Chapter Text
Itsuki Shu travels lightly.
Other designers tend to bring an inordinate amount of chaos to their photoshoots. There might be dozens or even hundreds of garments on the endless amount of clothing racks their staff members are forced to bring in. Hair and makeup artists take up an entire corner of the room, working their magic as quickly as they can. The models linger on the edges of the room, all of them just unusual enough to be distinct from each other and yet always attractive enough to be safe for consumption. The designer themself might not arrive until halfway through the shoot, or if they’re dispassionate enough, they might send their assistant in their stead.
Itsuki Shu, on the other hand, brings just two of his own staff members with him. One is tasked with managing a single rack of clothing and the other holds a duffel bag overflowing accessories and makeup products. Shu arrives with them, barks out instructions on where to leave their items, and dismisses them for the afternoon once everything is in order.
His sole model, Kagehira Mika, is right on his heels.
The venue staff can’t help but stare as he skips across the room, inspecting the set where he’s to be photographed. He looks nothing like the ethereal, inhuman models that designers tend to drag into their worlds. His clothes are eclectic; an oversized t-shirt hangs off his scrawny frame, so large that it almost obscures his black shorts, and the socks poking out of his boots are mismatched. His similarly odd-colored eyes light up as he studies the piles of fake snow that the crew is still building up. After watching them for a few moments he turns on his heel and rushes back towards Shu.
“Oshi-san, ya didn’t tell me we were usin’ snow!” he exclaims. “It’s the middle of September. What’s this all about?”
Shu is carefully laying out his makeup brushes on one of the vanities. He lets out a frustrated sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose as Mika approaches.
“I would’ve preferred to fly us out to a place where there’s natural snowfall, but it wouldn’t fit in with our schedule. We’re making do.”
He takes Mika by the arm and leads him over to the clothing rack. The item he selects first is a long black coat with a rich purple lining, red frills, and intricate gold accents. He entrusts it to Mika before pulling out a pair of white pants, a white blouse, and, finally, a pair of black and gold gloves from a tray at the bottom of the rack.
“Wow,” Mika says. He holds the coat out in front of him, careful to not let it drag against the floor. “This is stunnin’, Oshi-san.” Everything Shu makes is stunning to him, but it bears repeating nonetheless.
Shu can’t help but smirk at Mika’s comment. “It’s marvelous, isn’t it?” he says. He takes the coat from Mika and drapes the entire outfit over his arm. “Right, come on, clothes off.”
The nearby photographers avert their eyes as Mika pulls his shirt off without a moment of hesitation. Shu has no such shame. He doesn’t take his eyes off Mika as he undresses, allowing his gaze to roam over his precious model’s lithe form. A few months ago, Mika would have bristled at this sort of close attention, but being under Shu’s observation now comes with the same familiarity and comfort as slipping beneath clean, warm sheets.
“Excuse me, Kagehira,” a brave young crew member suggests. She’s the only one who’s been bold enough to watch this scene unfold in its entirety, staring them down with her eyebrow raised and her arms crossed. “There are screens on the other side of the room if you’d like to have some privacy.”
Mika’s French isn’t good enough for him to comprehend exactly what she’s said, but he thinks he gets the gist. He looks to Shu for guidance with imploring eyes.
Shu turns on his heel and glares at her. “Did anyone ask?” he growls in French. She says nothing, and so he presses on. “Answer me.”
“No, sir, but I thought that Kagehira might -”
Shu marches across the room and stops in front of her. The imitation snow isn’t half as convincing as the ice in his gaze. “I don’t pay you to stick your nose where it isn’t wanted,” he hisses. She shrinks away from him, stepping closer to the wall, but he moves with her. “Do you understand?”
Shu speaks French so quickly that Mika can’t hope to understand what he’s saying. Whatever it is, it can’t be as important as the photoshoot. “Oshi-san,” he whines from halfway across the room. “I need the clothes, please.”
As if a spell has broken, Shu abandons his fit of rage and rushes to Mika’s side. She looks helplessly towards one of the senior crew members, who shrugs and rolls his eyes.
