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“I’m sure you’ll meet her someday,” Anna tells him with a soft smile, kind, but wrong. Kiyoi doesn’t correct her. She’s correct on one thing—the reason for his sullen expression—which he quickly schools away. Alone under the shade of one of the many pitched tents on the vast field, they’re taking a last minute perusal of the script—a scene riddled with cliché dialogue about true love and soulmates.
On the show, Anna’s mark is on her cheek rather than the small of her back, much easier to spot and borderline comical. Tabloids have still, somehow, found pictures of the real one. No one’s ever photographed the name scrawled along Kiyoi’s inner thigh, so Anna has no way of knowing that it’s probably not a she. And Kiyoi never tells her—tells anyone at the company—about his non-existent love-life, so he understands her assumption. He’s still annoyed that she assumes he cares, but she’s right; the script does bring an uncomfortable reminder that he’ll probably die alone.
Anna reaches over to lightly squeeze his elbow—the most physical comfort she can offer with cameras in the distance. A small smattering of press are back behind the security line, a larger crowd of fans next to it. In between, the crew’s busy staging the scene. Past a sea of scuttling lighting, sound, camera technicians, stylists, production and a director with two interns, plus several people Kiyoi doesn’t even know, a cluster of cute girls are clutching banners with Kiyoi’s name on it. He recognizes a few faces. A handsome, chiseled one is hidden behind sunglasses and an old-fashioned hat, the young man all swamped in oversized clothes and an ‘eternal’ fan. He’s staring right at Kiyoi with his lips parted like he’s awed, like he’s watching a god lounge in a temple. Then his cheeks abruptly flush pink, and he quickly turns away, unable to look directly at the sun when Kiyoi’s facing him. Kiyoi’s gaze ignites the crowd—a woman even waves, brandishing her arm high in the air, a makeshift Kiyoi Sou soul mark evident under her sleeve.
On the surface, Kiyoi smiles. Underneath, he cringes. He loves having fans. He does. But getting pictures of fake soul marks in fanmail, either poorly drawn on with a marker or even the rare tattoo, always depresses him. He laughs it off in interviews like he’s flattered but unaffected. He presents himself as a lone wolf. He’s been that way since childhood.
Then he gets home to his empty apartment and drowns in the gaping void.
The waving girl gets a quiet chuckle out of Anna, but she blessedly doesn’t comment—her eyes fall back to the script, peacefully reading. Her fans, bunched next to Kiyoi’s, aren’t pulling the same stunt—she’s made it clear a hundred times that she won’t settle for a one-way bond; she wants the person written on her skin—named at birth, not a recent legal change—and if that person has someone else on them or never finds her or is dead, too bad. She says she already has a full life. Kiyoi admires that attitude as much as her acting talent. Outwardly, he can haughtily boast the same, but inside, he knows he’d settle. He’d take and probably crumble for even just half of a true soul-bond, would accept never feeling like his partner was quite right so long as he knew they loved him completely.
The fans currently clamouring for his attention claim to love him, but they’d leave if their true loves came along. And he doesn’t know if he could sleep with someone bearing another person’s name. He’d never admit it aloud, but he’s too jealous. He has to look away from the knot of infatuated girls when it becomes too difficult to smile.
The faithful young man that’s always there, supporting Kiyoi’s every move, is easier to watch; he hides behind his fan, body entirely covered up, no mark in sight. As far as Kiyoi knows, he’s never sent in a love letter claiming that marks don’t matter and he could be Kiyoi’s everything. The company would find out if he had—they have their eye on him; he just looks so suspicious. But a few fans are like that. Anna has one, an older man with a maroon scarf and a camera at the ready—he’s had Anna’s name tattooed on him in three places.
As far as Kiyoi knows, Anna didn’t respond to the letters—she gets so very many—but he remembers her sighing sadly over the last set of pictures like such a sign of devotion was a piteous thing. Kiyoi goes back and forth. Maybe he’s glad that girl cares enough to write his name on her skin. Maybe it’s gross. He finally tears his eyes away, trying to study the script again. It’s a complicated scene—hand-written notes clutter the margins.
In the story, Anna’s soul mark is written in latin letters, and she wants to go overseas to track him down.
Kiyoi’s is Japanese. And the show airs all across Japan. Granted, its success is only middling, Kiyoi’s part not particularly large, so it’s possible his soulmate’s never seen it or his commercials or any of the ads he’s done for magazines, never felt compelled to look up his name. But unlikely. His name’s out there, an easy internet search away. It’s far more likely they died young, or they’re not interested in men, or they’ve got another name on them and they’re just not interested in Kiyoi.
Whatever the case, Kiyoi’s grown accustomed to the emptiness and accepts that Hira Kazunari’s not going to call.
When he glances up again, Mr. Suspicious isn’t staring anymore—he’s taken off his sunglasses to wipe the lenses on his sleeve.
He just happens to look over mid-swipe and see Kiyoi—their gazes lock—and Kiyoi’s breath hitches, because those burning brown eyes are so much deeper than he expected. The back of Kiyoi’s neck tingles, like when he’s standing on stage, looking out over an audience of thousands, finally feeling fulfilled.
Then the man blushes hot again and swiftly fumbles his glasses back on, ducking behind his fan. It startles Kiyoi out of his reverie—he can’t help a subtle smirk over the cutely clumsy reaction. It makes him feel a smidgen better. He does have options.
It’s sad, but he can settle for seducing a fan, one who won’t be his soul mate, who won’t satisfy him wholly, won’t love him forever, but can at least claim to like him for a little while.