Chapter Text
“Thank you so much for the shoot, Ruru!”
Rui waits for exactly three seconds to pass before relaxing- no, before dropping the pose. He untenses the muscles holding his shoulders into the clean lines he took care to maintain for the duration of the photoshoot, his long, slender arms poised behind his back in a manner carefully engineered to look careless. He readies an easy smile and directs it to the camera crew around him, at the producer, at the director, at his own staff.
“Truly, the pleasure is mine. Have a good night, everyone.”
The words leave his lips easily, sweet as honey.
They all eat it up immediately, eagerly. Who wouldn’t, after all?
Rui thinks he hears an cooing laugh come from someone standing behind, below him.
“Aww, what a charmer- “
He doesn’t know exactly who said it, but really he doesn’t think it matters much. After all, everyone thinks the same thing, don’t they? Everyone shares one singular, unified opinion of him, one that he works harder than anyone else possibly could to maintain: that he’s nothing short of divinely perfect. Like a god among men, like some very special being that could do no wrong. Pure and innocent, wise and all knowing.
He offers a soft, bashful smile at that, waving away the compliment like he thought he didn’t deserve it. He’s used to this by now. Interactions with anyone, be it fans or staff or other people in the industry, were all subject to a formula, a simply defined push and pull he had to maintain constantly. He would perform effortlessness, they would praise his talent. He would act embarrassed and act like it’s undeserved, they would pretend to believe it.
It’s been happening for over a decade now, and yet everyone still eats it up. Like hungry beasts to sweet honey, they simply can’t resist him, this persona he puts up just for them.
Rui’s glad about that. It’s good to see the fruit of your efforts.
He covers his face with a gloved hand as if shyly, as if he’s not used to the spotlight he’s been placed in for as long as he can remember. Long, thin fingers press against cold lips, and he just hopes his lipstick doesn’t transfer onto the satin. He giggles a little, almost childlike, and moves to shift off of the stool he was placed on for the shoot. It takes him less than half a second to accustom himself to the footwear he was put into for the look. They’re a soft, pastel blue pair, so light it’s practically white.
“I think I need to go back now, I’m afraid. Would it be alright if I- “
“Yes, of course! Please, we’re so sorry for taking up so much of your time- “
Rui laughs this off easily, a pretty delicate thing that sounds like a breeze. It’s entertaining, in a way, the way everyone is so…worshipful of him. He tells himself he finds it funny, so he doesn’t have to think too hard about how miserable their lives must be that the highlight of their month is a teenage boy playing the role of an infallible yet innocent idol.
He smooths down his outfit one last time. He knows most models typically return the garments after the shoot ends, but since when have rules like that have ever applied to him?
Plus, the whole spoiltness is part of the appeal, isn’t it?
With one last perfect smile directed to the others in the room, he turns to the door and struts away with the gracefulness he’s been taught to carry with his every movement, six-inch heels clicking softly on the floor.
The first thing Rui sees when he opens the door of the studio is the darkness of the night sky. The second thing, a near-immediate flurry of camera flashes so white they would blind an ordinary person.
Rui, however, has never been someone anyone would consider ordinary.
He holds a hand in front of him, carefully parting his way through the crowd of paparazzi. He takes a moment to wonder since when there’s been so many of them — there had to be at least thirty all crammed into this tiny street — but it doesn’t take much effort at all to ignore them for the most part. After all, he’s plenty used to this. He’s never really known anything else, after all.
“Ah- Excuse me, please.”
His voice is soft, almost inaudible over the sounds of all the cameras clicking hundreds of times every second, but he knows they heard him by the way they part as easily as water around him. He knows they’re taking pictures of him, obviously. Who wouldn’t realize, after all? Still, Rui really can’t find it in himself to care much. He lets them have as many shots as they want, lets them press the button thousands of times until their fingers grow sore.
He’s never been uncomfortable with being in the spotlight. After all, he wouldn’t have gotten anywhere near as far as he is now if he were to actually try to protect his privacy.
It’s a very short walk from the studio to where his driver is waiting to pick him up. It’s not exactly safe for him to be out alone given his level of fame, and the fact that it’s so late at night only makes it worse for him. Still, the perhaps ten meter walk took him almost five minutes to traverse, mostly due to all the paparazzi. They’ve always loved him. Why wouldn’t they? He’s beautiful, beloved by the entire world, perfect and pretty and doll-like in how he looks flawless even when he thinks he’s in private.
(Or more accurately, when they think that he thinks he’s in private. He’s not stupid as he makes himself out to be, he knows that they’re always watching.)
Most importantly, he never tries to resist.
He almost acts like he enjoys it sometimes, pretending to bask in all the attention and blushing as if honored he was loved so much. His fans are everything to him, and what are paparazzi if not some of his most dedicated devotees?
He doesn’t say a word as he settles into the back seat of his agency’s car. His driver looks back to catch his eye, and Rui offers a smile. His manager sits beside the driver, in the passenger seat. As soon as Rui pulls the seatbelt over his torso, the car starts up.
