Chapter Text
The “Evening Glow” talk show studio sparkled like a Christmas tree: bright spotlights bathed the stage in golden light, reflecting off the glossy floor, while massive screens in the background flickered with clips from music videos and movies, mesmerizing the audience. The crowd, dressed in vibrant outfits, buzzed with excitement, their eyes gleaming with anticipation. The air vibrated with the hum of voices, applause, and the subtle scent of expensive perfume wafting from the audience. At the center of the stage, on a plush white sofa, sat two figures: Yoichi Isagi, a pop star with a smile that melted millions of hearts, and Rin Itoshi, a rising actor whose icy charm left fans speechless. They looked like a couple straight out of a magazine cover: Isagi, the embodiment of warm, almost tangible charisma; Rin, a polished, ice-cold ideal. Their names had been plastered across headlines for a month.
Isagi, in a loose white T-shirt that hugged his lean frame and black jeans with ripped knees, radiated a carefree, almost boyish energy. His dark hair, slightly tousled as if he’d just come from rehearsal, fell over his forehead, and his blue eyes sparkled like the sea under midday sun. He sat a touch closer to Rin than decorum allowed, his shoulder nearly brushing the actor’s, his calloused fingers from guitar strings resting on the armrest, subtly grazing Rin’s wrist. The faint gesture drew a hushed gasp from the audience. The host, a woman in a crimson dress with impeccable hair, leaned forward, her eyes glinting like a reporter sensing a scoop.
Rin, by contrast, was the picture of cold elegance. His tailored black suit accentuated his broad shoulders, and his dark hair, slicked back with a touch of gel, revealed sharp cheekbones and green eyes that held a cool confidence, softened for the cameras with a faint smile. His long fingers, adorned with thin silver rings, casually brushed Isagi’s dark locks, tucking them back with such tenderness that the audience erupted in applause. The host, unable to contain her delight, clapped her hands, her voice trembling with awe.
“Oh, just look at them!” she exclaimed, turning to the audience, who responded with a roar of approval. “Rin, Yoichi, you’re making our hearts flutter! Don’t keep us in suspense—tell us, how did your love story begin? We’re all dying to know!”
Isagi smiled, his lips curving into a warm, almost shy grin that he knew drove fans wild. His gaze flicked to Rin, lingering on his face for a moment, and in that look, beneath the tenderness, flashed a spark of something else—an edge no one in the audience caught. He leaned back against the sofa, his hand now resting closer to Rin, his fingers confidently brushing the actor’s wrist, as if staking a claim.
“No big secret,” Isagi began, his voice soft with a slight rasp, like he’d nearly lost it singing his latest hit. “It was at the Mikage family’s charity gala six months ago—you probably remember. I was performing one of my older songs, I think ‘Other Me.’” He paused, his eyes sweeping the audience, who hung on every word. “I’m on stage, lost in the music, then I look up and see him.” He nodded toward Rin, his smile widening, almost mischievous. “Sitting in the front row, in that perfect suit, with this serious face, like he was there to judge my audition.”
The audience burst into laughter, and Rin, raising a brow, offered a restrained smirk that fit his cool, lovestruck persona perfectly. His fingers, still lingering in Isagi’s hair, froze for a moment, and only a keen observer would’ve noticed his index finger tightening briefly before letting go. He turned to the host, his low, slightly husky voice cutting through the crowd’s noise like a blade.
“He’s exaggerating, as usual,” Rin said, his tone calm but laced with faint mockery, earning giggles from the audience. “I wasn’t judging. I just… couldn’t look away.” He paused, his green eyes sliding to Isagi, a spark flickering in them. “Yoichi sang like he owned the world, and it was… captivating.”
The crowd exploded with applause, someone in the back shouting, “Rinsagi forever!” The host, beaming, leaned closer, clutching her tablet of questions, her voice quivering with delight.