Shu ignores the crew members who keep trying to flag him down as he gets Mika ready. In the moments before he reveals a new piece of art to the world, Mika gets nothing short of his full attention. He watches carefully as Mika gets dressed and helps him with each simple fastening as if he were incapable of doing it on his own. Mika’s struggled with simple zippers when Shu’s watching him, so he finds it easier this way.
Shu doesn’t give Mika’s hair a second glance. He likes it to appear natural and product-free even though the routine that goes into maintaining it eats up countless hours of their lives. After two substandard salon visits, Shu had started to cut Mika’s hair in his bathroom.
As usual, Shu does Mika’s makeup himself. Mika moves exactly as he knows Shu wants him to, tilting his face and pursing his lips before he even needs to be asked. He keeps it simple for this shoot: black eyeliner, a tiny bit of red eyeshadow, and a little blush to make it look as if he really is out in the cold. After he’s finished, he swipes a finger over Mika’s forehead.
“You have a blemish here,” he says. “Are you sticking to your meal plan? Or is it stress? If you’re stressed, you have to tell me. I’ll get you whatever you need to relax.”
“Nnagh, well, I’m stressed about my face now!” Mika says. “I haven’t been doin’ anythin’ differently, I swear.”
Shu sniffs and crosses his arms, makeup brushes still in hand. He examines Mika for a few more moments, his eyes dropping to his model’s lips and staying there for just a moment too long before he turns back to the set.
“If only we could’ve had real snow,” he bemoans. “This isn’t befitting of my art. Non, it isn’t befitting of you, Kagehira. I feel as if I’ve failed you.”
Mika stands beside him, his arms hanging loosely at his sides so as to not wrinkle the clothing Shu has so painstakingly created for him. “I don’t really mind about little things like that, Oshi-san,” he says. “It looks great to me.”
“Don’t say things like that, Kagehira. I’ll have a heart attack,” Shu says. He clutches at the front of his shirt as if his heart really might give out on him. “You must care about this. It’s your duty to me. No, no, it’s your duty to the world.” He whips around and grabs Mika by the shoulders, piercing him with lavender as he continues. “You’re the center of this masterpiece, do you understand?”
Mika sways from side to side. He’s forgotten that he isn’t supposed to let the long train of the coat brush against the ground. “Ngh, I feel weird when ya say stuff like that,” he mumbles, unable to look Shu in the eye. “I’m only wearin’ your clothes. You’re doin’ all the hard work.”
“Look at me, Kagehira. Look at me,” He lifts Mika’s chin with three fingers and holds him there, implicitly forbidding him to look away. “There we are. God, you’re unbelievable. Look at those eyes,” he whispers. His other hand comes to Mika’s cheek, his thumb brushing just under his blue eye. “My hard work would be all for naught were you not with me. You possess the sort of original beauty I’ve been searching for for my entire life. There’s no-one else like you on this earth, truly. You must realize that. You can never let them forget it. And if you do – if you ever falter – I will remind them myself.”
Warmth floods Mika’s body, blooming from the places where Shu is touching him with those incredible hands. In moments like these, he wonders how he had ever lived without him.
Shu is quiet for the entire car ride home. Mika is similarly subdued by exhaustion. Their driver wisely chooses not to engage either of them in conversation.
The shoot had been fine, and that was the issue. Shu never settles for something that’s merely fine. He demands excellence in everything he creates, and Mika could tell from the moment that Shu had started bickering with the lead photographer that this shoot wouldn’t meet his standards. He knows it isn’t his fault, but the everpresent anxiety which lingers just beneath his skin has started to rise to the surface. He wills himself to ignore Shu’s dark glare, cognizant of the fact that he can’t risk making the breakout on his forehead worse by worrying about his mood. Shu’s anger takes up so much space that its effects are almost physical. Whenever he gets like this, Mika can feel it pressing on him from all sides, crushing his chest and trapping his limbs.
“Oshi-san,” he mumbles. “I’m stressed.”
“Hm?” Shu says, picking his head up from the back of his hand. “What’s the matter? What do you need? I’ll run you a warm bath when we’re home.”
