Chapter Text
The fitting room feels quiet. It wasn’t empty, just controlled. It’s the kind of quiet Onishi Ryusei is used to. The chaotic yet rhythmic sound of their footsteps orbiting around him without ever touching, accompanied by bundled whispers of conversation between colleagues. It was the kind of music he was familiar with, being in the entertainment industry for so long.
Then, assistants came flooding in hurriedly. The soft agonizing screeches coming from the rusty wheels of their clothes racks were not much of a good addition to the composition in mind. It rang in Ryusei’s ears too loud to bear, so he stepped further away from them and made his way to the vanity mirror.
It does not ruin the thrill that he was feeling, though. He finally got the go signal for his solo debut. What had taken months of conceptualization and countless meetings with different professionals was finally coming to fruition. Today was the first day of making all the planning into reality.
First up was the photoshoot for the merchandise assets. Prior to arriving in the fitting room, Ryusei had just left a meeting with management about his schedule for the week. He was also briefed about the team, how many of them were, and mentioned the lead stylist who contributed heavily to the vision of the album and music video.
Ryusei was halfway through unbuttoning his shirt when the door opened without a knock. The door swing was not much of a slam, but it did catch everyone’s attention, which led their actions to a short but abrupt pause, Ryusei included.
“Don’t change yet.”
The voice is unfamiliar. Ryusei turns to look at the woman standing by the doorway—her stature was short and stout, wearing clothes that were too comfortable, too simple to assume she was even part of the staff. Her hair, too short to be tamed, was bound into a small ponytail—small strands breaking loose to linger against her face. And there were her eyes. Covered in rimless circular glasses, it scanned him as if he were part of a display rather than a person.
Yagisawa Mizuki. Ryusei remembers the name mentioned from the briefing.
“Yagisawa-san, you’re early,” Ryusei smiles politely, out of habit.
Mizuki does not respond to that. Instead, she steps closer.
“Turn,” it did not sound like a request, and it made Ryusei blink once before doing as he was told. He has worked with enough stylists to recognize confidence. But this is not just confidence; there was indifference, yet no careful distance, and some questionable respect for this matter.
Ryusei failed to find the right word to describe her eccentricity, but Mizuki was a sought-after stylist popular for creating striking costumes worn by many celebrities. For someone her age, she has already worked with more veteran artists than a typical idol group, coincidentally appearing on the same music show as their senpai. It is inevitable not to respect someone with impressive credentials.
Bringing out the authenticity in her clients was what she was known for. Every piece she had designed and put together felt personal, complementing every feature, every part of them inside and out—presenting the unfamiliar in something that has already been familiar.
But Ryusei’s manager was very particular about the way she handled them.
She’s known to come off as rude because of her blunt nature. But the talent is just unmatched. She’s around the same age as you, Onishi. Perhaps you can find something to talk about. You get along with everybody.
Mizuki circles Ryusei slowly. As if noting every joint, every flaw, every hair follicle sticking out on his body. She raised her eyes to his neck level, “Your shoulders tense when you stand still,” she says, “Don’t do that during the shoot.”
Ryusei almost laughs. Don’t do that—like it’s that simple.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he beams.
“No,” Mizuki retorts, shifting her gaze to his. “Fix it.”
Before Ryusei could respond, there were hands already on his shoulders.
Firm and precise, she adjusted his posture without even asking.
The contact was brief, but Mizuki’s touch lingered longer than it should.
“There,” Mizuki murmurs, stepping back just enough to look at him properly, her arms wrapped, eyes scanning up and down. “Better, remember that feeling.”
Ryusei exhales, realizing—belatedly—that he’d been holding his breath.
This was new to him. Stylists, makeup artists, assistants, they usually ask, explain… apologize, even. But Mizuki does none of those things. She’s direct, quick, and efficient, spending no time hesitating… or even asking. But Ryusei mentally waves away such thoughts and stops the sour expression from forming on his face.
“You don’t need to try so hard,” Mizuki adds almost absentmindedly, flipping through a rack of clothes. By this time, assistants had already left the vicinity, and it was now only her and Ryusei.
He frowns slightly, “I’m not—”
“You are.”
She pulls out a jacket, holds it up in front of his body, then glances back at him.
“Stop trying to be easy to work with. It makes everything look fake.”
The words land more sharply than they should. For a moment, the room feels smaller. Ryusei studies her—really studies her this time. His eyes wander on Mizuki while she hangs the jacket on a mannequin.
No hesitation.
No fear.
No performance.
Just honesty, stripped clean.
Ryusei opens his mouth. Quietly, almost involuntarily, “Do you also… treat others like this?”
Mizuki meets his gaze, unfazed.
