Work Text:
through the turnstiles, into stand-off, the choir calls up a ballet of chaos,
we inhale passion, push hope, touch the world and set it on fire
For the umpteenth time since he moved into this shitty flat, Youichi curses the awful insulation of the building. Because of course, the person living just above him had to wake up everyday at bloody five o’clock in the morning, and be a noisy douchebag until at least eight thirty. Which, with his current job as a night doorman, is a huge hindrance to Youichi’s hours of sleep.
Despite knowing perfectly well how pointless it is, the young man grabs his phone with a pissed off sigh.
To: bastard neighbour
tone it down shithead i had a crappy shift last night
[sent at 5.17 AM]
It barely takes a few minutes for his text to be answered, without any sign of the noises decreasing.
From: bastard neighbour
I know. You made it quite explicit when you woke up the whole floor at 4.30.
[received at 5.23 AM]
Youichi restrains himself from sending a middle finger emoji, more because he knows the recipient would only receive a crossed square on his ancient phone, rather than for the sake of maintaining a status quo within the neighbourhood.
With a groan, the green-haired man covers his eyes with his left arm and resigns himself to fall asleep later than planned.
Which leads him to this situation several hours later, slouched over a table of his favourite bar with his friends.
“Amahisa, can I sleep at yours tonight?” And listen, he’s asking out of sheer desperation here, normally he would have to be paid to willingly spend a night at Amahisa’s fuckhole. Sadly, apart from Youichi, he’s the only member of their group who lives alone.
“Nah man,” the bald asshole answers without missing a beat, focused on throwing fries in the air and catching them directly with his mouth, “I don’t intend to go back to my place alone tonight, no way I’d let your grumpy face deprive me of a good lay.”
“Pretty confident your sorry ass can bag anyone?” Sanada – of course it’s him, half of their time spent together is dedicated to antagonising the other airhead – retorts with a pernicious grin.
Such friends he has. He only claims Carlos and Umemiya at this point.
“Is what’s-his-name being even louder than normal? You look dead tired man!” Umemiya fortuitously asks Youichi with a concerned tone – bless him – instead of paying attention to Sanada and Amahisa’s shenanigans.
“Narumiya told me they have an important performance coming soon, makes sense Miyuki trains even more than usual.” Carlos adds his own piece of information, a compassionate hand on Youichi’s shoulder.
“That’s not a reason to start his routines at freaking five!” The shortest man protests vehemently.
And see, that’s a really small world for Youichi and his insufferable neighbour to have friends in common, especially since they evolve in entirely different spheres.
Kuramochi Youichi is not a role model for what is expected in a society of proper, successful men.
He is a thug, some would say.
An outcast.
A disappointment.
He knew as much when he dropped out of school at seventeen and never picked up studies after that.
It could have been for a noble reason. To work in order to help his family. But to be honest, he was just fed up to be constantly judged and sidelined, whether it was because of his looks or his temper.
“You’re just showing them what they look for, Youichi.” His gramps would argue.
He became a shadow, wandering always farther away from home. One night he met Umemiya Seiichi, who was so generous and empathic, but who was seen as a punk like him, kicked out of his baseball team for brawling, out of other numerous mischiefs.
They had a passion for that sport, a knack for mechanics, and terrible haircuts in common.
The day Umemiya turned eighteen, three months after Youichi, they left with the bikes they had been working on, living off small jobs and the sensation of asphalt beneath their tires.
On the road they ran into Amahisa Kousei and Sanada Shunpei. Two other bikers running away from God knows what, who were like cats and dogs but inseparable all the same, a history together somehow, hidden behind fierce teasing and heated gazes.
Roughly a year after Youichi left his hometown, the four of them met Carlos around a bonfire in Okinawa. Carlos, who was too good for them.
A half-Brazilian guy who was discriminated against way too often because apparently, despite his Japanese name, he was too dark to totally be accepted. Kamiya Carlos Toshiki was thoughtful, laidback, and less rough than their crass gang of four.
But there was a glint in his eyes, something wicked that made him belong to them.
They were a bunch of dumbasses, but Carlos, Shunpei, Seiichi and Kousei were his brothers, through and through.
So Youichi travelled across the country with this patchwork of a family for almost three years, before they grew out of their biker phase and decided to establish themselves in Tokyo.
Not in Chiba, never back to Chiba.
It felt weird at first, to go from spending pretty much all his time with the same people to “only” seeing them twice or thrice a week. But Youichi needed the breather, they all did.
He would set himself on fire for any of them, but if he had to bear one more month of cleaning Carlos’s pubes in the shower, hearing Amahisa eat with his mouth open, preventing Umemiya from breaking everything, or Sanada from poisoning the baldy, he would have ended up in a psychiatric yard.
Plus, he could do without the constant reminder that all his friends were at least half a head taller than him. The midget of the group, as outsiders sometimes called him. Tsk. He is not that short, they should be the ones considered as anomalies.
So they have all gone on their separate ways, just to better get reunited at every given occasion.
Obviously with no degree to his name, Youichi has been doing weird, short-term jobs for ages now to pay his rent and sometimes, like a secret treat, buy art supplies.
He has lived in shitholes, with enough shady roommates – apart from Ryou-san, even though he suspected him to be a hitman for way too long – to convince him that he was better off living on his own. So although the insulation is a shame and the neighbourhood is a bit dodgy, he is quite pleased with his current accommodation.
So really, with such a wild youth and unsettled adulthood, he lives universes apart from the likes of Miyuki Kazuya.
This certainty has not left him ever since he first laid his eyes on the dude.
That day of January six months ago could not have gone more wrong.
At that time, he used to work at a convenience store, with a crazy manager and even crazier customers. Let’s say, they really tested Youichi’s limits, and they were more than overstepped that afternoon when an old hag argued with him over the price of a laundry soap for a full hour, and how the price displayed at his checkout was not what was indicated where she took it in the aisle when it bloody was the same price. She did not let it go despite everything Youichi offered in exchange and he might have yelled at her to get lost and to shove that soap in her ass.
His manager did not spare a second to come to Youichi’s defence, and promptly fired him.
So really, he had had a crappy day and was already in a terrible mood when he stumbled across a bunch of stupid lowlifes two blocks away from his place.
Despite somehow hiding in a dim alley, they were easy to pinpoint with their loud voices. Youichi squinted at the shape of three bodies forming a circle.
“Where you goin’ like that, checkin’ us and leavin’ like you ain’t a creep?” One of them sneered.
The person they were surrounding must have protested or something, because another moron got even more agitated. “Don’t lie you fag! All your kind are pervs, everyone knows that! Gotta remind you that you should stay out of normal people’s way...”
Well, a queer person must have gotten lost in the area or forgotten it really wasn’t the safest place to display one’s affiliations to the LGBTQIA+ community.
With a huff, Youichi dropped his backpack against a wall and cracked his knuckles. What a crappy day indeed. However, an occasion to let off steam was not exactly unwelcome.
“Hey douchebags, you think you’re so cool ganging up on someone three against one?” Youichi let out with his lowest voice, the one he knew sent chills down his opponents’ spines.
They all turned towards him with panicked faces, but visibly relaxed at his sight.
“Yo shorty, what you think you’re doin’?” The biggest dude of the bunch scoffed, straightening his stature in order to tower over Youichi.
What a dumb thing to think it could impress him.
“Teaching you basic human decency.” He deadpanned, before raising his fist.
In less than two seconds the guy lay on the ground, knocked out by his punch, while the second thug trying to come at Youichi received a knee in his stomach. The third one ran away, dragging his sidekicks behind him.
Spineless bastards, Youichi angrily mumbled in his head, before finally paying attention to the victim there.
Except, instead of the frail twink wrapped in rainbow clothes he expected, Youichi faced a muscular man almost as tall as Sanada, and very obviously not scared one bit. The only cliché part he fitted with was the pair of glasses, behind which beautiful amber eyes glistened in amusement.
Those were distracting as fuck.
He really struggled to guess what triggered the insults, got insecure in front of a good-looking guy an unhelpful part of his brain supplied, when his eyes fell on the dude’s legs.
Tights. Paired up with some sort of varsity jacket branded “National Ballet of Japan.” A ballet dancer.
Wandering around in freaking January in tights and a jacket. Not only was it far too cold for such a dress code, it was also a given that close-minded people would take it for a sign of weakness.
“Thank you for the show of virile strength.” A nasal snigger disrupted his thoughts.
“Hah?” Youichi frowned, confused both by the heavy irony in the guy’s voice, and the cunning smirk on that handsome face.
The brunette sighed heavily and clenched his heart in mock pain. “Sorry for you, your brave act isn’t rewarded by a damsel in distress.”