“Oh my gosh, that’s so romantic!” she cried, her eyes shining as if she were part of their story. “Yoichi, what did you think when you saw Rin? Besides, you know, that he’s ridiculously handsome?”
Isagi laughed, his laugh bright like sunlight breaking through clouds. He leaned slightly closer to Rin, their shoulders now touching, eliciting another gasp from the audience. His fingers, resting on Rin’s wrist, tightened delicately, subtle enough to pass as affection. Only Rin noticed the faint press of Isagi’s nail against his skin—a quiet signal.
“I thought he was too perfect to be real,” Isagi said, his voice warm with a teasing lilt. “Sitting there, all… untouchable, like he was still in character from his latest blockbuster. But then he smiled—and that was it, I was done for.” He paused, his eyes finding Rin’s again, winking at him. “That smile… it got me.”
Rin tilted his head, his lips twitching into a barely-there smile, but his eyes, sharp as blades, locked onto Isagi. For a split second, tension crackled between them. He adjusted his shirt cuff with a precise, almost mechanical motion and responded, his voice even but with a faint rasp.
“And I thought he was too loud,” he quipped, and the audience roared with laughter. “But…” He trailed off, his gaze sliding over Isagi, adding softly, as if just for him, “Then I realized I couldn’t look away.”
The crowd went wild, the spotlights flashing to mirror their emotions, and the host, barely holding back tears of joy, pressed her hands to her chest. Social media was already ablaze with #Rinsagi, the screens behind the stage displaying tweets with hearts and gushing comments. “They’re perfect together!” read one. “Rin and Yoichi—love at first sight!” read another. The host, radiant, turned to the cameras, her voice ringing like a bell.
“This is just… I can’t! You two were made for each other!” She waved to the audience, urging more applause. “Tell us, how did you start dating? Who made the first move?”
Isagi glanced at Rin, his smile widening, but the corner of his mouth twitched, noticed only by Rin. He leaned back, his arm now draped across the sofa’s backrest, almost encircling Rin, and spoke, his voice soft but with a theatrical flair.
“Well, I’m not one to overthink,” he said, winking at the audience, sparking another wave of laughter. “After the concert, I walked up to him. He was by the stage, all… untouchable. But I told myself, ‘Yoichi, if you don’t try now, you’ll regret it forever.’ So I…” He paused, his eyes finding Rin’s, finishing quieter, “Just took his hand and said I’d love to see him again.”
Rin’s jaw tightened, his fingers on his knee twitching, but he quickly composed himself. His smile was flawless—cool yet warm enough to make the audience swoon. He turned to Isagi, his hand sliding along the sofa’s backrest, nearly brushing the singer’s shoulder, and replied, his voice low with a hint of mockery.
“He was persistent,” he said, and the audience laughed again. “I thought it was a joke. But then…” He paused, his green eyes piercing Isagi, a sharp edge flickering in them. “I realized he was serious. And I… didn’t let the chance slip away.”
The crowd erupted, the host clapped wildly, and the screens flashed with new tweets: “Rin couldn’t resist Yoichi, so cute!” Isagi smiled, his fingers brushing Rin’s wrist again, but this time his grip was firmer, a reminder. Rin returned a subtle glance, his eyes narrowing, though his smile remained perfect.
The host, glowing, turned to the cameras, her voice trembling with excitement.
“Well, we’re all in love with your story!” she said, and the audience roared in agreement. “But we can’t let you go without one last question: what’s next? Future plans? Maybe a duet? Or…” She winked, and the crowd cheered. “A movie together?”
Isagi laughed, his laugh light like a summer breeze, but his fingers on Rin’s wrist tightened. Rin, unfazed, tilted his head, his smile widening with a trace of sarcasm only those who knew him would catch.
“A duet?” Rin echoed, his voice even but teasing. “I’m not much of a singer, sadly. But…” He paused, his gaze sliding to Isagi, adding almost in a whisper, “I’ll find a way to support him.”
Isagi snorted softly, masking it with a smile, his eyes glinting as if savoring the game. He turned to the host, his voice warm, almost honeyed.
