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He’s not huge yet, so the plan’s pretty simple—a single closed set, compensating with several wardrobe changes and flashing lights, multiple takes from different angles and alternating bold colour schemes. Anna’s music videos are usually on location, with a whole host of dancers and a guest cameo or two. Kiyoi’s not jealous. He’s grateful to be in the same company and start with their expertise. The budget’s small, but the talent’s big. He doesn’t need a full crew behind him, because he’s a star—he’ll shine bright enough. Being an idol has always been his dream. He runs through the choreography in his head while he sits in the makeup chair, glaring into the mirror, too determined to talk. The crew chatters around him. His agent’s distracted, busy in the corner with a phone call to the company, but he doesn’t need the support. Kiyoi’s his own cheerleader. He’d like support, like someone to hold his hand, rub his shoulders, tell him he’s great and he’ll be spectacular, someone closer than an agent with no monetary motive—someone who truly knows him, gets him, and will come home with him after. But it’s hard to find that in the bustling entertainment industry. So Kiyoi manages on his own, all held breath and will power.
The studio’s stuffy. Wardrobe gives him ripped black jeans and an open denim jacket, his whole front exposed, but he keeps on top of things and won’t be embarrassed. He won’t let himself blush. He pretends he doesn’t hear the lighting crew gossiping about his ‘washboard abs’ and how low the pants hang. They’re a bit too long, piled over his sneakers, so he’ll have to be careful not to trip. He has to keep the cameras in mind. He has to lip sync while he dances and look good doing it. There’s a lot to remember. The director’s hands-off but notoriously good. He hovers behind the main camera, like that part matters most. Kiyoi tells himself it’s fine. He’s good with cameras—knows how to work them—at least in front of them, if not behind. Noguchi pats the cameraman on the back and finally glances over, calling, “Okay, everyone, let’s get this show on the road! Kiyoi, you know where you’re starting?”
Kiyoi stiffens, nods, and moves to lone metal chair in the middle of the set. Pure white’s all around it, the wall in the back and the painted floor. A spotlight flashes on, neon blue, pink flooding in from the left. It just makes things warmer. Kiyoi’s ears are burning. His agent’s still busy. He squares his shoulders, ready anyway. The first take’s just him. They’ll splice it with other ones, two with a model poised in the chair, once a woman and once a man, plus versions where he’s alone, in different clothes, utilizing the chair as a prop. The female model’s already in the makeup chair, while the male counterpart hasn’t shown up yet. Noguchi doesn’t seem to care. Kiyoi’s heard the best artists are unkempt or peculiar. Kiyoi needs to impress him, so he comes back for the bigger budget shoots when Kiyoi does a sophomore album.
His debut has a few minor hits, but if he plays his cards right, his next single will explode. He’s sure he can do it. It’s a fast, smooth, sultry pop song with a dark edge and hard chorus. It sounds fine on its own—he’s proud of it—but he knows dancing will enhance it. He intends to hit every beat, every well-crafted pose, like his whole heart’s in it, like his life depends on it. He wants to tell the next interviewer that he put his blood, sweat, and tears into his craft, and he wants to really mean it.
The lights adjust. There’s a quick system’s check. The choreographer does a rushed verbal run-through. A stereo’s set on the floor for Kiyoi to follow—the song starts up, booming strange in the vast open space, echoing off every surface. He says he’s ready, the song starts over, and he bursts to life.
It’s just him. He lives in that moment, flourishes and thrives, flows through the steps like he was born to be there. His whole body sways with the music, and it flies by—he roars through the song in a single blazing take.
The studio bursts into applause as the song ends. One take, and Kiyoi’s already panting, though more from adrenaline than stress. He’s not sweating yet. He’s glossy with makeup, skin shimmering with the synthetic lights’ jarring colours. The crew chatter and shift as wardrobe changes him into pleather pants and a silver mesh top. It’s a ridiculous ensemble, but he holds his head high. He just hopes he has more clothes on when it’s time to dance with the girl. The boy’s running late. Noguchi says as much, fiddling on his phone, and then the backdoor bursts open and a bumbling young man hurries in.
He’s tall, lean, in plain chino pants and a plaid shirt, with shaggy black hair that hides half his eyes, broken posture and an intense, brooding presence that must do well in magazines—dark and handsome, like he’d never ask a girl out, and a lot of girls like that. His eyes are pure black, deeper than his hair. He’s got chiseled cheekbones, a mole like a beauty mark, full bow lips and perfect bone structure. His styling needs work, but the raw potential’s there—Kiyoi knows another artist when he sees one. Noguchi’s still on his phone, paying no attention as the newcomer shuffles up, so Kiyoi snaps, “You’re late.” It’s his music video, after all, his name on the line. The man’s gaze snaps to Kiyoi, and it may as well be a laser beam. Kiyoi’s breath hitches. He’s paralyzed. The man stares into him with more fervour than Kiyoi’s whole fanclub combined. He must be passionate about his work too, about working with Kiyoi.