“I don’t need anythin’,” Mika says, although Shu’s suggestion does sound nice. “I just get worried when ya seem so angry, like, about if I did somethin’ wrong or -”
Shu gasps. He undoes his seatbelt, ignoring the car’s angry beeping, and scoots closer to Mika. “How could I be angry at you, my precious doll?” he says. He takes Mika’s hands in his and kisses them. “You were perfect today. You’re always perfect. It has nothing to do with you.”
“I’m sorry,” Mika says automatically. Shu has ordered him to never doubt himself, and though he doesn’t struggle with the seemingly infinite list of his other demands, this is the one that trips him up every single time. Shu scowls and retreats back to his original position at the other end of the backseat.
“This wouldn’t be happening if it weren’t for the debacle on set,” he gripes. “It’s all their fault. They have no respect for my vision and now they’ve disturbed my model’s mental state.”
Mika shrinks down further in his seat. He wishes he hadn’t said anything at all.
“I’m going to call the studio in the morning and demand a reshoot for later this week. I’ll need you in perfect condition for that, so you can have anything you want after the showcase tomorrow,” Shu continues. “What would ease your nerves?”
Mika leans against the window. The subtle vibrations of the car rattle through him, emanating from where his head is touching the glass. The sensation reminds him of the bus ride he used to take to school every day. On the way home, he’d curl up on the seat closest to the back and plow through whatever sweets he’d been able to afford. On Fridays, he’d pick up hot takoyaki from the stall by the bus stop.
His stomach growls loudly at the memory. An idea pops into Mika’s head.
“I want takoyaki,” he says, almost without thinking. “I haven’t had any since I moved here, and it was my favorite when I was growin’ up. I know it’s not good for ya, but it reminds me of home.”
“Tako… yaki,” Shu says. “Goodness. I haven’t seen that in years, not since I lived in Japan. Right, well, if that’s what you want, then I’ll track some down for you.”
Mika giggles. “You’re the best, Oshi-san. Thank ya.”
Shu spends the rest of the drive fiddling with his phone. When they’re a few blocks away from home, he pokes his tongue out and starts stabbing his keyboard with his thumb and finger. Mika likes to tease him for texting like an old man when they’re both in a better mood.
Shu scrambles to get out of the car first so he can open the other door for Mika. Mika giggles and performs a shallow curtsey.
“Thank ya kindly,” he says.
Shu spins his keyring around his finger as they walk up the path. Mika would drop them in a second, but just like everything else in the world, they seem to be magnetized to Shu.
“I fear that sourcing your takoyaki may take me out of the sphere I am most familiar with. I’ve reached out to someone, though, so don’t you worry.”
“Mmkay,” Mika says. He skips up the steps and waits for Shu to follow him with the keys. He doesn’t have his own copy. If he’s out alone for any reason, Shu waits at home until he returns.
Shu whisks him away to his bedroom as soon as they have their shoes off. He keeps all of Mika’s clothes in his own room so he can alter them at will, even his casual pieces. Mika waits in the doorway, knowing that his street clothes can’t touch the bed, and watches as Shu lays out a set of red pajamas for him.
“Wear these for tonight unless you think you’ll be too cold,” he says. “I’ll have dinner ready by the time you’re cleaned up.”
He approaches Mika and stands as close to him as he can without touching him. Mika normally doesn’t bat an eye at being stared at like this, long used to his attentive gaze, but there’s something off about the way Shu is looming over him tonight.
(Off, but not unwelcome.)
“Do you want anything else?” Shu says softly.
Mika shivers. Oh, how that tone of voice does things to him. He does want something else. He needs something else, actually, more than he’s ever needed anything in his entire life. Even though he knows Shu is willing to move heaven and earth for him, what he craves now is the only thing he knows he can never ask for.
“No,” he whispers back. “Thank you, Oshi-san.”
“My precious little doll…” Shu says, his voice strained. He lifts his hand as if he might grant Mika’s unspoken wish before withdrawing it sharply. “Go shower. I’ll see you soon.”
Mika’s only moments of alone time are in between when Shu sends him to bed and when his exhaustion finally forces him to actually rest. Although Shu insists he needs nine hours of sleep and thus imposes a strict 10 P.M. bedtime, Mika tends to stay up well past midnight. As long as he doesn’t leave his room, he’s free to do as he wishes.