“I wouldn’t mind starring in one of his films,” he said, winking at the audience. “I’m a terrible actor, but Rin’s so busy, always on set, I have to catch him between scenes. So if it meant more time with him, sorry, you’d have to endure my awful acting on the big screen.”
The audience roared with laughter, and Rin, expression unchanged, gently squeezed Isagi’s shoulder—tender enough to look loving, firm enough to say, “Don’t push it.” The host, oblivious, clapped excitedly, her voice ringing.
“You’re absolutely incredible!” she cried. “Thank you, Rin, Yoichi, for this love story! We wish you happiness and can’t wait for your next projects! Now—a quick break, but don’t go anywhere!”
As the cameras cut and a heavy black curtain with the show’s logo slid across, shielding the stage, Isagi and Rin pulled away from each other like repelling magnets. The golden spotlight dimmed, and silence hung in the air, broken only by the audience’s hum beyond the curtain and the hurried steps of crew backstage. Isagi yanked at a stray lock of hair, his fingers tugging nervously at his T-shirt collar, his blue eyes, warm moments ago, now shooting daggers at Rin. Rin, brushing an invisible speck from his pristine suit sleeve, shot Isagi a look sharp as a blade and hissed, his voice low and venomous.
“You nearly broke my fingers, idiot,” he said, his green eyes narrowing, lips pressing into a thin line of irritation. “Is this how it’s gonna be every time? Practicing your grip, you half-baked pop star?”
Isagi scoffed, his dark hair falling over his forehead as he crossed his arms, his stance defiant, though a mocking smile tugged at his lips. He stepped closer to Rin, his voice still soft but laced with a biting edge, cutting the air like a taut string.
“Oh, don’t start, Itoshi,” he retorted, mimicking Rin’s squinting, dreamy smile with an exaggerated, cartoonish grin. “‘Couldn’t look away,’ seriously? I nearly choked on your syrupy act.”
Rin clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, leaving stinging marks. He stepped forward, closing the gap, his face so close Isagi caught the faint cedar-and-mint scent of his cologne. Rin’s voice dropped, quieter but more dangerous, like the calm before a storm.
“Syrupy?” he repeated, his brow twitching, lips curling into a cold smirk. “You were practically in my lap, Yoichi. A bit more, and you’d have recited poetry on camera. Maybe you should try theater instead of singing.”
Isagi flushed, his cheeks burning as if slapped, his blue eyes blazing with fury hot enough to set the curtains ablaze. He stepped even closer, their chests nearly touching, and snapped, his voice trembling with rage but sharp as a whip.
“Listen, you wannabe actor,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery, his finger jabbing Rin’s chest, making him sway slightly. “If you hadn’t yanked my hair like that, I wouldn’t have pinched your wrist. You nearly scalped me, you melodrama hero!”
Rin bared his teeth, his green eyes flashing like emeralds under the lights, his voice dropping to a near growl, icy with rage.
“Pinched?” he hissed, his fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to grab Isagi’s collar. “You almost dislocated my arm, you psycho. Do that again, and I’ll shove your microphone down your throat, got it?”
Isagi laughed, the sound sharp and bitter, like cracking ice. He tossed his hair back, his movements jerky, his smile bold and challenging.
“Oh, how scary, Itoshi,” he said, his voice thick with sarcasm, his eyes glinting like a predator ready to pounce. “Maybe you should star in horror films. You’d scare everyone without makeup.”
Rin opened his mouth, cheeks flushing with indignation, his eyes blazing like green lanterns. He drew a breath for another barb, but a loud clap, sharp as a gunshot, cut them off. Meguru Bachira, Rin’s manager, burst from backstage, his bright yellow shirt flashing like a sunbeam, his chestnut hair bouncing in a messy ponytail. His golden eyes glinted with irritation, but his lips stretched into his usual playful grin.
