Chapter Text
The hall was silent.
Sakuma could almost hear the hitch of breaths—including his—and even though he practically wasn’t included in the audience, his eyes were like theirs, fixed at one spotlighted point on the stage.
Standing in the middle of the white circle, was Maki Katsuhiko—oh no, he wasn’t, now he was Hamlet—delivering his monologue, ever so movingly conveying to the world the misery and anxiety of the Danish prince.
In the community, Maki was the most celebrated actor, tickets for his plays were always sold out, and the flowers sent to the theater in his three shows were probably adequate to cover the whole road in front of the main gate of the imperial palace. In the local bars Sakuma drop by, or even in the queue lines at the busiest hours, he could hear people talking about the actor. Maki-san who played this role, Maki-san who played that role—Maki, Maki, Maki.
It was almost surfeiting when all people were talking about the man, but since Yuuki-san assigned him to help the lighting division and he ended up watching the actor himself, he grew to understand why everybody was enthralled. Sakuma didn’t know much about performing arts, but out of all actors whose plays he had seen, Maki was perfection. Every move, every phrase; he trod the wooden platform as though every inch of it was his world and recite his lines like every word of it was his own—no, those dialogues were indeed his. When he was on stage, there was no Maki, there was only Hamlet.
In the very beginning Sakuma wasn’t very excited to work in a theater, but now he restlessly waited for the evening to come, always looking forward to the time he could go to work and see Maki on stage—capturing ears with his voice, captivating eyes with his gestures, stealing hearts with his wails. Sakuma had seen him playing Hamlet so many times and yet he could never get tired, the more he took the role, the more Maki owned the character—they were one—Hamlet who did monologues, Maki who turned down Ophelia, Hamlet who saw the ghost, Maki who crossed swords with Laertes and drew his last breath under the spotlight. By the end of the play, applause and cries echoed; he did it again, he made all of them couldn’t see anything but himself again.
Maki Katsuhiko was a star, who disappeared behind the closing curtains.
.*.
He was never able to get close to that man, except for the few times they passed each other in the corridors; Sakuma with lamps or a roll of cable, Maki with half a dozen bouquets of flowers on hand and a shower of praises.
Sometimes their eyes would meet. In another time the actor might as well didn’t even notice his presence, but Sakuma would still use all the chance he had to absorb all; the stylishly arranged hair, sharp, unreadable, round brown eyes and a tiny smile that kept questions arisen; everything about Maki always struck the most of his curiosity. But he could only see him up close in the briefest moment before the actor retreat to his room, beyond reach once again, while Sakuma could only slap himself mentally, trying to straighten his thoughts and put into mind the task he was doing.
That night Sakuma climbed up the stairs carrying a big box of spotlight in front of his chest, wasn’t sure whether he had brought the lamp filter that Odagiri has asked him to take—what was the color they wanted to change again, red? Blue? Or was it maroon brown, like the suit often worn by Maki when he came to the thea—no, Sakuma, this is a theater, not a drag club, he rebuked himself, why would they need a filter with that color anyway.
He found the control room still laden with staffs, moving around like programed ants, cleaning up while saying loudly to each other, “Otsukaresamadeshita!” It was how his day ever ended; audience gradually leaving the hall, staff tidying up equipment, lamps being switched off; Sakuma then went home with the last train or drop by any bar along the way, sometimes alone, other times with a co-worker.
“Oh, Sakuma.” Odagiri waved from one corner, he was rolling a cable back to the drum cord. Sakuma immediately approached his senior, set down the box and was about to help, but the other man stopped him with a hand gesture. “It’s alright, I can do it alone, actually, I need you to do something else,” he paused and Sakuma nodded, then his face went somewhat apologetic, “I’m sorry, but could you please check this one lamp before going home?”
Sakuma didn’t have a reason to refuse. His apartment wasn’t so far that it’s a must for him to take the train, and he didn't mind walking either, so he actually was never in a hurry to go home. He nodded once more with shown interest; Sakuma had only started working there for several months and until the foreseeable future, he did not intend to disappoint his superiors.
Odagiri asked him to go to Maki Katsuhiko’s room.
.*.
Hesitating over and over, he finally knocked on the door, then regretting it immediately because he might just did it a little too brash. Before he could excuse himself, though, the actor called from inside the room, “Come in.”
Sakuma opened the door as carefully as possible, trying his best not to make any sound. The dressing room was a little dim, and by reflex he glanced towards the lamps above and thought if they were the ones that have been broken. When he finally got into the room entirely, he saw the brown-haired man was sitting with his back to him, leaning on the chair facing the dresser, eyeing him through the reflection in the mirror. Even without the makeup applied to emphasize his stage role, Maki’s face owned not a single flaw.
“Good evening,” he waited until the actor stood and turned to face him before continuing, “Odagiri-san asked me to check a lamp.”
The man leaned his back to the wall, and Sakuma couldn’t ignore how his built was accentuated with the impeccable cut of his brown vest and fine white shirt, while the base of his neck exposed for the absence of a tie. He shoved both hands into his trousers’ pocket. “You don’t bring the new lamp.”
“Y-yes, I don’t?”
“Well, obviously you don’t. You also don’t bring any tools,” Maki said without a hint of emotion, tilting his head a bit while his eyes were staring at him thoroughly, “I thought you came here to fix the lamp.”
“I...,” he faltered for a moment, was not even the tiniest bit ready when asked (even though the tone of the actor wasn’t at all interrogative). He never felt that Maki paid any attention to him, and imagining having a conversation was out of the question. Now when the famed actor really spoke to him, he found himself troubled for answering. Maki’s sharpness was also not helping; Sakuma swallowed, realizing that he really did come without knowing which lamp was broken. In the end, nevertheless, as the proper man he was, Sakuma regained his composure. “I’ll see it first, before deciding which replacement lamp or tools I should bring.”
The actor kept staring at him for a few seconds, more than the limit of Sakuma’s comfort, but he then turned his head to the side. “That one.”
What Maki meant was one of the white bulbs on the side of the mirror on the dressing table. With just one look, Sakuma was able to determine which one was the problem, because Maki left them switched on and one of the light bulbs were dead. He walked towards the table without a word, switched off the lamps and touched the base of the dead bulb carefully, turning it outwards. His forehead furrowed when he realized immediately that the bulb wasn’t put on properly before, so he reversed the motion and returned it into the socket. He turned the switch again, now all of the lamps were on.
“Maki-san?”
“Hmm?”
“There was actually nothing wrong with the lamp,” Sakuma’s head turned to see the man who was still leaning against the wall, “it was only a bit loose.”
“I know.”
“Huh?” Now the rest of his body followed, facing the actor with a look of confusion. “Then why—”
Maki Katsuhiko’s eyes met his, and for the first time since he entered the room, he showed him a smile. “Why, of course, I need a reason for them to send Sakuma-san here, don’t I?”