Youichi was getting tired of the taunting act and disdainful tone. As if the guy was mocking him for coming to his help, ascribing him ulterior motives.
“Hey, which sort of fucker you think I am?” He growled, grabbing instinctively the guy’s collar.
The other instantly tensed up in his grasp, and guilt immediately invaded Youichi at the sight. Despite his unshaken front, the dude was just about to be mugged, of course would be wary of him as well.
The moment Youichi let him go, the ballet dancer straightened up and regained his insufferable bravado. “Well, thanks again small delinquent, but I’m in a hurry, so see you never!”
Youichi could only watch the man’s back as he walked away at a fast pace, unsettled by the whole interaction.
Definitely a crappy day.
Freshly unemployed, Youichi discovered another unpleasant factor of his daily life: the person living above him. He had not noticed before, since he generally woke up early for his shifts at the convenience store, but the upper flat was super noisy, especially in the morning. After a week of being woken up at six when he could have slept in, Youichi was already running out of patience.
The thumpings generally occurred from six to nine, but that day it did not stop all day long. On a Sunday! Not that Youichi was doing anything of tremendous importance, but still. He could not concentrate on anything, neither the job ads nor his drawings.
Fed up, Youichi eventually climbed the stairs and decisively knocked on his neighbour’s door, ready to give them a piece of his mind.
To his great surprise, a familiar blond head opened the door. “Oh, but you’re Mochi!” Narumiya Mei exclaimed, dumbfounded.
Youichi had met the guy through Carlos a couple of times.
Upon moving to Tokyo, they all discovered Carlos was in fact a qualified personal trainer for athletes. Another mystery he was hiding behind his easy-going composure and secretive smiles.
As efficient as usual, it did not take him that long to build a solid client base. One of his clients was an apparently well-known ballet dancer, Narumiya Mei. Well, the well-known part remained relatively ignored until the personal trainer introduced his new friend to them. Said friend was outraged none of them recognised him, thus Narumiya insistently showed the five of them articles about himself, and even a damn wikipedia page. The ballerino was very open about his life, almost everything about him could be found online, from his sisters and the bichon that was their family pet, to his favourite flavour and brand of perfume.
And Youichi could not decide what was the most disgusting between the ugly dog and rum raisin ice cream.
Overall, Narumiya Mei was a regal, self-assured, hard-working star. However, even though Carlos insisted Narumiya was not as prissy as he seemed to be, Youichi could not imagine the blond ballerino would live in such a second-rate flat. Moreover, Carlos would have made the link and mentioned it if they resided at the same place.
The mystery was quickly resolved though, when Narumiya turned around and yelled: “Kazuya, you’re supposed to be the one answering!”
The flat was as small as his, so when Carlos’s friend had stepped away from the door and opened it more largely, Youichi got a direct view on the living room and... The dude he had met two weeks before, doing something unholy with his body, doing the splits with one leg on a chair, the other on the couch, and his crotch touching the ground.
“Holy shit!” Youichi muttered in awe in front of such flexibility.
“My saviour, hi!” The dude – Kazuya, allegedly – stood up from his weird position and came to the door.
The sarcastic tone woke up Youichi from his daydreaming phase. “You!” He exclaimed.
“Me.” The other replied flatly, unimpressed.
Once again, he was wearing tights, with a baggy shirt this time. Youichi promptly looked away from the collarbones covered in sweat, but he probably had not been as smooth as he wished given Kazuya’s smug grin.
“You’re the one living here?” He questioned imperiously, suddenly remembering what he came for, despite all the unexpected elements thrown his way.
“Afraid so.” The brunette shrugged.
“Well, I’m in the flat just under yours, and I’d appreciate you tone it down, especially considering all the noise you’re making so early in the morning.” Youichi stated, a bit grumpily but trying his best to stay courteous.
Understanding crossed the guy’s face, but his answer was barely apologetic, “People here have a job, I’m sorry but I have to stretch and train everyday.”
In a quick glance, Youichi seized the bar set against the wall and various other sports equipment, probably linked to classical dance, even though he knew nothing about the subject. Some furniture had been obviously pushed around to make space. He wondered if they were repeating something together. Come to think of it, Narumiya Mei would probably not hang out and dedicate his Sunday to some secondary dancer of the troupe.
“When do you start training, Kazuya?” The aforementioned ballerino frowned at the brunette, disapproval clear on his face.
“Six in the morning!” Youichi replied loudly before Kazuya could open his mouth.
Narumiya’s frown intensified, “You often leave the theatre at seven, without counting lunch and your commute time, that’s more than ten hours per day! You gotta rest more!”
“Sometimes he even makes noise until ten in the evening!” Honestly, he was being so helpful right then.
“Kazuya!” The blond cried out, alarmed.
“Shut up, thuggy dude,” the bespectacled man curtly addressed him (“Don’t be mean to Mochi, he’s the only one of Carlos’s friends who didn’t burp in my face!” Youichi heard in the background), before turning to his partner, “And Mei, you’re literally the last person who should be allowed to give lessons about overexertion!” He sighed with a mix of amusement and annoyance.
“Is it a crime for me to not want you to go through the same things I did?” Narumiya urgently challenged.
The two dancers were looking at each other, matching frowns on their faces.
“Kazuya.” Youichi voiced, trying to interrupt whatever silent conversation he was evicted from.
It was very effective, as the brunette instantly glared at him. “Miyuki.” He retorted to correct Youichi. Duly noted, as if he would want to be on first name basis with such a prick.
“Kuramochi.” He offered back, since technically they had not introduced themselves, and Youichi would rather eat Umemiya’s socks than to be called Mochi by Miyuki like Narumiya did. “You better stop the commotion at six.”
“Well, it’s partly thanks to you that I took the habit of waking up at 5.30 to start training, since you often slammed your door at that time. And you’ve never heard me making a scandal about it.” The brunette sassed back, cunning smirk back on his mouth.
Despite the obvious cheekiness, there certainly was some truth there, and he felt bad about it. Before that day, he never thought about the noise he could be making himself.
“Sorry, I had early shifts for ages.” Youichi mumbled sheepishly.
But apparently, Miyuki took the apology for an attempt to justify himself, as he tilted his head to ask with mocked concern, “So I should treat my career as an aside to fit yours? Care to warn me when your next shifts are so I can arrange my life for you?”
That was too much bullshit for Youichi at that point. “Whatever, get lost.” He groaned, rolling his eyes. “See you, Narumiya.” He faintly waved, turning around.
Before the door was totally shut, Youichi could hear the two men arguing, or rather Narumiya chewing Miyuki out about working rhythm and balance. “And what’s the saviour thing about? You guys already met before?”
Turns out, Miyuki Kazuya also had a wikipedia page, though far more succinct than Narumiya’s. There was no mention of his family or upbringing, just facts linked to his career, and how he had risen to the top of the National Ballet in only two years, to become part of the seven principal dancers along with Narumiya Mei, another male dancer named Mima Souichirou, and four prima ballerinas.
Not that Youichi wasted much time wondering about the damn bastard.
A few weeks after that first official meeting, Narumiya had been the one to give him Miyuki’s phone number. “If you want to complain to him without having to climb the stairs!” He had justified.
“Some friend that you are!” Sanada had laughed.
“That’s Narumiya Mei for you.” Carlos had lazily retorted with a knowing grin.
It has been five months now since he became acquainted with Miyuki Kazuya.
Annoying neighbour.
Entitled bastard before God.
Ballerino extraordinaire, as the specialised press would write.
Some aspects progressed since – like the time Youichi found a freshly made curry at his door after being woken up at 4AM for a week –, some did not – the less than kind words exchanged on a daily basis and the nasal snigger that followed him everywhere.
After the curry event, Youichi thought there could be something salvable between them. They did not need to be friends, mutual respect would do.
However, trying to talk to Miyuki was like throwing pebbles at a fortified wall. The elusive douchebag would never speak his mind if not for alienating him, seemingly nonchalant words laced with trenchant truths.
Part of him wanted to qualify Miyuki as a contemptuous, impressionable guy who was just wary of people like Youichi. After all, “punk” and “delinquent” were his neighbour’s favourite names to call him.
He could imagine it all. At the end of the day, ballet was some social marker fantasy, a western dance that captures the frail hearts of upper middle class women seeking beauty in its most artistic form. Miyuki might perfectly be a well-off kid who ran away from home to prove himself or what not. Sent private dance tutors and the family pressure packing.
Except Miyuki was a bit too at ease with badly insulated buildings and shady streets to be born into wealth.