“Alright, superstars, enough!” Bachira said, his voice light but firm. “You’re about to wreck the stage, and we’ve still got the second half of the show. Rin, Yoichi, breathe, or I’ll strangle you both after filming.”
Beside Bachira appeared Yo Hiori, Isagi’s manager, his figure nearly blending into the shadows. His light hair, slightly mussed, shimmered silver under the lamps, and his blue eyes fixed on Isagi with weary reproach. He adjusted his tie, his movements smooth, but his voice held steel.
“Yoichi, seriously,” Hiori said, his tone even but pressing. “You promised to be professional. And you, Rin,” he turned to the actor, his gaze sharpening, “stop provoking him. We’ve got five minutes till the break’s over, and if you start bickering on stage, the audience won’t be impressed.”
Rin scoffed, his green eyes narrowing, his fingers tugging at his cuff, betraying lingering anger. He stepped back, crossing his arms, and muttered, his voice low and venomous.
“Tell your client to keep his claws to himself, Hiori,” he said, shooting Isagi a look of cold disdain. “Or next time, I’ll break his fingers.”
Isagi grinned, his blue eyes flashing, his smile almost predatory. He smoothed his T-shirt and replied, his voice light but laced with biting sarcasm.
“And you, Itoshi, stop playing the victim,” he said, his tone mocking, his eyes gleaming with defiance. “Pull my hair again, and I’ll rearrange that pretty face so no director will cast you, even as an extra.”
Bachira groaned, his hands flying to his face as if shielding himself from the absurdity, his ponytail swaying like a pendulum. He turned to Hiori, his golden eyes shining with a mix of despair and amusement.
“Hiori, I’m done,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm but tinged with exhaustion. “Let’s tie them up and lock them in the dressing room, then put on wigs and replace them. They’ll drive us to a breakdown.”
Hiori sighed, his gaze flicking to the wall clock ticking down the break’s final minutes. His voice was calm but solid as granite.
“No one’s tying anyone up, Bachira,” he said, his tone firm. “Yoichi, Rin, you knew what you signed up for. Sit down, smile, and act head-over-heels. Two minutes till we’re live.”
Isagi snorted, his shoulders relaxing, his blue eyes flashing one last spark of irritation. He flopped onto the sofa, his knee barely brushing Rin’s, the distance calculated to look natural for the cameras. He shot Rin a look dripping with fake affection and muttered, his voice low and sarcastic.
“Come on, sweetheart, show everyone how crazy you are about me,” he said, his tone mocking, his lips twitching into a daring smile. “Or is convincing acting still beyond you?”
Rin clenched his jaw, his fingers yanking at his cuff, his green eyes stabbing Isagi like daggers. He shifted closer, their shoulders now touching, the contact like a spark ready to ignite a fire. He replied, his voice low, cold, and venomous.
“Don’t lecture me on acting, you second-rate star,” he said, his tone dripping with disdain, his eyes narrowing like a predator’s. “Just make sure your voice doesn’t crack when you gush about our ‘passion.’”
Bachira and Hiori exchanged glances, their faces mirrors of exhaustion and resignation. Bachira shook his head, his ponytail swaying like a white flag, and muttered, his voice thick with sarcasm.
“This is worse than training dogs,” he said, his tone light but tinged with despair. “Just make it through the show, alright?”
Hiori nodded, his gaze flicking back to the clock, his voice hardening like steel.
“One minute,” he said firmly. “Sit closer, smile, and keep your mouths shut. The audience is waiting for your love.”
Isagi and Rin, still trading venomous glares, shifted closer, their shoulders brushing, their hands resting on the sofa’s backrest, creating the illusion of intimacy. Their fingers gripped tighter than necessary, as if each was thinking, “I’d throttle you.” The curtain began to rise, the spotlights flared, bathing the stage in golden light, and the audience’s roar crashed like a wave. Bachira and Hiori sighed in unison backstage, their eyes meeting, both thinking, “This is going to be a very long few months.”
