Work Text:
Idol Mizi and Regular Mizi are two incredibly different people.
Idol Mizi waves at the fans, blows little kisses to the cameras, and grinds against boys when her paycheck tells her to.
Regular Mizi calls her mom every Sunday, breathes out cigarette smoke, and spends her nights between Sua's thighs.
They are both Mizi, yet they are different. They're not even remotely similar, save for the pink hair and golden eyes. Mizi knows this very fucking well.
Unfortunately, her management team is composed of a bunch of brain-dead, money-hungry pigs who do not know this very fucking well.
To them, all of Mizi is Idol Mizi. There can be no other version of Mizi other than that of cotton candy princess Mizi. The girl with the honey voice and body-tight dresses.
How else will she sell? How else will they sell her?
Mizi must be pure, untouchable, straight. Mizi needs to bounce her tits more. Maybe Mizi should start taking off her clothes and flash her cunt to the crowd.
That's how Mizi finds herself in this situation: seated in a meeting room, surrounded by idiots, while a kindergarten-level slideshow blasphemizes Sua on the big screen.
"You want me to what?" Mizi says incredulously.
She thumbs the paper they've pushed in front of her, heterosexual and male gaze standing out like warning signs.
"Break up with your girlfriend," the man says like Mizi is some stupid child. "We can't have a gay popstar— think about your brand deals! Your sponsorships? Nobody's looking for that kind of image!"
"She's not my girlfriend," Mizi says automatically, "We're just friends."
The men exchange a look.
"She's my friend," Mizi repeats, "I'm not going to like, just ditch her."
The man sniffs. Is his nose fucking blocked? It would explain the annoying nasally sound that comes out whenever he opens his mouth. Mizi wants to offer him a tissue. Hell, she'll personally lean across the table and shove it into his windpipe.
What do they call it. Ah— fan service. He should be grateful.
"Well, it's not appealing for you to have non-idol friends. You're already such a loner."
You're the ones who didn't make her one, Mizi doesn't say. She bites her tongue and tastes blood. She's already on thin ice—she doesn't want to aggravate them too much.
"I won't— I won't do it, whatever you're asking." She settles on that instead. Very diplomatic, won't you agree? "She's been my friend since the beginning. My fans know that."
Everything Mizi has ever done in her life was to get here: on stage with a microphone in her hands, staring into a field of faceless fans that cheer for her every breath.
All the blood, all the sweat, all the tears wept in the practice rooms past midnight.
This is what she's meant to do.
And her favourite girl with purple eyes, waiting for her in the wings with clematis wrapped around her wrists is an added bonus.
Surely they'll get it.
Right?