But he limply stands there like he hasn’t got the easiest gig on the planet, while the rest of them are on the clock. Noguchi might be lackadaisical, but Kiyoi’s agency won’t be if they’re charged overtime. Kiyoi’s proactive with that kind of thing, with everything—he’s involved and conscious about his career. He marches over with a sigh and grabs the man’s sleeve. He just has to tug, and the man yelps, then follows, like a startled mutt eager to tail a new master home. Kiyoi takes him straight to the chair and asks, “What’s your name?” even though there’s no need to know. Kiyoi hasn’t asked the female model’s name. The video’s going for bisexual fan service, so he’ll be dancing intimately around both. Then the shoot will end and he’ll never see them again. But the male model’s about his height, has a good look for him, feels like a perfect fit that he might work with in the future. He doesn’t offer his own name—he shouldn’t have to.
The man stutters, “H-h-h—” and then Kiyoi’s all but shoving him into the chair. He collapses on it with zero grace; very un-model-like. All he has to do is sit there. It’s not Kiyoi’s job to pose him, but Kiyoi finds himself grabbing the man’s shoulders and sculpting them anyway. They’re firm, warm. Kiyoi straightens him out, while he bores holes into Kiyoi, all searing wide eyes full of ardour and awe. Kiyoi figures he’s imagining things, projecting, but can’t help it; something about that gaze is intoxicating. It’s why Kiyoi became an idol in the first place—the crazed need to be seen. No one ever sees him as truly, closely, faithfully as he wants. The itch is never scratched. The model’s scratching all the right places. He swallows and answers, “Hira.”
Kiyoi stares at Hira, bent over the chair, hyped up from dancing and having his hands on an attractive man, something rare and scintillating, and he can’t believe how hard it is to pull away.
Eventually, he regains himself, his sanity, and jerks back up, whirling to the camera. Noguchi’s grinning at him and asks, “Ready for the next take?”
Kiyoi nods. The choreography’s similar, hardly complicated, aside from the fact that he has to incorporate another person. Hira doesn’t have to do anything. He just has to sit there and look good. That’s when Kiyoi realizes that Hira needs to go through makeup and wardrobe and have his hair done. Kiyoi flushes, waiting for Noguchi to note that—several crew members look confused. But Noguchi claps his hands and demands, “Alright, places, people!”
Hira splutters, “W-wha—!”
And Noguchi tells him, “Nope, this is perfect—just sit there like that. Kiyoi, you know what to do?”
Kiyoi nods, even though he just made a giant, obvious mistake. Noguchi doesn’t seem like the kind of kindly older man that would roll with it purely to let Kiyoi save face, so he must like the chino pants and plaid shirt and too-long hair. Kiyoi both likes it and would like to see Hira fixed up, but he also wants to start already and get his hands back on those shoulders.
It starts. The song plays. Kiyoi lurches into action. He runs one hand through his hair, the other over his thigh, strutting around the chair with eyes on the camera. Then the beat hits, and he’s twirling into it, rocking forward, thrusting his hips forward while his knees bend and his spine arches back. He curves like a snake, his whole body liquid. With a strike of inspiration, he runs his tongue over his lips between words. He can feel Hira’s eyes on him. It feeds him, ignites him. The next beat has him nearly folding in two, chest thrusting down across Hira’s lap, but his legs stay straight, eyes forward. The first chorus takes him in a full circle around the chair, he poses for a bridge, and then he throws his leg over Hira’s thighs for the next one. In his peripherals, he can see the cameras on either side, moving to match him.
He straddles Hira’s lap, arms over Hira’s shoulders. He’s supposed to run his hands through Hira’s hair.
But they’ve made eye contact again, and for a split second, Kiyoi forgets where he is—his heart hammers in his chest, heat lancing through him. Hira’s lips are parted, his expression surprised but fierce; it looks like he wants to eat Kiyoi alive.
Kiyoi’s been in another man’s lap before, just once or twice, only for a quick second—his stomach would churn, and he’d leap away. It’s not churning for Hira. It does twist. There are butterflies in it. Hira’s lips are plush and rosy, right there, and it’d be so easy to kiss them. Kiyoi’s not that kind of person. He plays sensual for the camera, but he’s never even dated; prospects have told him he’s frigid and too much work. Hira looks like he’d be fine working for it, and Kiyoi suddenly feels shamefully easy.
Someone calls his name. He remembers where he is. The song doesn’t stop—nobody calls “cut”—so he makes himself move, finish the dance, resume mouthing the words. They’ll need another take. He’ll have to ride Hira’s lap again. He arches into Hira, rippling into his chest, following the erotic melody. There’s a moment where he thinks Hira’s going to grab his hips and keep him there, and maybe he wants that.