The dressing room behind the “Evening Glow” studio was cramped, thick with the scent of hairspray, vending machine coffee, and faint dampness. Mirrors framed with bulbs reflected the chaos: scattered makeup brushes, empty energy drink cans, crumpled script pages. Isagi slouched in a chair, his wrinkled white T-shirt hitched up, his dark hair, damp with sweat, sticking out wildly. He lazily spun a water bottle in his hands, but his blue eyes, sharp as ice shards, kept darting toward Rin, who leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed. Rin, still in his flawless black suit, stood like a statue—cold, immobile—but his green eyes burned with irritation, his fingers tapping his sleeve, betraying the storm within.
The door flew open with a bang, and Meguru Bachira and Yo Hiori stormed in, their faces a mix of exhaustion and barely contained fury. Bachira flopped onto the couch, making it creak, his golden eyes glinting like a cat ready to pounce. Hiori stayed by the door, his light hair slightly mussed, shimmering silver under the dim lamps. His blue eyes, cold and resolute, scorched Isagi and Rin like a laser, his fingers adjusting his tie with lethal precision, as if preparing for an execution.
“You two,” Bachira began, his voice light but firm, holding back a scream, “nearly tanked the whole broadcast. I thought you’d start throwing microphones on stage. Are you going to turn every joint appearance into a circus?”
Isagi scoffed, his lips twitching into a mocking smile, his fingers squeezing the water bottle until it crunched. He leaned back in the chair, his stance defiant, legs spread, his blue eyes flashing as he shot a barbed glance at Rin.
“Bachira, don’t be dramatic,” he snapped, his tone dripping with sarcasm, his soft voice slicing the air like a taut string. “It’s all because of Itoshi and his ‘gentle’ grip. Maybe he should try wrestling instead of acting—he’d be more useful there.”
Rin bared his teeth, his green eyes narrowing like a predator’s, his voice, low and venomous, hissing back.
“Stop whining, lukewarm,” he retorted, his tone icy, lips curling into a sneer. “You nearly dislocated my shoulder with your ‘hugs.’ Do that again, and I’ll smash your guitar to splinters.”
Hiori sighed, his voice, even but icy, cutting through their spat.
“Enough, both of you,” he snapped, his blue eyes sliding over Isagi and Rin. “You signed the contract, remember? Six months of this ‘romance’—joint appearances, photoshoots, social media posts, sappy comments under pictures. Yoichi, your album ‘Beneath the Glass Sky’ drops in three months, and this ‘romance’ with Rin is your ticket to the top charts. And you, Rin,” he turned to the actor, his gaze sharpening, “your action flick ‘Severed Horizon’ comes out in five months, and this ‘love’ with Isagi guarantees sold-out theaters on day one. So stop acting like spoiled kids and do your damn job.”
Bachira snorted, his eyes glinting with amusement but tinged with irritation, like he was wrangling two fighting cocks. He leaned back on the couch, arms behind his head, his yellow shirt riding up to reveal a strip of tanned skin. His voice, light but sarcastic, rang out.
“Listen, you two,” he said, his lips stretching into a cheeky grin, though his eyes betrayed exhaustion. “#Rinsagi is trending top, fans are losing their minds, tweets about your ‘cute’ glances are racking up millions of likes. But if you keep clawing at each other backstage like cats over a bowl of food, some paparazzo will catch it, and your ‘romance’ will crash faster than my faith in you both.”
Rin clenched his jaw, his fingers crushing his suit sleeve, his green eyes flashing like lightning in a storm. He stepped toward the couch, his posture taut like he was ready to strike, his voice, low but sharp, lashing the room.
“My film will sell out without this stupid charade, Bachira,” he said, his tone cold, lips twisting in irritation. “My work’s enough. And tell Hiori to make his client stop pinching like a hysterical schoolgirl. I’ll have a bruise, damn it.”