He uses the time to contact his friends in Japan, scroll through the short-form video platforms that Shu finds irritating, and look up what people are saying about him and Shu online. He used to be so naïve that he’d look down on celebrities who cared about what the public thought of them. Shu encourages him to drink up his newfound stardom, so he doesn’t shy away from reading everything people have to say about him.
Serious commentators repost the same photos of him over and over, pointing out details that they hadn’t noticed before or admiring his distinctive features. Fans behave differently. They care less about the final shots and more about the candids, posting long squealing captions of jumbled letters every time a photo of Shu and Mika walking around Paris is released. This is his favorite group of people to observe. Sometimes he wants to make an alternate account and join in: They really would make a good couple, wouldn’t they?
They’ve begun to repost three photos that have leaked from this afternoon’s shoot. The first two are of Mika rolling around in the fake snow, laughing and smiling instead of adopting the stone-faced stare Shu had wanted from him. In the third, Shu is holding Mika’s chin and gazing into his eyes. The moment looks just as intimate as it had felt and there’s no missing the starstruck expression on Mika’s face. From the angle, Mika wonders if it might have been taken by the same staff member who dared to challenge Shu’s authority.
Mika stares at it for far too long. He screenshots it once, then again. He checks his camera roll to make sure it’s all real. Having feelings for Shu has always felt forbidden, like he might be taking advantage of a well-intentioned artist’s commitment to his vision. To know that Shu really looks at him like this - and that others might see it too - takes his breath away.
He drifts off two hours later, lulled to sleep by the sound of Shu’s sewing machine rattling away.
Shu scoffs when Mika comments on his sleep schedule over breakfast.
“I don’t need as much sleep as you. Artists must give themselves fully to their craft. In my field, that requires my time. In yours, that requires your rest. Stop putting so much damn sugar in your coffee, Kagehira. I’ll have to make time to alter your clothes if your measurements change, and you know how busy I am.”
“It’s disgustin’ otherwise,” Mika grumbles, but he returns the spoonful that was halfway to his mug.
While Mika always gets breakfast handed to him as soon as he gets downstairs, Shu never eats in the morning. Mika can’t remember the last time he saw him have a full meal before dinner. He subsists off of black coffee and the occasional croissant until he’s forced to admit weakness and eat something in the evening. Mika silently offers Shu a slice of his avocado toast, but he turns up his nose.
“Eating this early makes me nauseous, Kagehira. How many times do I have to say it?”
“I bet it’s got nothin’ to do with the fact your coffee order would kill a normal person.”
Shu flushes red. “You - !” he begins, but he’s cut short by Mika shoving his phone in his face.
“There was a leak from the photoshoot,” he explains, scrolling through his feed so quickly that Shu can’t lock onto any of the images. He grabs the phone out of Mika’s hand and squints at the picture on the screen. He needs reading glasses, though he only wears them when he’s sewing alone. Mika isn’t supposed to know about them.
“This is of no consequence to me,” he says. “We’re not using anything from this shoot.”
“No, er, not the ones of me in the snow,” Mika says. He motions for Shu to swipe up. Shu obliges. When he sees the other picture, he sucks in a sharp breath.
“Ah.” Shu goes silent, not taking his eyes off the picture even as he reaches blindly for his coffee cup. Mika has finished his entire meal by the time he speaks again. “Do they think… Well, what do they think?” he says.
“I mean, there were all sorts of rumors swirlin’ even before this. I wouldn’t listen to any of it.” Mika clears his throat. “It’s so weird that they’re speculatin’ like that. You’re older than me and you’re kinda my boss and stuff, so it would be super inappropriate.”
“I wish you wouldn’t comment on my age, Kagehira,” Shu says, swiftly glossing over Mika’s point. He hands Mika his phone and drums his fingers on the table while taking a long sip of coffee.
“Nnagh, I’m not sayin’ you’re old! I’m just sayin’, I mean, it’s a fact that you’re older than me.”
