I’ll have to resort to other methods.” His arms are crossed haughtily, and Kuro thinks with an affectionate roll of the eyes, oh, here we go.
He’s surprised when Keito doesn’t launch into another tirade, but instead presses a tender kiss to his nose.
“Your nose is pretty, Kiryu. It slopes down so straight, but the tip is round like a button. It makes your side profile look so dignified.”
A kiss to the cheek. “Your cheeks are pretty. Even without makeup on, when you blush it complements your hair. And they’re so soft after you shave, like baby’s skin.”
A kiss to the ear. Kuro squirms a little, huffing out a laugh. “Your ears are pretty. Even though I wish you would use them more. You don’t think I notice when you switch out your earrings, but I do – I always do.”
Keito brings a hand to Kuro’s eyes next, delicately shutting his eyelids. (Kuro can’t help but notice how natural the movement feels, and has the morbid realization that he’s probably done this to corpses before.) Another kiss. “Your eyes – where do I start with your eyes, Kiryu? They’re like a forest that I can’t find my way out of. I feel proud knowing I’m the only one who gets to see them this up close.”
A kiss to the neck. “Your scars are pretty. I know you don’t like them, and I hate knowing where they came from. But every day they’ve healed a little more, and now they’re like ivy all over your skin.” He looks up at Kuro, ears red. “I hope this is getting through to you, because I’m running low on my tolerance of these cringey lines.”
Kuro feels like he’s holding onto so much love from and for Keito that he might burst. “God, I love you,” he says into Keito’s hair as he pulls him impossibly closer. Even still, he can’t help the words that come out of his mouth next. “You don’t have to say and do this just ‘cause I’m your boyfriend.”
“You know me, Kiryu. I don’t sugarcoat, especially when it’s with someone I’m close to. Besides, I’m not the only one who thinks this way. Kanzaki wouldn’t shut up about you earlier, calling you ‘uncommonly beautiful’.” Keito presses his forehead to Kuro’s, but denies him when Kuro chases his lips. “If you’re still willing to believe in something no one else in the world believes in, you’re just being blasphemous.”
“Well, I am a sinner,” Kuro points out. “I believed in you in our second year when no one else did.”
“And maybe you shouldn’t have, considering the way things turned out.”
“No other way I’d have it,” he says, and means it.
A smile ghosts across Keito’s face, before he shakes it off, remembering the task at hand. “This is besides the point. Do you get it now?”
“What, that you’re a horny teenager?” Kuro grins.
“No, you dolt.” Keito pinches his shoulder, hard, eliciting a petulant “ow!” from Kuro. “That you are pretty.”
Kuro glances down at himself, the skirt folding gracefully around his calves, the blouse scrunched up from where Keito’s hand is still fisted in it. It still feels wrong, like he’s playing dress-up. He’s always thought that he didn’t deserve to feel good about himself, locking his confidence behind a door and swallowing the key. But with Keito there, the door isn’t closed anymore – just slightly ajar.
Kuro answers, “you’ll have t’ remind me sometimes.”
“I’m good at that,” Keito says, and closes the distance between them.