Isagi laughed, the sound harsh like shattering glass, his blue eyes blazing with defiance, as if ready to lunge into a fight. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice, soft but sharp, slicing at Rin like a whip.
“Poor baby,” he mocked, his tone dripping with venom, lips curling into a daring smirk. “You nearly scalped me with your ‘caresses,’ Itoshi. If that’s how you play love, stick to action films.”
Bachira groaned, his hands flying to his face like he was hiding from a nightmare. His ponytail swayed, his eyes shining with a mix of despair and dark humor, like someone resigned to absurdity.
“Hiori, I can’t anymore,” he said, his voice heavy with exhaustion but laced with sarcasm. “They’re worse than my nephews fighting over candy. Lock them in here till morning? Let them bicker till they drop.”
Hiori shook his head, his light hair swaying, casting shadows on the wall. His voice, cold but solid as granite, was a hammer calling for order.
“No one’s locking anyone up, Bachira,” he said, though he seemed to consider it, “Yoichi, Rin, you’re adults—act like it sometimes. This contract isn’t a game. Six months playing the perfect couple, and if you screw this up, kiss the charts and box office goodbye. This month, you’ve got a magazine photoshoot, a radio interview, a music video shoot, and a ton of other events. So get it together.”
Isagi scoffed, his fingers nervously twisting the water bottle, now dented from his grip. He leaned back, crossing his arms, his eyes flashing one last spark of irritation. His voice, quiet but biting, was like a needle’s prick.
“Fine, Hiori, got it,” he said, his tone thick with sarcasm, lips twitching into a mocking smile. “But tell Itoshi to stop playing martyr. One more stunt like that, and I’ll flip his dressing table.”
Rin snorted, his eyes narrowing, his fingers yanking at his cuff so hard a button nearly popped off. He stepped closer to Isagi, the distance dangerously small, his voice, low, cold, and venomous, cutting the silence.
“Flip a table?” he repeated, his tone dripping with disdain, lips curling into a cold smirk. “Go ahead, pop star. Let’s see how you sing when I shred your sheet music.”
Bachira laughed, the sound weary, like someone who’d seen it all. He waved a hand, his eyes glinting with amusement, his voice light but tinged with despair.
“Alright, fight’s over,” he said, his lips stretching into a wide grin, though his eyes held a hint of desperation. “You two are hopeless. But Hiori’s right: a contract’s a contract. Go home, sleep, and be sweet to each other tomorrow. Or at least fake it.”
Hiori nodded, his gaze flicking to the wall clock, its hands ticking toward the next appearance. His voice, cold but with a subtle threat, was like steel.
“You’ve got time to prep,” he said, his tone even but pressing, making Isagi and Rin straighten instinctively. “And if I see one sideways glance on camera, I’ll make you recite the contract letter by letter until you memorize it. Clear?”
Isagi and Rin locked eyes, their gazes clashing like swords in a duel. Isagi scoffed, his lips twitching into a mocking smile, while Rin clenched his jaw, his green eyes flashing with cold fury, like he was ready to fight right there. They turned away simultaneously, but the tension lingered, thick as fog. Bachira and Hiori sighed in unison, their eyes meeting, both thinking, “This is going to be a very long six months.”
The black SUV glided through Tokyo’s night streets, its headlights catching neon signs reflected in puddles from recent rain. The cabin smelled of leather, the mint gum Hiori lazily chewed, and faint coffee Isagi had spilled that morning. Hiori sat in the front, tapping the steering wheel nervously, his light hair, slightly mussed, shimmering silver under streetlights, his blue eyes occasionally glancing at the rearview mirror. Isagi sprawled in the back, his wrinkled T-shirt hitched up, his dark hair, damp with sweat, plastered to his forehead. He toyed with his phone, its screen dark, as if he dreaded seeing another flood of #Rinsagi tweets.
The silence was heavy, broken only by the tires’ hum and Hiori’s occasional taps. Isagi finally looked away from the window, his blue eyes, usually warm, now cold as a winter sea. He scoffed, his voice low and laced with irritation.