And Youichi was not as shallow as to let beautiful amber eyes and an armour of mystery rule over him, so no he never enquired about Miyuki to Narumiya.
Instead, it is the meddling blondie that provides unwanted information and forces them to interact more often than not.
Like precisely now. But Youichi still picks up the phone with one hand, the other one fumbling with his tie as he dresses for his shift of the night.
“Hey Mochi, you still have your bike, don’t you?” The prick starts with his ever demanding tone.
“Why?” He grumbles back, distrustful, not bothering with manners since the other skipped them so effortlessly.
Somehow, Narumiya understands through the wary answer that Youichi does indeed still possess his precious motorcycle. Or perhaps he asked something he already knew the answer to. Highly likely. “Drive Kazuya to the studio on Saturday for 5.30AM, will you?”
“What the hell??!” He exclaimed, looking at his phone in disbelief, as if it would display a translation of Narumiya’s words as a “joke’s on you, you almost fell for it!”.
But apparently the other’s entitlement knows no bounds. “We have to be there super early, and buses don’t run early enough for him to be there on time.”
“He can get a cab! Or better, you can fetch him!” Youichi argues, still trying to make sense of the situation.
“Kazuya doesn’t like cars. And I have something planned at my parents’ the previous evening, he can’t crash at mine.” Narumiya retorts easily, apparently having all his counter-arguments prepared.
The doorman pinches the bridge of his nose, already sensing a headache coming. “And why isn’t he the one to ask me?” He eventually asks.
“Because he’s a prideful dumbass who plans to either sleep at the theatre or to walk all the way there.”
Alright, that was a low blow. It is well-known among his circle of friends – into which he does not include Narumiya, but still, the blondie might have heard it somewhere – that it’s beyond him to let people he knows struggle with something he can help with. His resolve is already starting to crumble.
“So what makes you think he’d even accept my help? Being indebted to someone doesn’t sound like Miyuki.” He validly points out.
“I have my ways.” The ballerino confidently affirms. “Just be in front of your building’s front door at five on Saturday, and he’ll be there. Come ooon Mochi-kun,” he plaintively adds, “you finish your shifts late anyway and you’re neighbours! It’s perfect!”
“Alright alright I’ll do it, jeez.” The green-haired man yields with a deep sigh, provoking exclamations of joy. “You guys train at the New National Theatre, right?”
“Yup, Kazuya will guide you to the artists’ entrance, no worries. I hope you have a spare helmet, don’t put my best friend at risk, Kuramochi Youichi.”
With a last affirmative groan, Youichi hangs up on the blond.
Shit.
What did he agree to again.
He did not receive any confirmation either from Narumiya or Miyuki, but still, like an obedient dog here he is, at the front door of their building at freaking five in the morning after eight hours of work. And Friday nights are no pleasure cruise.
Youichi probably looks dreadful as he did not even have enough time for a quick shower, having parked his bike just two minutes before their meeting time.
Whatever, surely Miyuki can survive being in the presence of someone who does not smell like fresh roses for thirty minutes.
Punctual like a cuckoo clock, Miyuki appears on the dot. For someone who is always up before daybreak, the man surprisingly looks like a bird having fallen from its nest. There stands Miyuki Kazuya in all his glory: ruffled hair almost hiding his eyes barely cracked open behind his glasses, a pouty mouth replacing his usual smirk. No tight tights today, fortunately the guy dressed in an attire compatible with his ride. Still, his slightly oversized t-shirt will do a poor job of cutting the wind once in motion.
With a sigh, Youichi rummages through his bag as his neighbour comes closer.
“Take that.” He throws a jacket at the brunette’s face before they can even greet each other.
“Thanks.” Miyuki grumbles while putting the jacket on.
It’s when Youichi gives him his second helmet that his assertiveness seems to falter, his calculating gaze taking in Youichi’s bike as if he just understood what he agreed to.
Except the shorter man has been up for almost twenty hours now, he would like his delivery to be done as soon as possible. “Get your ass over there, princess.” He rolls his eyes in exasperation.
“What a royal carriage indeed.” The other snorts in response, some tension perceptively lifting from his shoulders. “Do you know the way or do you need me to guide you?” He asks as he cautiously climbs the bike to sit behind Youichi.
“Yeah yeah, I know where the theatre is. First time on a bike?” He asks with a grin as Miyuki carefully tries to find his footing, testing his own balance.
“Do I look like someone indulging in delinquent activities?” The douchebag taunts back.
Kuramochi only rolls his eyes in response. “Well, I suggest you hold tight, this model doesn’t have grab handles.” He grumbles before starting the ignition.
Miyuki’s arms instantly snuggle around his waist at the first jolt, and they take off.
Traffic is still fluid at that hour. The gentle early daylight of August bathes Tokyo in warm colours.
The atmosphere is soothing paired up with the comforting, non-intrusive weight on his back. It is almost disappointing that his passenger does not hold onto him tighter (just because it would have been hilarious to see Miyuki being scared).
Once in front of the theatre, Miyuki makes a gesture in his peripheral vision to take a turn farther away.
Youichi turns around the imposing building until they find themselves in front of the staff entrance. As soon as he stops the motor, Miyuki disentangles himself from his neighbour.
If he got wobbly legs out of the ride, the dancer does a great job at hiding them.
“Thanks for driving me here, you didn’t have to.” He says after removing his helmet.
“Think Narumiya’d leave me alone if I refused?” Youichi raises an amused eyebrow.
“Probably not.” Miyuki snorts, agreeing with him for what feels like the first time ever. The brunette visibly hesitates, toying with the zip of his borrowed jacket. The biker observes his neighbour with a growing curiosity not used to the almost coy display. “Want to come in?” He finally offers, not quite looking Youichi in the eyes.
“Me?” He exclaims dumbly, startled. “What for, I’d rather go to sleep.”
“Even though you drive fast, it’s still a twenty minute ride.” Miyuki reasons calmly. “You can rest a little inside, or have coffee.”
He would never have expected such consideration from Miyuki, but at the same time the taller man gives him the impression he dislikes feeling like he owes anything to anyone.
“Coffee?” Youichi can feel his own eyes brighten in interest.
And that is how he is lured inside, by the promise of caffeine.
He sticks close to Miyuki, not wanting to get lost in the maze of corridors. They run into a lot of people considering it is so early in the morning, today’s rehearsal must really be a big deal. The employees from the theatre respectfully greet Miyuki, some people grace Youichi with curious gazes, most visibly do not have the time to care.
The dancer leads him into what seems to be his dressing room. Youichi hesitantly crosses the threshold at Miyuki’s invitation to find himself in a room of medium size with three dressing tables, a bunch of outfits and lockers. At every corner of the room, props are overflowing in a disorganised manner. At least, through Youichi’s perception.
“Sorry about the mess, somehow everyone seems to think this place is some kind of storage room.” Miyuki explains when he catches what attracted the green-haired man’s eyes. “You can sit on the couch.” He designates a piece of furniture covered in clothings and ballet shoes.
Youichi gingerly pushes things around and sits where he can, while Miyuki rummages through one of the table’s drawers, and flaunts instant coffee.
“It’s Mei’s stash, but I guess you deserve it.” He comments with a mischievous grin.
Not wasting a second, the dancer swiftly grabs a kettle on the apparently appointed “drinks and snacks” table, and fills it with water from the sink in a corner of the room. While the water boils, Miyuki removes his glasses and thoroughly washes his hands to put on contact lenses.
Enraptured, Youichi watches the ritual from afar. His neighbour is obviously at home here, a routine engraved to his core, not bothered by a stranger’s presence in his turf. Youichi does not dare to think he is simply comfortable in his presence, not when 95% of their encounters have been charged with bantering.
The dancer takes just enough time to change his eyewear to stop the kettle and mix the instant coffee with water. When he gives Youichi the cup, it’s the perfect temperature.
The shorter man accepts it with a quiet thanks, and gratefully takes a gulp or caffeinated liquid, careful to not let his gaze linger on the brunette’s bare face.
A gulp he instantly regrets having taken when Miyuki suddenly bends and undresses in front of him. Youichi almost chokes, but fortunately the dancer already put on his tights underneath his baggy jeans, and apparently his t-shirt is good enough for practice. Still, he averts his eyes and takes in the layout of the room with renewed attention.
Miyuki drops the pants on the chair that must be his and replaces his normal shoes with supple ballet ones.
“I thought those were more rigid,” Youichi eventually breaks the silence, not resisting to let his curiosity be perceived, pointing at Miyuki’s feet, “with a flat tip and ribbons, things like that.”
