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“Kiyoi looks so handsome in his suit,” the girl in front of Hira sighs, swooning on the spot, a physical manifestation of exactly what Hira’s feeling. Kiyoi looks exquisite, a true work of art, the only star in Hira’s sky. Half a dozen young up-and-coming actors from Kiyoi’s company are on the other side of the velvet rope, milling about between agents and camera operators. The flash of professional-grade cameras is a constant pulse in the background. The event’s relatively small, local, but a loyal cluster of fans crowd the edges of the closed-off mall with barely-contained squeals.
Hira’s the most loyal fan of all and was the first to arrive, will be the last to leave. He’s in a long jacket to hide himself as much as possible, but he wasn’t allowed his hat and sunglasses—Kiyoi snatched them off and wouldn’t let him leave the house with them. Hira begged for them back, because he feels so conspicuous without them. Kiyoi said he was more suspicious in his disguise, and Hira could only nod miserably, because he doesn’t have it in him to directly disobey Kiyoi.
It’s a blessing on set, because Kiyoi’s light shines all the brighter without the dim filter of shades. Hira’s utterly mesmerized.
“They all look so amazing,” another girl on Hira’s left mumbles, showing no particular would-be idol favour. Hira doesn’t understand how anyone in the crowd could possibly look at anyone but Kiyoi. The girl leans Hira’s way and notes, “I like regular guys too, though.”
She’s in the wrong place for that. Kiyoi’s anything but regular. He’s trying a new hairstyle, dyed a fraction lighter than usual, a soft brown brushed over his eyes—he looks so sweet, so endearing, strangely gentle, something that Hira wants to treasure like a porcelain figure and wrap up in warm quilts on his couch—
“What’s your name?”
The girl’s still talking, and Hira doesn’t realize who she’s talking to until she tugs on the edge of his coat. Then he startles, not so much over that as the way Kiyoi’s eyes sharply stab the crowd. His gorgeous face swivels over, the long, silver pendant earring dangling in the wake. His pert lips are in a pinched frown but swiftly smooth out as his fans cheer. Hira’s heart leaps—Kiyoi has such pretty eyes.
“Oh wow, he’s looking over here! That guy’s in the drama with Anna!” Instantly, the girl falls off Hira’s radar—anyone who only knows Kiyoi as ‘that guy’ isn’t worth his time. She babbles on anyway, “You must be a big fan of the show—I see you at all the tapings.”
Hira grunts something that isn’t so much a response as his brain short circuiting, because Kiyoi’s walking over. A few of the other actors have pulled in for a pose, while handlers go over the immediate itinerary—they’ll be moving on soon to film a short promotional video in three of their sponsors’ stores. Kiyoi told him all about it during sleep-addled pillow talk last night. Hira clung to every word, prickling with anticipation for an official Kiyoi event, and enraptured with Kiyoi’s pliant body sprawled out against his. Kiyoi steps around a cameraman to approach the crowd, and screams erupt everywhere.
The smile Kiyoi dons is a familiar one—welcoming and inviting, warm but professional, the sort of look he gets on stage, never at home, that special side of him that doesn’t exist in private with Hira but Hira still adores. He loves all sides of Kiyoi and is so proud of how easily Kiyoi adapts to fame. One of the girls is waving a folded magazine, open to an ad of Kiyoi modeling jeans, and he plucks a pen out of his breast pocket to swiftly sign it for her. The girl shrieks.
Another one waves her fan over the rope, a heart and Kiyoi’s name cut out of construction paper glued to the folds, and he scrawls his signature across it with practiced efficiency. Everyone clusters to the front, trying to get their own autograph, and Kiyoi casually doles them out like a benevolent god. It’s not Hira’s place to get one—he’s supposed to hang back, to offer support from a distance, never to get in the way. But his feet move on their own, taking him closer. Sleek and styled to the nines, Kiyoi’s perfection.
He reaches over the barrier, past the shoulder of a bodyguard holding the crowd back, and grabs Hira’s wrist. Wide-eyed, Hira goes boneless in Kiyoi’s grasp. Kiyoi clamps on, palm warm under Hira’s, nimble fingers gracefully settling against his racing pulse. Kiyoi jerks Hira forward and lifts that hand. He doesn’t so much sign his name as print it, big and bold, right across Hira’s skin. All Hira’s breath leaves his body.
After that time in high school, when Kiyoi wrote his name and number on Hira’s palm, Hira found every excuse not to wash it. He feels nostalgic, youthful and vulnerable all over again, still remembers the intensity of that unrequited pining. The fact that he’ll see Kiyoi at home after the event doesn’t make the moment any less powerful. Hira lives for Kiyoi writing his name on Hira’s body.
For that brief moment, everything seems to slow. Kiyoi takes more time and care than he did with any of the other autographs. And then, too soon, it’s all over, and Kiyoi’s capping his pen and stepping away. He looks up, and for a split second, his eyes pierce Hira’s, his gaze an inferno.
The crowd goes wild for him. They simper, making grabbing hands and trying to pull him back, but he morphs into a wry grin, throwing them a congenial wave. He joins his peers for the next photo, while Hira trembles alone.
Some of the other fans around him whine over how lucky he is, others dazed and confused as to why he didn’t sign their bodies. One girl wants Kiyoi to sign her forehead, another her chest. The one next to Hira’s talking again, but Hira doesn’t hear her. His whole world’s Kiyoi. Once, Kiyoi throws a languid look his way, and those plush lips seem to smirk when they find Hira glued to them. The girl’s left his side, so there’s not even a distraction to fight anymore. Hira knows his mouth is hanging open but can’t seem to close it—he’s hypnotized. He feels like he’s transcended to another plane. A god picked him up and put him there. He cradles his signed hand in the other.
It’s not until Kiyoi starts moving, guided by the agents onto the first store, that it dons on Hira that Kiyoi’s marked him. It’s like the little pink kiss-marks Hira’s only allowed to leave in secret places, under Kiyoi’s clothes, where no one else will ever see them. Except everyone can see his—Kiyoi Sou—irrefutable proof that Hira belongs to Kiyoi. He’s honoured.
He silently swears to captain duck that he’ll be worthy of the mark, and he respectfully follows the crowd.