“This Itoshi guy,” he said, his tone biting, his fingers gripping the phone until his knuckles whitened. “He’s unbearable. Sitting there, all cold, like the world’s at his feet. And those ‘tender’ camera glances? I nearly gagged.”
Hiori snorted, his gaze flicking to the mirror, catching Isagi’s scowl. His movements were calm, but his voice, even with a hint of teasing, held warmth.
“Yoichi, I get it, you’re not his fan,” Hiori sighed, his tone soft but playful. “Rin’s tough, but deep down, he might not be so bad. You two spark like crazy. It’s almost funny, you know?”
Isagi rolled his eyes, his lips twitching into a bitter smirk, his fingers tapping the phone nervously. He leaned back, his pose relaxed, but tension in his shoulders betrayed the storm inside. His voice, still irritated, grew quieter, but the sarcasm lingered.
“Funny?” he repeated, his tone sharp, his blue eyes flashing. “Hiori, he looked at me like I’m the source of all his problems. Then he yanked my hair—my head still hurts. That’s not ‘sparks.’ I just can’t stand his arrogant attitude.”
Hiori laughed, the sound light like a summer breeze. He turned in his seat at a stoplight, his voice, soft but with warm teasing, like a friendly nudge.
“Come on, Yoichi, you’re no angel either,” he said, his tone laced with amusement, his blue eyes glinting. “You nearly twisted his wrist on stage. I saw him wince. Maybe you and Rin are too alike—both stubborn as mules.”
Isagi scoffed, his lips curving into a faint smile, but his eyes still burned with irritation. He pushed his hair back, fingers gliding through damp strands, his voice, laced with venom, sharpening.
“Alike?” he echoed, his brows shooting up. “Hiori, that guy’s walking privilege. Sitting there, all movie star, like he earned it all. Reality? Born into a famous family, younger brother of Sae Itoshi, the best young actor of our generation. Everything was handed to him—career, connections, red carpets. Me? I started from nothing, no handouts. Sang in dive bars for pennies, wrote songs at night till my fingers went numb. And now I have to pretend I’m in love with this puffed-up turkey just to keep my album from flopping?”
Hiori snorted, sipping coffee, the paper cup crinkling in his hand, and replied, his voice even but caring.
“Yoichi, you’re at it again,” he said, his tone light but gently pressing. “Rin may have started with privilege, but he works hard, you can’t deny that. His filming schedules are hell, and he’s shot scenes injured to not let the team down.”
Isagi rolled his eyes, his lips twitching into a bitter smirk, his fingers tapping the phone nervously. He leaned back, his pose relaxed, but tension seeped through small gestures. His voice, still biting, grew quieter, venom dripping like sap.
“Works hard?” he repeated, his blue eyes flashing like glass shards. “Hiori, don’t make me laugh. His brother’s Sae Itoshi, the guy invited to Cannes just to stand and smile. Rin just needed that last name, and doors opened. Me? I clawed through basements, rejections, those producer bastards. And now I have to act like his success and mine are the same?”
Hiori laughed, the sound light like a bell, turning in his seat, his eyes meeting Isagi’s.
“Yoichi, that’s how this industry works—half the top dogs got there through connections,” he said, his tone amused but tinged with sympathy. “Yeah, Rin lucked out with his family. But that doesn’t diminish your hustle. And by the way, I was there when you sang to ten people in cafés.” He paused, his smile widening, almost boyish. “Remember when I slipped you cash for a new guitar after you smashed yours on stage?”
Isagi snorted, his lips curving into a faint smile, his blue eyes warming, like a memory melted the ice. He pushed his hair back, fingers gliding through damp strands, and replied, calmer.
“Yeah, I remember, Hiori,” he said, his tone soft. “You said I looked like a kicked puppy, standing over my broken baby. But that doesn’t change that Itoshi drives me nuts. He looks down on me, though I’d love to see him hustle without his last name. If he had to beg on his knees, like I did, for those creeps to even listen to my songs.”
