Chapter Text
Makoto Teruhashi sat cross-legged in his opulent dressing room, sipping slowly from a plastic water bottle while staring directly at himself in the mirror. The room was dim, and the only light from a nearby lamp shone against the recently cleaned glass of his reflection. Makoto could tell it had recently been wiped due to the obvious streaks from left to right, which was distracting him greatly, and he had already decided to later complain to a director.
He could hear the buzz of people just outside his door, and Makoto furrowed his eyebrows; did no one have respect for a genius during his preparation? Clearly not. With a groan, Makoto stood slowly, stretching his back and striding over to the door, taking a moment to inhale a deep breath before pushing it open, a polite smile stretched on his face. He expected to be greeted with a swarm, as was tradition with any set he stepped foot on, but no such thing came. Only an intern gave him a sideways glance and a small nod— Makoto’s smile dropped immediately, looking around fervently for the cause of such disgrace, his eyes landing on a huddled group of his coworkers a few feet away.
Ah! Someone must have died! That is the only reason people would not be focusing the entirety of their attention on the renowned Touru Mugami, surely. Feeling much less rejected than he had roughly 15 seconds ago, Makoto confidently walked towards the group, clearing his throat loudly to catch their attention. Any dead man did not deserve such a crowd, and Makoto’s ego did. A few turned his way and stepped aside to let Makoto into the centre, which Makoto accepted gracefully, gliding past them with a friendly grin and straight posture, though his feet immediately halted when he was not greeted with a corpse, but a blond man holding six different types of, (what seemed to be), extravagant guns.
The blond turned to him. He had a soft face: somewhat round, with long lashes that seemed to be outlined with mascara. Makoto was familiar with the look, for he’d worn makeup since his début into the film industry. The man was quite attractive, and Makoto’s first assumption was that he was a new co-star, since the casting department has a habit of casting new talent without giving warning. That thought was dashed immediately when the man squinted his eyes at Makoto, like he could not remember where he’d seen his face, which made a surge of anger spike in Makoto’s chest. He began to speak, only to be interrupted by the man as soon as he opened his mouth.
“Have we met?” The blond asked, extending his free hand towards Makoto like he was more important than the Touru Mugami! Makoto didn’t shake, only stared at it with indignation, and the man clenched his fist before returning it to his side, a smile forming on his face, but it seemed more mocking than anything. “My name is Kuusuke Saiki, I’ve been hired as a prop designer. Are you… an extra?”
Makoto scowled, then smoothed his expression. This man, Kuusuke, must be an idiot if he doesn’t know Makoto. With a twitching eyebrow, Makoto responded, the previous crew members grumbling back to their positions, no longer entertained by the show.
“I don’t think I've seen you before. If I had, I’m sure to have blocked it from my memory, your face is incredibly unpleasant—”
“Ah? That so?” Kuusuke interrupted him. Again.
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what? Am I bothering you?—”
“You know,” It was Makoto’s time to interrupt now. “You’re incredibly lucky to be only a set designer. You’d mar the camera if you had to stand in front of it. And nobody would want to act with you. And you’d be bad at it.” Makoto was breathing heavily, his eyes narrowed as he spoke with flailing gestures, his mood only souring more when Kuusuke failed to react.
Silence passed. Kuusuke only stared down at him. Metaphorically. Because they were nearly the same height. Makoto straightened his stance, considering the career ramifications if he punched this guy in the face. He could get away with it. His manager might also return the favour, but he’s been in scandal before. A few times.
“Would you like to see the gun?” Kuusuke asked abruptly, lifting his left hand to show the excessively decorated weapon. It was a dark grey with various lime green tubes on the sides, thin tubes connecting the viles to the firearm, though clearly for show. Makoto blinked, then examined it closely; he had to admit, it was well-designed. Hefty, but not too heavy that he couldn’t perform with it. The sudden shift startled him, Makoto was expecting an argument, but he supposed this was Kuusuke’s way of deescalating. Makoto reached to hold it, only for Kuusuke to pull it away, shaking his finger like one would at a misbehaving housecat.
“Ah, ah! This thing can explode, don’t mishandle it.” Kuusuke tsks, shaking his head with disappointment. Makoto no longer thinks this is a deescalation method. This man seems to have a lingering aura of distaste, leaving everyone he speaks to with a feeling of anger. It was unclear whether Kuusuke was aware of this or not, but Makoto was willing to bet on the former.
It takes Makoto a few seconds to think of a reply to that, feeling unstable on his feet at being talked down to like a child. When he finally musters up a response that isn’t “fuck you”, the snapping of the directors’ fingers approaches, catching the attention of them both.
“Alright, playtime’s over. Get into position! Filming begins in two minutes.” He gave a pointed look towards Makoto in particular, patting the actors’ shoulder before walking off to bark more instructions at the other crew members. Makoto focused back on Kuusuke, the man now having a slight pout, examining the device in his hand with a sigh before tossing it over with little care. Makoto caught it with wide eyes, unsure if the thing in his palm was really prone to explode, but Kuusuke seemed indifferent, so perhaps it was a simple bad joke. Yes, that's it.
Kuusuke gave a small nod of goodbye, then turned 180° and confidently strutted out of view. Makoto watched him go with a wrinkled expression, then sprinted off to his post. Who cares about some prop designer? He’s met plenty of those in his life; frankly too many. Makoto shook his head wildly to clear the thought, smoothing out his outfit and fitting in perfectly to the sleek, silver, backdrop of whatever sci-fi he agreed to. Half of his decisions were made by his manager, the other half were regrettable. He stood straight, smoothed his face and began his character’s first monologue as soon as the director yelled “Action!”
“The year is 2874, and the word has been overtaken by a strange alien life..” Staring slightly left of the camera, Makoto made eye-contact with Kuusuke, who was sitting cross-legged on a metal fold-up chair, sipping from a paper cup slowly with a clear grin on his face. Nobody ever looked at him like that while he acted. It was either awe, joy, or envy. Amusement? Not at his performance, but at him ? Unbelievable. The two were staring directly at each other for a solid thirty seconds, Makoto allowing his perfected character expression to falter: his eyes narrowing, which only seemed to make Kuusuke’s grin wider. No one didn’t love Touru Mugami unless there was something seriously wrong in the head. He fumbled his lines, murmuring the most important parts and then completely pausing. Makoto will find out what’s wrong with Kuusuke Saiki.
“ Cut ! Mugami, try that again.”
—
Once Makoto arrived home, he immediately rushed up the stairs to his bedroom, stopping only to peek into Kokomis’ room and announce his return. He closed the door softly behind him, turning the lock with a click and plopping down on the spinny chair in front of his computer. Makoto’s fingers typed fast, inputting Kuusukes’ name and staring intently.
“Kuusuke Saiki” - 7,150 results
Makoto skimmed over the first few articles before he immediately halted, eyebrows raising slowly as he read through a highlighted paragraph, closing the tab quickly after he completed it.
A genius?
Him
?