Work Text:
Kiyoi was born for the camera. He smolders at it one second and glances lazily aside the next, lounging on the provided stool like a king on his throne. A branded jacket slumps down one shoulder, his arm pulling taut as his fingers curl around his seat, and Hira’s breath hitches with the movement, his whole body leaning forward—he almost steps onto the bright green floor cut out for the photoshoot. He’s jealous of the professional photographer halfway across it, honed in on Kiyoi. The crew clustered around the tight set chat away while Kiyoi works, tilting and turning and posing for their pleasure, while Hira stares and drools over him.
Hira’s hands might be trembling around Kiyoi’s bag. He’s holding it against his chest, his heart hammering into it, clutching onto the excuse to stay. Really, there’s no reason for Hira to stay. He can’t contribute anything to the shoot. His meager hobby pales in comparison to the experience of the others. But Kiyoi thrust his bag into Hira’s hands before marching onto set, and he ordered Hira to hold it, so he is. He stands there, guarding all Kiyoi’s things, visually devouring Kiyoi at work, watching him flick his crimped brown hair so it picks up the light. He’s gorgeous. He’s beautiful. He’s a god, and Hira loves him.
A makeup artist flitters over between flashes to touch up the glittering gold on Kiyoi’s eyelids and the glossy pink on his lips. Kiyoi’s perfectly still, easy to work with, and lets a hairstylist join in to fuss over his rich waves. Hira watches them tweak him, touch him, and confused jealousy mixed with longing wars in Hira’s throat. He can’t wait to take Kiyoi home afterwards, to have Kiyoi all to himself again, free from sycophants that see him as just another model when he’s the ultimate model. And Hira can’t wait for the magazine to come out so he can buy a dozen copies. He’ll fawn over them, praise Kiyoi over and over again, remind him how perfect he is, and stare at it when he’s away for filming. Pretty and pliant in the stylists’ hands, Kiyoi idly glances over, and Hira’s heart nearly stops. Then those deep eyes are elsewhere, their heat lingering on Hira’s skin.
“Would you like some water?”
Hira doesn’t realize the girl’s talking to him until she’s sidled right up next to him, close enough to whisper so they don’t disturb the set. The stylists retreat, and the photographer goes on, buzzing around to a new angle that makes Kiyoi glance almost coquettishly over his shoulder. Hira can’t tear his eyes away to so much as look at the person speaking directly to him. In his peripherals, the young woman holds out a paper cup and insists, “Here, take it. You’ve been standing here so long; you must be thirsty.”
Hira just shakes his head. He doesn’t have time for her. Kiyoi’s poked his tongue out for a split second, then hurriedly withdrawn it, probably trying not to smudge his lipstick. It’s subtle, faint, but makes his mouth pop. He doesn’t need the makeup; he’s flawless without it. But seeing him painted differently is like seeing him in new clothes, or right after a haircut: a different flavour of him for Hira to enjoy. He adores every side of Kiyoi. It’s no hardship to follow him to photoshoots. To linger there all day. Hira has coursework to get through but couldn’t care less if he has to drop out of college—Kiyoi’s all that matters.
“You know, if you want to take a break, we could go have lunch, or...” The girl’s still talking, and Kiyoi’s looked over again, just for a moment, long enough to wrinkle his nose—the photographer quickly catches the pout and then asks him to smile. So he does, slick and beautiful, but it’s one of those fake ones that doesn’t touch his eyes—it softens him, looks sweet and natural, and only someone who knows him as well as Hira does could see the strain in it. Maybe he’s thirsty. He should be the one to have water. Hira turns to finally take the paper cup the girl’s offering, solely so he can bring it to Kiyoi.
Except she’s gesturing towards him at the same time. She squeaks when their arms collide—she loses her grip and the cup topples over him. Hira tenses in surprise and automatically jerks away, trying to protect Kiyoi’s bag from the spill. It works. It just soaks through his sleeve instead, pooling in the grooves at his elbow.
She instantly splutters, “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to—” And normally, Hira would stutter out an apology too, but one of the stylists is already coming over and pushing between his shoulder blades, guiding him and his puddle to the hall. He looks back at Kiyoi, mournfully trying to keep Kiyoi in his vision, while strangers usher him off-site and tell him to go dry off. The girl follows Hira all the way into the hall, but not into the men’s washroom. He has no idea what she said to him; he tuned it all out.
He’s busy hurrying forward on his own, carefully shouldering Kiyoi’s bag on his dry side and turning the wet side to the air dryer by the sinks. It’s a large, commercial space that’s somewhat clean and sterile-looking and empty, which is good—there’s no one else to bother Hira when he’s got a mission: fix himself and get back to Kiyoi. He holds his arm right against the dryer, not even caring that it feels gross, just wanting it passable so he can go back where he belongs.
The small metal blower is only meant to dry bare hands, not full sleeves, but Hira doesn’t care if he stays damp. He just can’t be dripping, can’t get kicked off the shoot. He pulls it out after barely a minute of weak blowing that hasn’t done much of anything. Before he can go, the door swings open, and his god strolls inside.
Hira’s mouth falls open, but there’s no time to get words out—Kiyoi walks straight to him. Kiyoi looks into him, and for a moment, it seems like Kiyoi’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. Hira’s the one to mumble, “K-Kiyoi...”
Kiyoi looks away, peering at the stalls one by one, all the doors swung halfway open. Once satisfied they’re alone, he reaches out and grabs Hira’s face. Hira’s breath catches as Kiyoi cups his cheek and leans forward.
His instinct is to turn too and meet Kiyoi halfway there. But Kiyoi holds him in place, so he’s helpless against the warm lips ghosting over his cheek. Kiyoi presses into him, bestowing a firm, closed kiss to the side of his face, lingering conspicuously long, while Hira’s pulse races and his knees turn weak. He loves the cologne Kiyoi wears to photoshoots. Kiyoi smells so good. He feels so good. Hira’s putty in his hands. When he pulls back, Hira’s melting. Kiyoi looks at the place he just kissed and gently thumbs a spot right under it.
Then he lets go and nods to himself, like it’s a job well done. Hira’s stunned. He’s even more stunned when Kiyoi turns on his heel and leaves without a word. The door swings a few times behind him. Hira almost touches his cheek, as if that could help him determine if what happened was even real.
Then he catches his reflection in the wide mirror over the sink. There’s a shimmering peach imprint on his cheek where Kiyoi’s lips just were—a kiss-mark like in a cartoon. The colour’s subtle, but the placement isn’t: Kiyoi left a big, obvious mark on Hira’s face. And he must’ve seen it. He stared at it before he left. Hira’s face flushes under it, hotter with giddy affection than embarrassment. He’s got a mark from Kiyoi.
He should probably wash it off. That’s probably the socially acceptable thing to do. But Kiyoi didn’t tell him to. So maybe he’s supposed to wear it out, like a brand of Kiyoi’s love. Or at least possession. Maybe he’s supposed to stand there on set with it for Kiyoi’s amusement, regardless of who else sees. Hira doesn’t get it, but he loves it. He licks his lips in anticipation of more and leaves the kiss-mark right where it is.
Damp on one side and warm all over, Hira bites back his smile and proudly wears the mark out.