“Oh you mean to dance on pointe?” The brunette retorts with a surprised tone, as if he forgot Youichi was there or that he could have things to say. “I’ll put those in the studio before practice, I think these ones are more comfortable to walk with.”
“Mm. Makes sense.”
A noise at the door diverts their attention as a tall, lean guy enters the room.
“Morning Miyuki.” The stranger greets his neighbour with a deep voice devoid of inflection.
“Morning Mima!” Miyuki greets back with more enthusiasm, the taunting glint back in his eyes.
Oh, of course. If Narumiya is the second person Miyuki shares his space with, the third one had to be the other male principal dancer of the troupe, Youichi concludes, analysing the newcomer’s svelte posture, his platinum hair and piercing grey eyes that settle on Youichi.
“Hello.” He politely nods.
“Here is my neighbour, Kuramochi. He dropped me here this morning.” Miyuki explains, finally introducing them.
A flicker of understanding crosses the grey eyes. “Mima Souichirou, nice to meet you.” The tall dancer nods back. Alright dressed accordingly, Mima just drops a few things on his dressing table. As he leaves the room, Miyuki takes his bag and follows suit.
“You can rest on the couch a bit while you finish your coffee. Will you be alright finding the way out?” He addresses Youichi over his shoulder.
Before the brunette can disappear from his sight, Youichi stands up, seized with the urge to witness just for a little longer how this focused, almost amiable Miyuki evolves in his area of expertise.
“Can I... Can I watch? Just to see if what wakes me up every morning is worth it.” He grumbles by way of explanation in front of Miyuki’s wide eyes.
Damn it, he was given a perfect way out, but he let his curiosity get the best of him. Again.
“Well, I guess you can be present for the warmups.” The dancer casually shrugs, residues of his initial surprise in his orbs. “We don’t really allow people during practice, but you can always ask. Fair warning: you’ll probably find it boring.”
Still, Youichi stands up, closes the door, and falls into step behind the two dancers leading the way ahead of him.
“I’m sure Kataoka-san will agree to let him stay if it comes from you.” Mima comments, and is that a note of teasing in his flat voice?
“No, he won’t.” Miyuki sternly retorts.
“He came here because of you, though.” Yep, there is definitely some teasing behind the seemingly innocent observation.
“Will you stop it!” The brunette almost whines. Is it such a shameful thing to be appreciated by someone? “Anyone would be crazy to decline a position as a ballet master here, it’s just a coincidence.”
Youichi casually observes them interacting over the rim of his coffee cup and sees the shadow of a smile on Mima’s profile.
“A coincidence that your mentor during your high school years accepted to work here just when you joined the company? The person for whom you went to a contemporary dance conservatory instead of taking the offer of the New National Theatre to join the ballet school here, like Narumiya?”
“Originally it was more for Rei-chan.” Miyuki corrects with a pout in his low voice. “Anyway, you know Kataoka-san doesn’t play favourites.”
From what Mima said, Youichi kinda expected the ballet master to be a giant teddy bear.
Nothing prepared him for a tall, burly stern man with impeccable hair and shades – inside?? So early?? What for, really? – to look down on him for a hot minute before nodding seriously and authorising him to attend their practice at the condition he keeps mum.
The dance studio is huge, but after all there are more than twenty people reunited there.
Youichi silently takes it all in: the four rows of dance bars, dancers casually talking to each other with a leg above their heads, the walls covered in mirrors. You really cannot escape yourself here.
A breathless Narumiya barges in just as all the dancers take their spot near a dance bar, and barely has the time to throw a surprised look at Youichi that turns triumphant for whatever reason, before deeply bowing to Kataoka.
“You’ll do ten supplementary minutes of side split.” The ballet master gives his verdict.
The petulant ballerino mumbles for a second, but does not overly protest and stands beside Miyuki.
The four-eyes – or what should he call him, when he doesn’t wear glasses and instead put on a headband that allows him a clear view on all the details of his finely sculpted face. Tsk. – was right, it is a bit boring at first.
But still, Youichi monitors every exercise, and marvels at everyone’s rigour and balance, doing the same move again and again to attain perfection.
After an hour and a half, they get twenty minutes of the stretching exercises of their choice, certainly for a complement of what Youichi saw them do before the rehearsal officially started.
With a big sigh, Narumiya slips on the ground with his legs wide open.
People move the bars that were in the middle of the room out of the way to clear the space.
Youichi watches Miyuki exchange a few words with Fujiwara Takako, the star ballerina of the ballet company according to what he gathered from the impressed whispers of the secondary dancers.
Half a minute later, the male dancer makes a beeline for him. Or rather for his bag next to Youichi and the water bottle he avidly swallows.
Youichi tears his eyes from the sharp jawline put to display, and asks teasingly “Don’t need to join them?”
He expects some taunting in return, but Miyuki just brushes his lips to catch stray drops of water and answers seriously. “I mainly stretch at home, to only have minor stretches and warmups to do here. Saves me practise time in a well-equipped studio.”
Youichi hums in understanding. “What about today?”
The brunette shrugs. “It’s a collective practice, we’re expected to warm up together. And I didn’t have the heart to wake up at 3AM just to do my complete routine.”
“Miyuki, except for rehearsals, in what world would you wake up before seven to practise?” A deep, low voice almost makes them jump out of their skins.
Miyuki throws Youichi a threatening glare before casually answering his mentor “None, Kataoka-san.”
Drunk on the power he was suddenly given – namely the possibility to denounce his neighbour’s ungodly routines to his ballet master – the shorter man gleefully opens his mouth.
However, his attempt is aborted by the said ballet master. “You’re not a sixteen year old powering through injuries for the sake of a competition. You’re a professional now.” Curiously, after those grave words, Youichi does not have the heart to push through his information.
“As I have been for the past seven years, sir. Don’t worry.” The mix of sass and apologetic tone makes Youichi dread for Miyuki’s life.
Kataoka slightly frowns and answers, “Don’t tell me what to do, kid.” Except it sounds more defeatingly fond than reproachful.
Practice restarts with more exercises. By groups of three, the dancers cross the room with a mix of jumping, turning, and side steps.
From what Miyuki explained during the break, they will have a couple more individual exercises and paired up lifting before rehearsing the choreography of their incoming show.
Youichi is enthralled at the sight of how each dancer individually fills the space.
Narumiya was right to brag. He is ethereal, barely grazing the floor before flying higher in a flurry of jumps and pirouettes. His balance is out of this world, a presence and a charisma that steals everyone’s attention in the room.
Part of him wants to see Miyuki during his solo demonstration, but the part of him that has not slept for twenty three hours gets difficult to ignore.
So he drags himself on his feet and laboriously goes back to the dressing room, before falling face first on the couch.
At some point, muted noises and some rustling make him painfully flutter his eyes half-open. Youichi is engulfed in warmth and he falls back to sleep.
“... Mochi... Kuramochi...”
The annoying buzzing and pressure on his shoulder force him to begrudgingly open his eyes, to discover Miyuki’s bare face hovering over him. The dancer is wearing a weird red costume, and beads of sweat betray the hours of practice that must have passed since Youichi retreated to the dressing room.
“It’s almost two o’clock, I thought you’d be gone by now.” Miyuki idly comments, eyes more guarded than they were in the dance room. It feels like a rude awakening.
Youichi promptly sits up. “Sorry, I’ll be out of your way in a minute.” He mutters.
Did he really spend six hours on this couch? Youichi is surprised he slept so well, but after all his exhaustion was real. He distractedly takes notice of the blanket falling off his torso. He does not remember covering himself with one.
“I didn’t mean...” Miyuki sighs softly and rubs his eyes “Look, you hungry?”
He has not eaten all day, so of course his stomach grumbles extra loudly at the mere mention of its existence.
“Well, that was an answer in itself.” The dancer sneers as Youichi can feel his ears turn pink in embarrassment. “Practice is over for today, what do you think about driving us back to our building and I’ll cook you lunch, as a thank you.”
The offer is unexpected. Tempting, when he remembers how good his curry was, but suspicious all the same.
His doubts must be perceptible, because Miyuki rolls his eyes dramatically. “I swear I won’t poison you. At least, not unintentionally.”
“What d’you mean not unintentionally? You’re supposed to say not on purpose, asshole!!” Youichi exclaims, affronted.
Only the usual demonic snigger answers him.
Miyuki changes back to his usual clothes, they say goodbye to everyone and take the way home. The trip back is uneventful, if only longer because of the mid-day traffic.
It feels odd not to stop at his floor to follow his pseudo-archenemy to a place he has only been at once.
They have barely exchanged a word since they left the theatre, but Youichi would not really say the atmosphere is tense, just a tad awkward perhaps.