“Just a number and all that,” Shu says. The implications make Mika’s heart race. “Does it matter to you? That people, well, assume?”
“I don’t care what they think, Oshi-san, because I know the truth,” Mika says. He reaches across the table and places his hand atop Shu’s. He rarely dares to touch Shu first. “I’m honored to be part of realizin’ your artistic vision. It doesn’t matter if they don’t understand, ‘cus I do.”
Shu chuckles. “Magnifique, Kagehira.”
Shu had abandoned the runway format the moment that he took Mika on. He’d decided last year that there was no need to use other models when there was only one person worthy of wearing his work, so he chooses to display his pieces in gallery-like showcases. He often laments that he can’t get Mika to wear everything at once. The clothing cannot be taken separately from the model, he explains, and they rely on each other to become the finished work of art.
They arrive an hour early and are directed to a small, secluded dressing room. Mika is grateful for the privacy. Even Shu can recognize how questionable their ‘maintenance’ looks to a room full of people and only performs it when they’re alone.
Mika undresses to his undershirt and briefs and waits in the middle of the room, his eyes closed and his arms at his sides. Shu approaches him from behind, surveying the back of his arms and legs before taking Mika by the shoulders and pressing his thumbs into Mika’s back. There are thick knots of tension gathered there, and Shu works over them for thirty seconds with brutal pressure. Mika can’t deny that it helps, but he has to bite back a shriek of pain whenever Shu digs in.
“Perhaps a physical therapist…” Shu mumbles to himself. He lets go of Mika and walks around to inspect his front. “Your skin looks clearer than it did yesterday,” he notes.
Mika breathes an audible sigh of relief, only for all the air to be knocked out of his lungs as Shu loops his hand around his wrist. He guides Mika’s arm up, inspecting every square inch from fingertip to shoulder, before doing the same to the other side. He hums in approval and steps back for a moment.
“As flawless as ever, little doll,” he says. Normally this is when Mika would open his eyes, but Shu doesn’t give him permission just yet. To Mika’s shock, and perhaps to his horror, he hears Shu get on his knees. A cold hand runs across the back of Mika’s shin. Mika flinches.
“Are you alright?” Shu says, withdrawing his hand. Mika shakes his head.
“It’s fine,” he mumbles. “It’s good.”
Shu’s icy fingers find their way to the bottom half of Mika’s left thigh. It isn’t the first time Shu’s touched him here, but it’s the first time it’s gone well past the practical. Shu has no measuring tape or pincushion in hand. It’s just bare skin against bare skin, artist against model, Shu against Mika.
Shu’s hand slides further up. Mika’s entire body is trembling now. He digs his teeth into his bottom lip to stop himself from crying out. He’s all too aware that if he opened his eyes he’d see Shu on his knees, head level with his waist.
“Stop,” he gasps, his eyes fluttering open. Shu jerks away so quickly that he stumbles back and falls on his backside. Mika can’t bring himself to laugh, too consumed by the need to will away the warmth pulsing in his abdomen. Shu is a professional; Mika can’t risk desecrating his life’s work with his all-too-human desire.
Shu stands up and dusts himself off, even though the floor is spotless. He avoids eye contact, rolls up his sleeves, and starts pulling clothes off of the rack to his left. Mika’s mouth goes dry at the sight of his exposed forearms. Mika has been in almost every state of undress before him, but the most skin Shu has ever shown was when he had undone the second button of his shirt during a heat wave.
“Stop gawking at me, Kagehira. The wind will change and your face will stay that way,” Shu snaps. He hands Mika a white blouse. “Put this on.”
Mika slips into it with ease. He’d never realized just how ill-fitting mass-produced clothes were until he’d worn something tailored just for him.
The piece Shu gives to him next is one of Mika’s all-time favorites. Though the blouse is relatively plain, the flowing, floor-length skirt is marvelous. He twirls twice after sliding it up to his hips, and the fabric of the skirt is so light that it flares out around him in waves. Shu had spent a fortnight dying it by hand, carefully mixing colors until the swirling blue and amber reflected the exact colors of Mika’s eyes. His fingertips had been stained green for weeks afterwards.