He berates himself and slides off Hira’s thighs. He lifts his chin and flicks his hair as he spins, piercing different cameras, falling into place. He has the choreography down. He makes himself sink into it. His first take was fire, but he somehow finds more, more energy, more oomph, more style and flare and sensuality. He hits each beat twice as hard, flexing every muscle, extending to the tips of his fingers and toes. He dances for all he’s worth until the song ends.
He’s back on Hira’s lap, leaning in—he’s told it’ll end with a black circle closing in, cutting off before they kiss. So they don’t need to kiss. He shouldn’t kiss an unsuspecting model. He doesn’t mean to. He’s out of control. He’s cradling Hira’s face and moving down, and Hira moves up—suddenly they’re kissing for real.
It’s good, really good. The best kiss Kiyoi’s ever had, and there’s not even tongue. Kiyoi wants tongue. He doesn’t have enough experience to know how to initiate that and is too embarrassed anyway; he wants Hira to initiate it, to pry his lips open and fuck his mouth.
Except they’re in an open studio, surrounded by a crew that applauds again. Kiyoi jerks out of the kiss, bright pink and panting. He’s absolutely ashamed. He can’t believe he did that. His dancing was too much. Internally, he calls himself a slur and sort of regrets everything.
He must not regret it enough, because he stays in Hira’s lap. He tells himself he’s waiting for Hira to reassure him—to say it’s fine, or complement his dancing. Hira’s eyes drift to Kiyoi’s mouth, and he breathes, “Beautiful,” with teeming reverence, like Kiyoi’s genuinely the most gorgeous creature he’s ever seen in his life. Kiyoi’s complemented on his looks all the time. He’s always cool, suave, just waves it off. He blushes darker for Hira, ruby red.
Somebody off to the side says, “I thought the other model was a girl?”
Kiyoi glances over his shoulder. Another young man’s standing there, maybe a little older than Kiyoi, with gelled and parted hair, a fashionable sweater, and fitted jeans. Kiyoi doesn’t remember seeing him on the set before.
Noguchi tells him, “You’re late, Iruma. You snooze you lose. My assistant’s taken the role.”
The man—Iruma?—splutters, “Wh—I was only a little late! You can’t—” But Kiyoi stops paying attention as his mind reels through those words. He looks back at Hira. Noguchi’s assistant.
Hira looks like he’s commit the ultimate sin right on god’s doorstep—he abruptly clasps his hands and bows to Kiyoi, as much as he can without knocking into Kiyoi’s chin, and bursts, “S-sorry! So sorry! Didn’t mean to violate Kiyoi—”
Without thinking, Kiyoi slaps his hand over Hira’s mouth, because that’s the kind of talk that could set gossip off and wind up online. Flushed from head to toe, Kiyoi hisses, “Nobody’s violating anybody!” Hopefully Noguchi and the late model’s arguing distract the rest of the cast. Hira goes cross-eyed in an effort to look at Kiyoi’s hand, which Kiyoi quickly pulls away. He’s the one that can’t seem to stop touching Hira. Then he realizes where he is and scrambles off Hira’s lap, nearly tripping in the process.
It’s mortifying. He wants to disappear. They need several more takes. Noguchi calls over, “Don’t worry, Kiyoi; Hira’s a big fan, so I’m sure he’s happy.” Noguchi even laughs like it’s hilarious instead of the most embarrassing moment of Kiyoi’s life. Hira bows right from the waist and repeats his apologies. Noguchi talks over him. “Okay guys, let’s do the gold version now. We can tell the other model—”
Kiyoi’s already tugging Hira up by the sleeve and pushing him off set. Hira goes where he’s herded, while Noguchi corrects, “Let’s just switch to Hira for all of them; you guys have great chemistry.”
But it’s way too much chemistry and Kiyoi won’t survive that, so he leaves Hira out of range and storms back to the chair. He huffs out a breath and shakily insists, “No, I’m good. Let’s do it the original way.” He knows he probably shouldn’t argue. Noguchi’s in charge. He shakes his head, probably thinking Kiyoi’s an idiot, all hormones and no sense.
Fortunately, Noguchi relents anyway. “Alright, alright. Hira, get on that camera. Iruma, get out of the shot. Where’s the next model? Let’s go...”
Kiyoi deliberately doesn’t watch Hira slink over to the camera. He doesn’t keep track of Hira for the rest of the shoot. He doesn’t eye-fuck Hira’s camera significantly more than the others. He stops lying to himself and accepts how ludicrous it is that he can still feel Hira’s gaze through the lens. He lets that fuel him and nails every take in one.
He doesn’t ask for Hira’s number after, but when Noguchi texts it to him, he doesn’t delete it either, and he tells himself he won’t go over to Hira’s house to ‘practice’ for their next session, but does anyway.