Miyuki lets him snoop around his flat without complaining, focused on his cooking.
Youichi silently observes the sports equipment, tests the solidity of the dance bar and peeks at the medals on the walls. He catches foreign languages and names of international cities.
But he is more interested in the photos. In seeing brats Miyuki and Narumiya, certainly no older than ten, but seriously posing side by side next to a dance bar. Years pass. Miyuki with a bespectacled man.
His eyes stop on a teenager Miyuki, looking sheepish but proud. He seems already tall and sturdy enough, but there is an unmistakable youth in his eyes. Kataoka and a young, gorgeous woman with glasses stand supportively behind the teen in ballet clothes who is holding a bouquet of flowers and a certificate. Youichi squints a little to decipher the words “Japan Grand Prix - 1st Place”.
“That’s the first time I won against Mei.” Miyuki quietly voices out from the open kitchen.
Youichi almost flinches. Apparently, the dancer has not been as disinterested in his investigations as he believed.
“I thought you went to a contemporary dance place during high school.” He comments, curious on how he could have won a prize he was not training for. The brunette throws him a surprised look, as if to ask how he got this information. “At least that’s what Mima said.” Youichi answers the silent question with a casual shrug.
“I did. But I never stopped practising ballet on the side. Contemporary helped me approach classical dance differently. It may have hindered me a little at first, but I don’t regret it at all.”
Miyuki has never stopped one day in his life, has he?
Youichi can imagine him. Hidden in the shadows, practising more than anyone, pushing his limits to the unthinkable. He gathered as much from Kataoka’s words and months of hearing train at every given occasion.
He can only hope teen-Miyuki made a friend of his age on the path he chose, someone that relieved a bit of that pressure and hid him in a comforting light instead of a shielding darkness.
Someone that was not Mei, because obviously at that time those two were rivals just as much as they were friends.
He makes his way to the table as Miyuki finishes to prepare the meal. “Today... That was something else.” He comments. And that is not out of politeness. “Think I could come back one day? I fell asleep before seeing the lifts.” Youichi adds, as if to justify himself.
In truth, he wants to see everything he can.
It’s Miyuki’s turn to throw him a suspicious glare. “You’re... Really interested? That didn’t look weird to you?”
Youichi frowns. He did not expect the confident dancer to doubt his work could be appreciated. “What looks weird?” He tilts on the side in sign of honest confusion.
“Men doing ballet.” His demeanour is back to nonchalance, and the ballerino brushes the air, a gesture Youichi’s eyes follow despite himself.
“Not at all.” He shrugs. “You guys must be crazy strong, with all the control on your body you have to display, the weight you put on your toes, and the lifts I didn’t see.”
Had Youichi not been so focused on Miyuki’s face, he might have missed the flash of surprise crossing his eyes once again. He gets a vindictive feeling of victory to apparently defy the brunette’s expectations.
Instead of replying, the taller men motions to him to take place on a chair. Youichi thanks him under his breath for the meal, and they quietly start to eat.
“Hey, Kuramochi.” Miyuki eventually clears his throat. Youichi raises his head, attentive. “You know, getting underestimated is almost part of a ballet dancer’s job. Sure, most people value discipline and artistic accomplishment, but some guys find it unmanly as hell. Especially since, instead of leading and taking control, male dancers are here to support women more often than they take the spotlight.” The brunette scratches his head, evading his eyes. He probably wants to appear collected, but to Youichi he mostly looks embarrassed. “I don’t know, I kinda thought you might have prejudices about me. That you’d be repulsed by a presumed weakness and find my work lame. But by thinking you had preconceptions, it seems I developed some against you as well.”
Youichi is stunned for a while. All this time, Miyuki believed Youichi was looking down on him?!
“Well, I thought you had prejudices about me too!” He finally exclaims, pointing at the douchebag before even finishing his mouthful. If he inadvertently spits a grain of rice in Miyuki’s plate, nobody comments on it. “I thought you were a rich guy, wary of punks, and that you saw me as someone unbefitting to be in your presence!”
It’s Miyuki’s time to sound incredulous. “A rich snob? I live in a shithole!”
“I know!” Youichi loudly agrees, getting a tad worked up. “Things didn’t add up!”
At least, his agitation pushes a light laughter out of Miyuki’s chest, one that could sound genuine. “Well, I’m no wealthy heir hiding away. I just have an understanding old man who let me pursue my passion. So, as a thank you the least I can do is to spend a third of my salary on his hospital bills.”
Youichi scans the other’s amused face. No pity is needed there. “Thus the shithole.” He understandingly states.
“Thus the shithole.” Miyuki gravely nods back, supporting the harsh sentence. “But also because I don’t feel so comfortable in the kind of fancy neighbourhood Mei or Mima live in.”
Youichi snorts at that. “You get to hang out in places like that fancy dance studio, and you still feel like a misfit?”
The dancer mischievously shrugs a shoulder, that little smirk back on his lips, a sight that does not look as annoying as it used to be. “We’re stray dogs, aren’t we?”
And he hates how strongly he feels about the statement.
Youichi ate the best tonkatsu of his life that day.
Not that he would ever admit it to the four-eyed demon.
After their talk, Youichi somehow expected to see more of the soft spoken Miyuki he encountered.
However, the truce only lasted a few hours. The next morning, his text of complaint about the noise was answered with the usual sass. Every time they cross paths the little shit spares him a taunting word and Youichi cannot help but fall back to bantering with him. But after seeing him in his everyday environment and how he interacts with his fellow dancers, he understands that is just how Miyuki is in his daily life. And now that he knows he does not act this way because he despises Youichi, it’s more acceptable.
To his surprise, Miyuki does take him up on his offer to attend another practice. Well, rather a wish than an offer. And of course the invitation is not a proper one.
It started just like any morning, being woken up too early for his own good, and the usual affronted text of grievance. Those are almost starting to sound like daily “good morning” messages.
From: evil four-eyes
If you’re up, then what about tagging along at the studio?
[received at 6.02 AM]
It takes Youichi several minutes to re-read the text and understand what Miyuki is implying. Trust him to make such an offer out of the blue, when the doorman worked just the night before.
To: evil four-eyes
I’ve only slept three hours THANK TO YOU
[sent at 6.08 AM]
From: evil four-eyes
oooh just the thought of me keeps you awake?
[received at 6.10 AM]
To: evil four-eyes
you bloody know that /not/ what I meant!!!
[sent at 6.10 AM]
And Youichi is not blushing as he vehemently texts back.
To: evil four-eyes
when r we leaving?
[sent at 6.14 AM]
From: evil four-eyes
You can sleep for another hour and a half. I’ll try to do the rest of my warmups in silence and bring you breakfast before we go
[received at 6.16 AM]
See, Miyuki could be so agreeable if he did not decide to act as the spawn of Satan ninety percent of the time!
To: evil four-eyes
deal. Don’t break your arms over there, I need my food
[sent at 6.17AM]
Youichi is woken up at 7.45 by a knock on his door and the smell of natto.
Less than an hour later, they park in front of the staff entrance again.
“Maybe I should appoint you my personal chauffeur,” Miyuki grins as he takes off his helmet, “you sure get here faster on bike than with the bus.”
Youichi rolls his eyes. “Don’t get too comfortable with that, you lazy bum. I’ve got better things to do than to drive you around.”
“Such as?” The dancer’s grin does not fade, instead it even widens as he tauntingly leans closer to Youichi. “What could you do of more importance than to dedicate all your time to my delightful company? It’s a privilege, you know, to be in the vicinity of excellence.”
“A privilege?” The shorter man’s tone is full of disgust, swatting the other’s face away from his. “If it includes hearing you be big-headed, I should be paid with more than food.”
The brunette only laughs mischievously.
Miyuki sure is in a good mood today.
The maze of corridors is less intimidating, but still confusing as they make their way to the male ballet dancers’ dressing room.
“What do you know about art, Kuramochi?” The bespectacled man suddenly asks.
Youichi frowns, not amused. The question does not sit well with him, not with the way employees of the theatre are looking at him as they pass by. They are less numerous than last time, but since everyone is also less busy, they have more time to stare at their strange duo. Whether it is because of Youichi’s biker jacket or his piercings, they must make an odd pair.
“What’s with the rhetoric crap, want me to admit I’m an uncultured swine? Insensitive to art?”
“No, it’s a real question.” The fucker seems surprised at Youichi’s defiant tone. “I should’ve just asked how much you know about ballet. Like, have you ever seen or heard The Nutcracker?”
And no, Youichi cannot say he has. “That’s some Western, elitist music shit, ain’t it?”