They fall into a comfortable silence as Shu does Mika’s makeup, the tension of maintenance long forgotten. For once, Shu doesn’t seem stressed about the evening ahead of them. He hums as he works, replicating yesterday’s look with remarkable efficiency.
“Will ya be sittin’ down, Oshi-san, or will ya be up there with me?” Mika asks as Shu adds the finishing touches.
“I’ll be watching with the rest of them,” Shu says. He gestures for Mika to stand. “I trust you to honor my art on your own. Can you do that for me, little doll?”
Mika nods eagerly. He’s confident he can, if only because Shu commanded him to. This evening will be his first interview given entirely in French. He’s been practicing his answers every day for two weeks, written with only a little help from Shu. Textbooks used to make his head spin, but he’d attacked his French study with relentless vigor over the past year. He won’t – he can’t – let Shu down.
“Excellent. I knew you could. You’re becoming such a brilliant artist in your own right.” Shu takes him by the shoulders, then thinks better of it and slides his hands down to his waist. “Oh, Kagehira. My perfect, gorgeous little doll. I’m so blessed to have you.”
Mika bites back a noise that he’s sure would otherwise emerge as a pathetic moan. He throws his arms around Shu’s shoulders, the only time he’s ever reached out to embrace Shu without asking first. For once, he feels as if he’s earned the right to.
“I’m so lucky to have ya, Oshi-san,” he says, his eyes shining. “I dunno where I’d be without ya. I want nothin’ more than to make ya proud to repay ya for everythin’ you’ve done for me.”
“You’ve already made me so proud. Sometimes I feel I can barely contain myself when I see you on display. It’s almost unbearable,” Shu murmurs. His eyes drop to Mika’s glossy lips. “A lesser man might have acted on his impulses by now.”
One of Mika’s hands pushes upwards into Shu’s hair, guiding his head forward by a centimeter. “Then I wish you were a lesser man,” he whispers.
There’s a sharp knock on the door. Shu and Mika jump apart so quickly that Shu slams into the wall, his second undignified mistake of the day. This time, Mika has the presence of mind to laugh at him.
“Kagehira, you’re on in five,” a deep voice says from the hallway.
“Thank ya!” Mika calls back. “I’ll be out in a minute!” He turns back to a pink-cheeked Shu and grins. “You should go. I’ll see ya out there.”
“Right, yes, of course. You’re correct.” Shu rolls his sleeves down, inspects his hair in the mirror to check he’s still presentable, and takes a deep breath. “Good luck, Kagehira,” he says, and then he disappears into the hallway so quickly that Mika doesn’t even get the chance to say goodbye.
Mika walks in the opposite direction of Shu. He can’t find the entrance he needs, stumbling into a closet and down a staircase before he doubles back and returns to the door of the dressing room. His impulse is to cross his arms over his chest to protect himself from uncertainty, but he can’t risk creasing the blouse.
A woman in an emerald green pantsuit brushes past him before pausing a few paces away. She turns around and grins.
“Mika Kagehira?” she says. Mika nods. “Ah! Are you alright?”
“Yes,” Mika says automatically, even though he’s begun to quiver. “I’m a little lost.”
“Come with me,” she says.
Her tall heels click against the tile. Mika’s fast footsteps echo behind hers. She’s a little older than Mika, perhaps in her late twenties, with a long slicked-back ponytail that reaches her lower back.
“My name’s Astrid, by the way,” she says. “I’m a journalist for fine. I’ll be interviewing you tonight.”
“Nice to meet you!” Mika says. It’s rare that he gets to interact with someone in public without Shu looming over his shoulder. He doesn’t prompt her for further conversation - Shu’s never much liked him getting too close to people in the industry.
She stops before a set of short double doors. “I’ll introduce you first, then you can come out after I say your name. Don’t worry - you know what to expect, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Mika says. It’s only half true. The interview might be under his control, but whatever happens afterward isn’t.
“Are you ready?” Astrid says. Mika’s stomach swoops.
“Of course.”