There’s silence, for a few moments. Then, awkwardly, almost like a mother asking how her son’s field trip went:
“So, how was the shoot?”
Rui offers a shrug at that. He’s somewhat comfortable with his main manager. He thinks she’s the closest thing to a mother figure he has, and he’s always liked to play house.
“It was alright. There’s a lot more paparazzi than usual, I think.”
She nods at that, a quick bored movement. His manager is probably the only person that doesn’t seem to treat Rui’s every word like gospel. In fact, she’s pretty much the exact opposite, acting wholly uninterested in whatever she prompts Rui to talk about.
(Well, not the only person, Rui supposes. But it’s not like he sees his mother much nowadays, anyway.)
Rui takes that as a sign that she’s feeling indifferent. It’s fine, he’s never been exactly talkative. Not anymore, anyway. He doesn’t quite remember how he used to be, before he realized that talking didn’t really do him any good, that every word he said could be used against him by jealous people seeking to sabotage him. It’s honestly a little stifling, sometimes. He does think he enjoys talking.
He shakes his head slightly, as if to physically shake these childish thoughts out of his mind. Oh, what does he care? Things like that shouldn’t- don’t mean anything to him anymore. He sighs softly, although it’s more to fill the silence than an actual expression of any sort of emotion. Long, bony fingers find their way into his small bag, pulling out his phone and unlocking it with his password.
He opens a social media app at random, scrolling mindlessly without really looking for anything. Honestly, he doesn’t think he really cares for social media as much as most people think he does — he’s only active in the sense that he posts a lot and replies to work messages quickly, but he doesn’t really do much on it outside of that. Still, he finds himself doomscrolling whenever he runs out of other things to do, and he can’t say it’s not exactly entertaining, in some way.
Tonight, however, his feed gives him absolutely nothing. It’s all just the same few trends, recycled over and over into pointless oblivion. A void full of half-hearted dance trends that no one seemed to really be doing properly, all janky lines and stiff, half-assed movements. It’s like they’re not even trying. He knows his standards are ridiculously high, but seriously, do these people even want to do this?
He finds himself growing vaguely annoyed, and swipes away.
Perhaps he should tap on his own fanbase for once. He goes to his most recent post, the one he posted this morning of the photoshoot a few days prior. An advertisement for a luxury perfume. They decided to go for a simple concept over an elaborate one, focusing on making it look less polished and more intimate, personal. They put him in loose, comfortable clothing, keeping his makeup light and natural-looking. His hair was styled intentionally, subtly, his bangs falling over his his in a manner just careful enough to look careless, tasteful, effortless.
(After all, Kamishiro Rui was nothing if not effortless. Like how honey never struggles to be sweet, like how it never spoils, like how it is well-loved by all despite many despising the bees that make it, it seemed that Rui didn’t even have to try.)
The audience, as they always did when it came to pretty pictures of their favorite idol, absolutely ate all the content up.
As soon as he opens the comments his phone immediately starts lagging, which was quite concerning given the fact that his current one is an extremely expensive, sponsored flagship model. He’s greeted instantaneously by a literal horde of people that seemed to…really like the results of the shoot, to say the least. Without even having to scroll for more than a few seconds he can already count at least fifteen people with the promotional images as their profile pictures, and he’s fairly sure he’ll be met with a few dozen more if he scrolls down.
Well, he supposes that’s good. It’s practically free publicity, after all.
Still, it’s not exactly the most entertaining thing out there. He clicks off, about to shut off his phone and perhaps try to get a bit of rest while on the way back to his dorm, but right as the page reloads he finds himself somewhat intrigued at the boy that was now displayed on his screen.
“Tenma Tsukasa…”
Rui reads the name aloud under his breath, as if familiarizing himself with the sound, with the feeling of it in his mouth. He was doing one of those tired dance trends, yes, but it didn’t feel as lazy as the others all had. His energy was high, bouncy, and yet still controlled and powerful, intentional. His stage presence seemed excellent for someone that seemed so underrated, too, his facials fitting the song better than Rui had seen anyone else do it.
Normally, Rui tries not to interact with posts when on his public account. After all, the cost of fame is being perpetually watched by thousands of critical eyes, and like how just a spot of mold in sweet honey can contaminate the whole bottle just one wrong click on the wrong person’s post could get him into a nasty controversy. If that wasn’t pressure enough to never use his account for anything other than business, he also knows exactly how influential he is. Showing obvious support for someone could easily skew the engagement significantly, and could incite negative feelings among his many, often related, fans.
It is for that reason that he hesitates for a moment, and distractedly he very nearly likes the post before he remembers properly who he is.
He quickly sends the post to his alternate account, his private one, right as the car pulls into the company dorm room. He decides he’ll check the profile later, in the morning, from the safety of his secret account.
For now, he just thanks the driver and goes up to his dorm without another word, his posture as perfect as it always is as he prepares to end his day.