“Tchaikovsky’s compositions are considered classics all over the world.” The professional dancer does not seem outraged, just amused, the remark not as condescending as he expected either. He glances at his phone as they arrive at the dressing room.
“Just read the plot while I change, if you want.” He distractedly orders. “Or you can go to studio 62, Mei is already there.”
Not wanting to wait for Miyuki in front of the door like a well trained dog, Youichi walks towards the dance room they practised in last time, paying attention to the numbers engraved on the doors. It’s fairly easy to find the said studio when he catches a glimpse of gold through a window enabling to see the inside of the rooms.
Youichi knocks once and lets himself in. Narumiya is blasting some music through his headphones, and most certainly did not notice him as he conscientiously stretches. The outsider takes advantage of the opportunity to look around. This studio is far smaller than the other one, made for a handful of dancers instead of two dozen.
His eyes rest on a poster. The Nutcracker & The Mouse King. The first night is scheduled on the 7th of October, in roughly six weeks. On the poster, he can recognise Fujiwara Takako in a white tutu, and Miyuki with the red costume he saw him in last time. So that’s why he advised Youichi to search for the story.
“Morning Mochi-kun.”
Youichi shamefully starts. How could someone as boisterous as Narumiya manage to creep up on him without him noticing, it’s a question for another time. Worse, the ballerino looks awfully pleased with himself. “Didn’t expect to see you back so soon!”
“Well, here I am, with nothing better to do.” Youichi brushes it off, eager to divert the attention from his previous fright. “So, why aren’t you on the poster?”
The blonde seems a bit miffed about the rude observation, but patiently explains. “In The Nutcracker, there are three main roles for principal male dancers. Male first soloists can have those parts too when we’re not available, but I think the three of us will do most of the shows. We switch, so everyone gets the spotlight and it’s not always the same getting tired about having to perform the lead role. This time, Souichirou is the main Herr Drosselmeyer, I’m the Mouse King, and Kazuya is the Nutcracker.”
“Not jealous about that?” The green-haired man grins teasingly.
“Please, Kazuya’s gonna be a prince while I’ll be king.” Narumiya sniffs proudly “Which is in fact a quite funny role. And I’ll dance the lead part too, just a tiny bit less often.”
“To be fair, Mei has been a really good sport with me being the main lead.” Miyuki carries his trademark smirk into the room
“Kazuya! I’m not a spoiled kid!” Narumiya loudly retorts and, like a moth to a flame, focuses all his attention on his friend. “What are you working on today?” He asks as he returns to his stretches and Miyuki quickly warms up.
Youichi sits on the ground, back to the row of mirrors.
“Takako-san is coming in two hours to revise our final pas de deux, in the meantime I’ll probably work on my solo steps of the second act.” The brunette frowns as he does little practice jumps. “But I also should focus on my Herr Drosselmeyer parts, it’s been a while since I last danced that role.”
“I hoped we could practise the duel together.” Narumiya butts in.
“Sure, let’s do that this afternoon.” The other ballerino agrees easily.
“Well, solo Mouse King practice for me it is.” The blond sighs.
Done with his stretches, he goes on with bar exercises Miyuki obviously did at home in the wee hours. The brunette occupies the centre of the room with a flurry of pirouettes, testing his own balance, spinning, feet doing little sort of flutters while he is jumping. Fortunately, Narumiya connected his phone to the speakers of the room. Even if classical music is not Youichi’s cup of tea, it goes nicely with Miyuki’s moves.
“Well, I’ll let you have this studio.” The blond eventually voices out, cracking his neck.
Miyuki frowns, chest heaving after the series of jumps he just did. “There’s plenty of room.”
“You-kun is here for you,” Narumiya teases as he tilts his head in his direction, “I don’t want to distract him with my blinding performance. But, if you insist,” he dramatically sighs as he crouches next to Youichi, “I’ll monitor your practice until Kataoka passes by.”
Miyuki is still frowning at Narumiya. At long last, he addresses Youichi, “You don’t have to listen to his crap, Kuramochi. And you’re always free to go.”
He never thought he would feel so pleased to have Miyuki’s eyes on him. “I can spare you another hour or two.” He brushes off nonchalantly. “Like I said, I want to see the lifts.”
The brunette nods, and stares back at his fellow dancer, until the blond puts on another piece on his phone.
“Kazuya has danced lead parts, but it’s his first time being the main lead, you know.” Narumiya quietly whispers as the music starts. “The pressure he puts on himself is scary.” From the corner of his eyes, Youichi glances at him. Despite his concerned words, a smirk is gracing the ballerino’s lips. “But that’s why I’ve always wanted to do ballet with him. For that raw passion. For that state when he’s so focused that he becomes unpredictable and manages to surprise even me.” Narumiya snorts derisively. “Can’t believe that freak went to a contemporary programme when he’s born for this.”
At the weight put on the last word, Youichi focuses back on the other dancer.
What does Youichi know about art? He feels like he is rediscovering it all.
The sight of Miyuki dancing, truly dancing, puts him in a mesmerised state he had not anticipated.
This must be art. It has to be.
The gestures that are carefully calculated and mastered but which feel like a gust of free wind, liberating and full of emotions he cannot comprehend.
Youichi wants to cover him with charcoal. Or fill papers of charcoal-Miyuki. Either. Both.
Right this instant, as his annoying neighbour becomes a flying toy prince, Youichi does not know why he wants him, but he does. He damn does.
Unfortunately, once again he misses the lifting practice. Not because of sleep this time, but through a rather alarming text.
From: Seiichi-the-Amazing aka your best bro <3
maps/AWb3GL5VPWUb5TJV9
[sent at 10.56AM]
From: Seiichi-the-Amazing aka your best bro <3
you-chan
plz
now
[sent at 10.57AM]
The need “to change the name Umemiya set up as his contact” aside, it is very unusual for him to just send his GPS position like that without any explanation.
Blood runs cold in his veins when hundreds of scenarios rush to his mind. His friend cornered by ill-intentioned people. Or lying in a pool of blood on the ground after getting run over.
“I must go, sorry.” He excuses himself, hurriedly grabbing his bag, eyes stuck on his phone as he enters the GPS coordinates in his phone. On his way out, he brushes past Fujiwara who looks at him, startled, and almost bumps into the ballet master. What an impression he is making.
But the safety of his best friend matters a thousand times more.
So he rushes through the city, eating up the kilometres as fast as he can and going through a red light or two.
Twenty-one minutes after receiving the text, he finds himself in the outskirts of Chiyoda before a glaring clothes shop. The motor still roaring against his thighs, he calls his friend, alert eyes looking around for a tall silhouette with a ridiculous pompadour Umemiya went back to “in remembrance of his teenage years” he said.
The line connects almost immediately. “Dude, I arrived where you sent me coordinates but I think it’s wrong, where the hell are you?!” He demands.
Umemiya’s voice sounds entirely too casual for the kind of situations Youichi imagined. “Oh you’re in front of the shop? I’m at the shirt section, come in and tell me which one suits me the most! I can’t decide...”
Youichi grits his teeth and takes a deep breath. “That’s why you sent a text that sounded bloody urgent?”
“Well, it’s for a job interview so I can’t mess it up. And no-one else answered.”
That’s it. The vein on his forehead popped. “Umemiya Seiichi IMMA FUCKING KILL YOU!!”
How did it happen?
Narumiya coming to their weekly reunions is starting to be a (too) recurrent phenomenon, but now even Miyuki tags along too?
It started like any other time. Carlos was already nursing a beer in their self-appointed booth when Youichi arrived. He complained about his job, Carlos added funny anecdotes about his own work place, until Sanada and Umemiya joined them. They were laughing at Umemiya’s latest blunders when Amahisa arrived fashionably late, as usual.
Just as Youichi could feel all the invisible knots in his back and shoulders deflate and truly relax, a familiar voice tinkled from the entrance of the bar: “Carlos!”
And sure enough, there was Narumiya Mei joyfully waving his hand at them.
“Oh the diva’s here!” Sanada lazily commented. Despite the pejorative word, none of his friends looked displeased with the fact. “And who’s behind him?”
No way. Youichi almost choked at the sight of a brown mop of hair and glasses reluctantly following one enthusiastic blondie.
So here they are.
The booth was already a bit cramped for five big guys – well, at least four big guys and Youichi – in general, so seven people were a tight fit. Since they sat in order of arrival, Youichi, Sanada, and Amahisa on one side are facing Carlos, Umemiya, Narumiya and Miyuki.
It is not that Youichi wants to avoid Miyuki at all costs, but ever since he realised his feelings towards his annoying neighbour have changed, really he could have done with some Miyuki-free time. At least, being sat so far apart they do not have to interact.
