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“Cut!”
One word, and it’s over—Kiyoi instantly straightens, even steps back, rigid in his return to himself. Usually, he’s more graceful on set, lingering on the verge of the character he’s playing, keeping a full grasp on their mindset. The woman he shared the scene with blinks in surprise—maybe he was too abrupt. Maybe that was rude. His hand twitches at his side, wanting to swipe across his mouth and wipe away any and all traces of her. He resists and offers a forced smile that probably looks cold. She shakily returns it, and Kiyoi looks away.
The director’s hunched behind a camera, the sound and lighting departments making small adjustments off her notes. Two other actors stand in the wings, waiting to stroll through the next scene. Kiyoi waits for the okay to go ahead and film that scene, silently saying a prayer they won’t have to shoot the last one again.
His coworker’s lip balm tastes like chemicals. It loiters on his bottom lip, prickling and unpleasant in a way that Hira’s lips never are. Hira’s lips are just as soft, wet, but they taste better and feel right—sometimes Kiyoi even finds himself tracing his mouth with his tongue, chasing the memory of his boyfriend.
It feels wrong to kiss someone else, and that’s been on his mind all day.
A goofy hat and a dark pair of sunglasses stand out of the crowd of fans cloistered behind a far off barricade. It’s not like he’s alone. His boyfriend’s in plain sight, watching everything. It’s not like Kiyoi’s sneaking around behind his back, wanting other people. Kiyoi told Hira the second he saw the kiss in the script. He doesn’t know what he wanted—maybe for Hira to freeze up and forcibly tell Kiyoi no, demand Kiyoi quit, or at least throw a jealous tantrum and demand Kiyoi kiss him a thousand times more to make up for it. Maybe even pin him down and claim his mouth first. Hira, of course, did none of that, just went silent and nodded. When prodded, he promised to support Kiyoi no matter what and even said Kiyoi’s a fantastic kisser so the episode will get great ratings.
So really, Kiyoi’s the only one with the problem. Apparently, it doesn’t bother Hira that some random girl almost had her tongue in his mouth. Thankfully the director didn’t push for that, and Kiyoi didn’t offer. Hopefully the quick, close-mouthed peck was enough. It’s bad enough. He knows he’ll probably have to do it again, do more, if he wants to thrive in his career. Starting small, he already hates it, and can’t help staring at the tall, dark figure lurking at the back of the giggling onlookers.
They’re too far away. A cameraman’s in the way. It’s too bright outside, and Hira’s awful hat casts too big a shadow across his face. Kiyoi can’t make out the details of his boyfriend’s lips, can’t tell if they’re closed or slightly parted, doesn’t know if they’re whispering his name. He can only eye the general shape and fantasize about licking over it when he gets home.
Even so far away, even in the stupid disguise, Hira’s overall face is jarringly handsome and has a terrible effect on Kiyoi. The on-screen kiss has him too riled up, has him wanting a proper one. He wants to kiss his man so badly. They had to rush out in the morning, Hira for an assignment and Kiyoi for an interview, so there was no time for intimacy, and it gals Kiyoi to his core that he’s spent more of the day kissing a coworker than his lover.
“Okay, let’s setup the next one!” the director calls, waving his finger in a circle—Kiyoi turns, the woman next to him doing the same—it’s cutting to them walking hand in hand. She holds hers out, and he stares at it for a second before wrapping his own around it—it feels too small, too soft, nothing like Hira’s long, dexterous hands, filled with strength and desperately trembling in their fervour to slide all over Kiyoi’s body. But Kiyoi’s an actor, so he sucks it up.
While the cameras move in to place and the other actors receive some last minute guidance, Kiyoi eyes his fans. Hira’s moved closer to the front since Kiyoi was last looking, and he’s lifted his hand to his mouth, fingertips pressed to his lips. A shiver slithers down Kiyoi’s spine. Hira was a terrible kisser when they first started, but he’s since learned what Kiyoi likes and knows just how to take Kiyoi apart. Maybe he’s thinking about it too. Maybe he is jealous under his selfless support.
“You have a lot of fans,” his coworker muses, eyeing the sparkling handmade signs and the way the girls swoon over his gaze. There are others too, a few fanboys for her, a large cluster for the actors coming up.
He agrees, “Yeah.” And then, on a terrible whim, uses his free hand to blow a kiss, wholly out of character—the girls start shrieking, even though it’s not meant for them.
Hira doesn’t pretend to catch it. But he must know it’s for him and only a prelude to what he’ll get at home. The woman next to him chuckles and joins in, blowing a few air-kisses to the crowd, and the boys in it erupt in a squeals, Hira excluded.
Then the cameras start rolling, and Kiyoi’s a different man—a straight one with a pretty girlfriend who wears disgusting lip balm.
And later he goes home to his boyfriend, pushes him up against the wall right in the entrance way, and kisses him longer, harder, better than she ever got—Kiyoi wrecks Hira’s mouth, and it tastes just right on his tongue.