Hiori sighed, his gaze turning serious, like someone bracing to deliver bad news. He adjusted his tie, his movements smooth, but his voice, even with a pressing edge, held steel.
“Since you brought it up,” he began cautiously, his tone cold but with a warm note, softening the blow. “The producer rejected your latest song. Said it’s not for the masses. Fans want hits, not your soul-baring stuff. And, Yoichi, he’s not thrilled lately. Threatened to hire an outside writer if you don’t deliver something ‘normal.’”
Isagi froze, his fingers halting on the phone, his blue eyes widening like Hiori had punched him. He sat up, chest heaving like after a sprint, his voice, trembling with fury but tinged with panic, breaking.
“An outside writer?” he repeated, his tone thick with anger, lips pressing into a thin line. “Hiori, I only sing my songs. Always. They’re my soul, my life. They can’t just hand that to some hack churning out radio pop!”
Hiori shrugged, his gaze flicking back to the road, but sympathy flashed in his eyes. His voice, calm, was like a hammer’s strike.
“They can, Yoichi,” he sighed, his tone even but pressing. “Your label contract isn’t a game. If they think your songs won’t sell, they’ll either hire someone to write you a hit or, worst case, replace you. This PR stunt with Rin is your shot to stay afloat. Without it, your album could tank, and you know it.”
Isagi clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, leaving stinging marks. He turned to the window, his reflection in the glass grim, dark circles under his eyes betraying exhaustion. His voice, quiet but heavy with bitterness.
“It’s not fair, Hiori,” he said, his tone resigned but tinged with anger. “I worked to be me, and now I have to write songs for the ‘boss’s’ approval and pray they don’t toss me out like trash? It’s like… betraying everything I worked for.”
Hiori turned, his blue eyes catching Isagi’s in the mirror, concern flickering in them. His voice, soft but with light teasing, was like a warm hand on the shoulder.
“Yoichi, you’re not betraying yourself,” he reassured, his tone supportive, lips twitching into a faint smile. “You’re just playing the showbiz game. Write a couple hits to get the label off your back, then create for your soul again. I know how stubborn you are. Remember when you didn’t sleep for three nights to finish ‘Mirage of You’? And how I brought you pizza in the studio so you wouldn’t collapse?”
Isagi snorted, his lips curving into a faint smile, his blue eyes warming like the sea under sunlight. He leaned back, fingers loosening, his voice, still tinged with bitterness, softening.
“Yeah, you practically force-fed me,” he said, his gaze sliding to Hiori, warm with gratitude. “Alright, I’ll write what they want. But Itoshi… this contract with him might kill me. His smug look, that ‘I’m better than everyone’ vibe—I want to strangle him sometimes.”
Hiori laughed, his gum snapping louder, his voice light like a beam of sunshine.
“Oh, Yoichi, you strangle him, he strangles you, then what?” he said, his tone amused, blue eyes twinkling. “I’ve been with you from the start, seen your highs and downs. I know you’ll manage. Even with Rin. Just keep it together at the photoshoot. And for god’s sake, no more pinching.”
Isagi laughed, the sound bright. He pushed his hair back, his pose loosening, his voice, laced with warm teasing.
“No promises,” he said, his tone light, blue eyes glinting with mischief. “But for you, Hiori, I’ll try. Calm me down if I snap, okay?”
Hiori snorted, his gum snapping one last time, his voice, soft but with firm support, like hot tea on a cold night.
“Always, Yoichi,” he said, his tone warm, lips stretching into a smile. “Just sleep. And practice self-control—you need to be sweet with Rin. At least on camera.”
The car turned onto Isagi’s familiar street, his high-rise towering over the city, its windows gleaming like stars. Isagi nodded, his blue eyes still burning, but now with a spark of resolve. He opened the door, the cold night air hitting his face, his steps, light but confident, fading into the dark, carrying anger mixed with hope.