For the love of him, Youichi cannot understand how Narumiya managed to drag his friend here.
Miyuki looks so uncomfortable.
Sure, he grins and easily chats with Youichi’s friends, but that snarky attitude cannot trick him. He became a little bit too acquainted with every face the brunette can make.
There is something else. There is the fact that the glances he throws at the brunette are returned. That their gazes cross more often than they exchange words. That when Miyuki is silent, Youichi can feel his eyes on him.
It’s weird. Youichi kinda likes that he does not have to fight for Miyuki’s attention.
It is so different from the times when Miyuki brings him to a dance room just to forget about his presence. It is only natural that the ballerino loses himself to his passion, he does not resent him for it. Youichi likes to watch. But he sort of likes to be seen too.
“Wait wait wait! So you’re You-chan’s noisy neighbour?” Amahisa exclaims flabbergasted, pointing at Miyuki with his dumb face.
“What, you just connected the dots only now?” Carlos snorts. “Youichi and I mentioned his name and the fact he’s friends with Mei plenty of times!”
Amahisa brushes it off. “Ehh you know my memory is bad with names.”
“Plenty of times, huh?” Miyuki smirks devilishly, talking to Youichi directly for the first time of the night.
“Well there was lots to complain about!” The shorter man defends himself.
Sanada wraps his left arm around his shoulders, and Youichi leans into him by instinct. “Forgot to mention he was your type, though.” The bastard grins, Youichi’s splutter of indignation rendered soft by his friend’s warmth. Damn him, using his weakness to physical contact to throw him a curve ball!
Before his face can even start to blush, Umemiya comes to his rescue. Kinda. “Mochi doesn’t have a type, what’s the link between a laid-back, very tall, and tanned guy and a terrifying shorty with bubblegum pink hair?”
“I didn’t have a crush on Ryou-san!!” Youichi vehemently protests, still snuggling against Sanada. Shit, he is definitely blushing anyway. “He was just a decent roommate turned good friend!”
“Laid-back, very tall, tanned guy, huh?” Of course Narumiya gets it immediately, turning towards Carlos with suspicion in his eyes.
“And we said we don’t talk about that anymore!” He stresses, trying to pay no heed to the stare boring a hole on the right side of his head.
“No way, you two?!” The blond dancer dramatically gasps. “I want to hear about it!!”
“Just a fling ages ago.” Carlos explains readily while winking at Youichi, who just rolls his eyes in front of the seductive act. When Youichi said he liked to be seen, that was not the kind of attention he was referring to.
His half-Brazilian friend rests a supportive hand on his arm and diverts the conversation to another topic. The hand stays there and Youichi soaks up the comfort it brings him.
When he finally gathers the courage to glance at Miyuki, pensive eyes meet his. Again.
Hours and alcohol flow by.
From the moment Amahisa takes shelter in the crook of Sanada’s neck, it is a clear sign it is time to head back home.
“What you’re workin’ on these days You-chan?” The aforenamed drunkard sleepily asks.
“Nothing special.” He answers with an air of indifference and takes a swallow of his beer. No way he would talk about his hobby when his new sort of muse is present.
Amahisa tilts his head further to peer at him. “Mmm no true. Why you lyin’?” He genuinely wonders. Fortunately he does not pry more than that, and concludes with a tone of finality, “Invite me over once you done with it.”
The thing with Kousei is that he possesses no filter, whether drunk or sober. It could be a lot to take sometimes, but his honesty and “no-bullshit” attitude was refreshing. Well, except when a certain brunette is concerned, and that true transparency seems to weigh tons on the baldy’s tongue.
“Working on what?” Miyuki enquires from the other side of the table.
“Mochi draws. Quite well at that!” Umemiya enthusiastically butts in, unaware of the beads of sweat forming on Youichi’s back.
“Oh really?” There is a nasty glint behind those glasses. The look of a predator who has found something to prey on.
The group of seven leaves the bar a few minutes later. Of course, Youichi and Miyuki take the same way. They walk in silence for a while, until the dancer nudges him. “You’re really a stray dog, aren’t you? Thriving on gentle pettings and attention.” He teases, mirth dancing in his orbs as Youichi spares him an annoyed glare.
A snappish retort dies on Youichi’s tongue when he catches sight of Miyuki’s hand hovering over Youichi’s back, as if wanting to test if his own touch would get the same reaction before letting his hand fall back by his side.
Which one of them drank the most? Youichi for imagining the gesture, or Miyuki for really doing it?
“Please, don’t be a dick and try to be discreet tomorrow morning, I’m gonna need some calm if I have a hangover.” He says instead.
“Mei dragged me there to prevent me from practising too early tomorrow,” the ballerino shrugs, admitting his defeat easily, “so I guess you should be good.”
“Not a bad call.” Youichi gravely praises the initiative. The blond did not do it for him, but he appreciates all the same. “So what are you gonna do if you can’t practise like a demon?”
“For once, I might go to the theatre only in the afternoon, who knows.” His tone is vague, and Youichi concludes it is the end of their conversation.
Until the brunette surprises him again. “You didn’t tell me you drew.”
“Why should I have?” The former biker bares his fangs by instinct.
Miyuki’s face is artless as he shows it to Youichi, a tone of genuineness that could almost have fooled him. “Because I showed you my art, it’s only fair that I get to comment on yours.”
“I’m not a professional who’s been dancing for half of my life!” He cannot prevent his voice from sounding defensive. “I just scribble sometimes.”
“Your friends seem to be proud of you for it.”
Tsk. “They’re useless morons, they’d be impressed about the lamest of your dishes.” The shorter man rolls his eyes.
The little shit grabs his own chest in mock offence. “My cooking is divine, they’d be right to be impressed!” He dramatically gasps.
Despite himself – he blames alcohol for it – the corner of his lips rises up. “You know what, bring me breakfast again, and I might let you see my things.”
“Making people pay to see your drawings? And you say you’re not a professional!”
The bantering is not exactly unwelcome. But, even in his tipsy state, what fascinates Youichi the most is the fact that the teasing words and subtle seeking of proximity are paired up with skittish eyes for someone who observed him from afar quite shamelessly all evening.
You see, Youichi has a theory.
“Morning, Mr. Big Shot Artist.”
Youichi groans. It is too early for this shit. “What’re you doing here? It’s barely nine o’clock.”
Still, Miyuki does not bulge from the entrance of his flat, looking far too chipper for someone who went to bed so late.
“Well, for once I’ve woken you up way later than usual, haven’t I?” The cheeky bastard points out.
“Come in, I guess.” The green-haired man gives in. As soon as Miyuki sets foot in his flat, his eyes turn inquisitive. “No peeking, food first.” Youichi chastises.
The dancer does not fight back and puts the bag he came with on his table. “I didn’t prepare a hangover kit, I’m not really familiar with heavy drinking.”
“I’m not hungover, shithead, just tired.” Youichi glares at his neighbour. He is not pretty on waking, he knows.
Their breakfast is quite pleasant, he dares state. He is starting to get used to being well-fed, even though he is not yet ready to admit food and graceful dance moves are not the only reasons he seeks Miyuki’s company anymore.
Youichi is very glad he was sober and foresighted enough yesterday night – or this early morning, really – to tidy up his bedroom where he keeps all his sketches and paintings, and to hide some pieces of ethereal silhouettes.
“That’s not what I expected.” Are Miyuki’s first words after two minutes of agonising silence, spent with acute observation on the brunette’s part. “You’re good.”
The weight on Youichi’s lungs deflates. Sue him, he still needs validation from time to time. “So you really came to make fun of me?” He accuses good-naturedly.
“To your greatest surprise, no, I didn’t. But still, I thought it’d have more street art vibes, if that makes sense.”
Maybe it does. Youichi did start with street art after all, spray-painting the walls of the towns they visited in the middle of the night.
Nowadays, the former biker just follows his urges. Sometimes, when he wants to express the rawness of what he feels, he tries abstract, contemporary painting, splotches of colours on white canvas. Sometimes he tries to faithfully inscribe his daily life in sketches.
“What do you know about art?” Youichi throws back Miyuki’s words from weeks ago with a grin.
A startling little laugh fills his bedroom. “Very little, I confess.”
The whole process of showing the most intimate aspect of his life to someone he does not really know where he stands with is not as grating as he feared.
Gently, Miyuki holds a coloured drawing of Youichi’s friends in their usual booth, the four of them depicted from his own point of view, sitting beside them. They are talking animatedly, Umemiya making big gestures, Sanada with his taunting grin, Carlos with his benevolent smirk, and Amahisa wide-eyed.
“Why didn’t it work out with Carlos?” The dancer asks like an afterthought.