“You mean doing my job?”
She removes the jacket, and Ryusei instinctively readies himself to try it on. At this point, he was following her lead like the compliant and understanding colleague that he is. Mizuki perfectly wraps it around him, examining the cuts and angles. Something’s not quite right. She steps in closer to fix his collar.
“Does it bother you?”
The silence stretches just a second too long. There are a hundred reasons and a hundred ways to answer Mizuki’s question, but Ryusei could not find the right words to respond to it. It does not seem to be a problem at all, however, as Ryusei finds Mizuki’s hands moving over to his arms.
“Arms up,” he obeys automatically.
Well, as if he had a choice.
He tells himself it’s because this is normal—because fittings always go like this.
It’s just… not like this.
The boundaries being crossed and the lack of consent that followed felt too much for Ryusei to put up with. But in contrast, Mizuki swiftly moved her practiced fingers with an intense gaze, which looked astonishing to watch. He watches her step away from him for a moment to pick up sewing pins, pushing them in place in the hem of her shirt, and then quickly comes back.
Mizuki moves in close again, too close, Ryusei thinks, tugging at the seams, smoothing the line of the lapel. She pulls out a pin as she puts the folds she made in place.
“Don’t move.”
Ryusei’s eyebrows knit together. “I’m not---”
“You are.”
There is not a faintest hint of amusement in Mizuki’s voice. Not warm. Not teasing.
Just observing. Calculating.
Ryusei stills completely this time.
“… There,” Mizuki murmurs to herself, quiet enough for Ryusei to hear.
Her hands linger on the hem of Ryusei’s sleeves, skin about to touch but never finding themselves to. A second too long.
Two.
Then Mizuki pulls back as if it were nothing.
Or perhaps he was exaggerating. He does not stay too long with a female coworker—perhaps the idea itself has become so overwhelming that Ryusei has begun to feel self-conscious being alone in a closed space.
“Look.”
Mizuki turns him toward the mirror. For a moment, Ryusei doesn’t recognize what he is seeing. The jacket is simple. Clean lines, nothing flashy—but it fits differently. Less like something meant to impress and more like something meant to reveal.
“You changed the silhouette,” Ryusei says slowly.
“Of course I did.”
Mizuki tilts her head, studying the reflection. Not to Ryusei directly, but the version of him in the glass.
“You hide in oversized cuts,” she adds. “It makes you look approachable.”
At this point, Ryusei is trying to keep his smile accommodating. “That is… kind of the point.”
“No,” Mizuki responds almost too quickly. Flat.
“It’s safe. That’s different.”
The words settle heavily in the space between them. Ryusei meets his own gaze in the mirror.
Safe.
He has been called a lot of things. Reliable, kind, easy to work with. Safe was never supposed to sound like a flaw.
It takes him a few seconds longer to respond, “And this isn’t?” he asks.
Mizuki finally looks at him properly. Not through the mirror, direct. “Nope.”
“This makes people look at you and not know what to do.”
Something in Ryusei’s chest tightens as they look at each other seconds longer than they should.
“That’s not exactly idol-friendly,” he retorts softly, almost mumbling.
“Good,” Mizuki steps back, crossing her arms slightly to analyze the article on Ryusei. “Then they’ll remember you.”
The door opens suddenly behind them. It sounded urgent, to which both their heads turned in its direction.
“Five minutes to camera!” a staff member calls.
Mizuki moves first, already reaching for accessories and the binder she had brought with her.
“Remember your shoulders,” she says, almost absentmindedly. Her gaze is fixed on the items she’s attempting to carry. “And don’t default to your usual smile.”
Ryusei huffs out a quiet breath. “You really don’t like anything I normally do, huh?”
Mizuki looks at his reflection as he fixes his hair and touches up his makeup. “I didn’t say that.”
“…Then what do you like?” He asks before he can stop himself. The hand holding his lip gloss pauses for a moment of regret.
It did not mean anything. Just curious.
At least that is what he wanted to believe. He turns to meet Mizuki’s eyes, and this time, there is something different in her expression. Something sharper and more deliberate. He saw it for just a fraction of a second before Mizuki turned around to reach the doorway.
“Please be careful with the pins later at the shoot,” she says, not facing him. “It might ruin the jacket.”
He had expected her to be concerned that the pins might hurt him, and just knowing otherwise made the sides of his face heat up. He hums following a nod, pressing the powder puff on his face gently while watching her reflection leave the fitting room.
“On in two!” Another call from outside. This time, the sound traveled further.
He looks at his reflection again. At the way he stands, at the way he does not quite recognize himself.
And for the first time, he smiles without thinking about how he looks.