Mika’s vision doesn’t immediately adjust to the harsh lighting bearing down on the makeshift stage. It’s only after he sits down on the curvy plastic chair reserved for him that he realizes how full the gallery is, packed to the brim with journalists and socialites. The walls are lined with tall glass cases, each containing a mannequin exactly Mika’s size and height wearing an outfit Shu had made especially for him. He searches the crowd for Shu but doesn’t spot him. His hands grow clammy.
When the round of polite applause dies down, Astrid launches into her questions. She first asks Mika about the piece he’s currently wearing, so Mika stands back up to show it off. The audience oohs and aahs when he twirls.
He’s dizzy when he sits back down, so much so that he misses the first half of her next question. “ - you doing before Itsuki scooped you up?”
Mika brightens up. This was the answer he’d spent the most time preparing for. The story is well-worn at this point, a familiar selling point that highlights just how extraordinary Mika is, and he’s all too happy to repeat it.
“I was working in a French-style cafe in Tokyo,” he explains. “Oshi-san visited with a friend and I was their waiter. After that, he came in every day for a week just hoping to get another look at me! I didn’t even know who he was.”
“Wow! And when did you move to Paris?”
“Three weeks later.”
The crowd murmurs with astonishment, as if this story hasn’t already been printed alongside Mika’s photo in every reputable (and disreputable) international fashion publication.
“That must’ve been quite the gamble,” Astrid says.
“Not really,” Mika says. He looks over at the audience again and finally spots Shu standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Sakuma Rei and Hibiki Wataru. He’s clutching a glass of prosecco with such white-knuckled intensity that it’s a miracle it hasn’t shattered. “Even at the beginning, everything about being with Oshi-san just felt… right.”
Shu looks as if he might be sick. Mika’s shaking hands play with the folds of his skirt. He’d written that line in secret, afraid of what Shu might say if he knew about it. It isn’t the sort of thing that he feels he deserves to say. He isn’t with Shu, not really. Since the moment they met, Shu has led and Mika has followed. Mika would be perfectly happy to do that for the rest of his life.
“And tell us, Kagehira,” Astrid says. “What sort of opportunities has the partnership opened up for you?”
There are so many answers he could give to this question - the magazine features, the celebrities he’s posed beside, the fans that beg him for autographs, the full attention of the fashion world - but he wouldn’t have anything to say if it weren’t for Shu.
“I’ve already got the only opportunity I’ll ever need,” he says. He looks straight at Shu. “Working with Oshi-san. He’s not just my partner in art - he’s my partner in life. I’m so lucky to have him.”
Shu stares back at him, mouth agape in a way he would describe as most undignified. After a moment, he shoves Wataru out of his way and crosses the back of the room. Mika’s heart thumps against his ribcage.
“Isn’t that lovely,” Astrid says, tone laced with trepidation. “Now, I’ve got a few questions from our website about the upcoming Ituski summer collection.”
Mika barely manages to stutter out the rest of his answers. Shu is standing right by the short staircase down from the platform, gazing at him with a vacant expression that Mika’s never seen on his face before. To be so earnest, so honest about how he feels about Shu in front of so many people - if they didn’t assume before, they certainly would now. Would Shu be okay with that? Would everyone else?
Mika can’t suffer through the tension for a second longer than he has to. He bursts out of his seat as soon as the final round of applause begins and jumps off the platform instead of taking the stairs, landing two feet away from Shu. They step forward at the same time and fall into each other’s arms.
“Was I okay, Oshi-san?” Mika says, clutching the front of Shu’s shirt. He’s afraid he’ll collapse if he lets go. “Did I do well?”
Shu grabs his face in both hands and kisses him hard, stealing all of the air from his lungs. Mika wraps his arms around Shu’s torso and pulls him as close as he can, as if the only cure for a year of soul-crushing longing would be to merge with his beloved entirely.
“Does that answer your question?” he whispers when they finally have to part for air. Mika whimpers at the loss of contact and leans in straight away, but Shu shakes his head. “They’re watching, Kagehira. Later.”
Mika giggles. “They’ve been waitin’ for so long that I almost feel bad,” he says softly. “I don’t mind givin’ them a bit of a show.”
Shu kisses him again. He makes no attempt to shield them from the cameras.