Youichi’s answer is far more pondered. “We’re too similar on lots of points, and not compatible on the ones that matter.”
Miyuki only hums, eyes still glued to the drawing.
Like Carlos said, it was ages ago, but Youichi will never forget how it felt. This immediate connection with their new friend whose mind worked so much like his that he believed he would never have to utter his thoughts aloud again to be understood. They were barely twenty and Youichi was too blinded. He got caught up in the illusion of finding a soulmate, on the way Carlos unknowingly hurt him every time he did not meet his expectations, every time he did not read his mind. That is a mistake he would never make again.
He is just glad they had no problem staying friends after their brief attempt to romance.
“I think I could sell that.” His neighbour breaks his train of thoughts by pointing at one of his canvases, a very abstract one. For someone who says he knows nothing about painting, he has got enough of an eye to notice it is the one Youichi spent the most time on.
“You? Sell my things?” He frowns in astonishment.
“Of course.” Miyuki nods with all the gravity he is capable of, and carefully takes the painting between his hands to observe it from a closer angle. “Leave it to me, your face would scare rich folks away, but I can be quite convincing.”
“Ah!” He scoffs. “Rich, cultured lazy ass wouldn’t spare a cent on things from an unknown guy who’s never set foot in an art school.”
“You’re on then.” There is a challenging glint in Miyuki’s eyes that Youichi has trouble taking his from. “I bet this painting will be sold at least two hundred thousand yen by the end of the year.”
“That’s a bet I wouldn’t mind losing.” He grins back, tired of fighting against the fond feelings stirred up by this unpredictable dork.
Miyuki is an alien cog in the machinery of Youichi’s life. A repetitive, infinite loop that got disturbed by amber eyes and graceful pirouettes.
It becomes a pattern somehow. Once a week, Youichi would drive Miyuki to the theatre to watch him practise for a couple of hours with his two friends and the other ballerinas.
And almost as often, Miyuki tags along for whatever. He does not come to the bar as much as Mei, since it disturbs his sleep schedule, but sometimes he would knock on his door to make him taste a new recipe, they would run together, or he would accompany Youichi to the art shop.
They could be friends, but somehow they are not.
It is already mid-September. A little more than a month since Miyuki invited him inside his dressing room, into his world, for the first time.
Enough time for Youichi to resign from his job as a doorman, and to find another one in a garage as a mechanic. Waking up at six o’clock under Miyuki’s thumping has been kinder ever since.
Enough time for Shunpei to almost kill Kousei a dozen times.
Enough time for him to have learnt the plot of The Nutcracker by heart.
Enough time to grasp what Kataoka and the named “Rei-chan” mean to Miyuki.
Enough time for this fraud of a man-of-arts to win his bet. That tanuki knocked on his door at three in the morning, a proud grin on his lips, a cheque of 500,000 yen in his hand, and a hilarious tale of how during the yearly gala at the theatre he brought one of his patrons to his dressing room to show him a painting he was entrusted with, from a “promising young artist from Aichi, his paintings should gain value within the next months, but you didn’t hear that from me”. In the middle of bursts of laughter, Youichi grew concerned that the scheme could compromise the dancer, until the bespectacled reassured him that such a sum of money was nothing to the CEO, and that he would have forgotten all about it in a month.
Enough time to gently turn down a lovely girl that hit on him all night, drunken mind filled with amber eyes that were not even present.
Not enough time to shake the feeling of sticking out like a sore thumb every time he enters the theatre, despite receiving Kataoka’s approval and a personal invitation to the first night of the show.
Not enough time to decide what to do with the extra money Miyuki brought him. Or made him earn, rather. It could be the perfect occasion to find a better place to live in, but somehow he cannot bring himself to look for it just yet.
Not enough time to be present for a practice including lifts, when apparently it is all they do at any day of the week. Youichi is starting to think Miyuki intentionally keeps it away from him.
Not enough time to finish a drawing he is entirely pleased with of a slender figure.
Not enough time to unravel what is hidden behind the four nuances of his neighbour’s smirks. He doubts he will ever get enough time for that.
Not enough time to decide whether the nonchalant genius is so confident about his praised talent or if he is driven by the unformulated duty to carry everything on his shoulders.
Not enough time to find the courage to try to undo the sinuous knots on Miyuki’s back.
Still. Youichi’s theory gets more evidence every time Miyuki avoids his touch like a butterfly fearing to burn his wings.
Mima’s birthday is a month away, and if the guy actually wanted to celebrate it, he certainly would not want to do it with them when he has seen Youichi just a couple of times, and never even met his little band.
Still, to Narumiya it makes perfect sense to invade Youichi’s flat under the pretext that “Souichirou is turning twenty-five soon, but we can’t get drunk too close to the first show. Youichi, your place is big enough, and it’s quite central to where everyone lives. Kazuya’s sports equipment take too much space anyway”.
So, once again, he yielded to Narumiya Mei’s requests. Miyuki had raised a mocking eyebrow when he heard of it. “You’re really a spineless punk, softie.”
To be honest, the gathering is not as awkward as it could have been.
And to prove he was not someone you just push around, he demanded that Narumiya cover all the costs. Miyuki cooked some food, his friends brought alcohol and weed, so really he just had to clean and make a bit of space.
He would not say Mima is in his element, but he does not look particularly fazed by their chaotic group. Again, he never seems to be easily thrown off.
They all toasted him, which he accepted with good grace before requiring a toast in honour of the first night of their show occurring in less than two weeks.
The night is far advanced by now. All of them are in different stages of drunk – apart from Mima who looks as put together as usual – or high as far as the former bikers are concerned. The five of them huddled together to bother the ballerinos as little as possible with their smoke.
Since he does not have enough chairs, they sit on the ground, Youichi between Shunpei and Mima. On the dancer’s right, Miyuki is propped on his outstretched arms behind him, with Narumiya’s head on his laps.
They have broached every inane subject under the sun, argued at least thrice about the background music, and cut drinking games off at the first sign of nausea from Seiichi.
As usual when pot is in the mix, Youichi spends most of the evening observing everyone. He could live with that, with fondly judging his messes of friends and the quiet realisation between each drag that Miyuki looks ethereal even slouched on his living room, eyes delightfully crinkled and glassy by the lack of inhibitions.
Until that dumbass of Kousei shatters this balance. “Let’s do a truth or dare!”
They all look at him disdainfully, but it is Carlos who snorts. “Man, how high are you? That’s lame as fuck!”
Never mind, the shameless bastard still imperiously bawls, “Miyuki! Truth or dare?”
“Truth.” The word comes out instinctively. Mima stops munching his takoyaki, Youichi forgets to bring his joint to his mouth, Mei wriggles on his best friend’s laps to stare at him with wide eyes, and Miyuki himself seems dumbfounded about his own answer.
Time stops as seven pairs of eyes hang onto Kousei’s plump lips, waiting for the sentence with a buzzing mix of dread for one and impatience for the others.
“Soooo,” the bald guy finally opens his lazy mouth, dragging the syllable, “who was your first time with?”
Youichi’s fist tightens, fighting the urge to break something. Of all the questions Amahisa could have asked, he chose this one. When, for one second, he had total control over this mystery of a man, he wasted it on such a trivial enquiry.
Tension evaporates from Miyuki’s shoulders, but before he can even answer, it is Narumiya’s loud voice that booms in the room. “He was so desperate it couldn’t be me, he settled for another blondie with azure eyes. Shoulda come to the national ballet school, if such scandalous acts were going on in Seido’s dorms.” He snorts as haughtily as he can in his drunken state.
Five heads turn towards Mima who cocks an eyebrow at the sudden attention. “My eyes are grey. And we didn’t go to the same conservatory.” He replies evenly to the silent question with his bored, deep voice.
“Of course it wasn’t Souichi!” Narumiya sounds affronted on his behalf, for whatever reason. “What was his name...” He wonders aloud. “He was a kouhai, two whole years younger than Kazuya! Child abduction right there!” He points an accusing finger at the brunette from his comfortable spot on his knees, almost putting said finger in the other’s eyes if not for his glasses.
Miyuki shoves the accusatory index away from his face with a cackle, “I was underage too, and to be fair he was the one who insisted. He was quite determined, that wild kid. I think he believed he could incapacitate me and take my role in the final show.” He comments with a faraway look and a lazy grin. Youichi hates how gorgeous he looks.
“Okumura!” The blond dancer snaps his fingers in a sign of epiphany. “I remember now. That kid was so intense. I’ve never seen someone so pissed about having a crush, and God knows how many of your admirers resent being attracted to you.”
All eyes turn towards Youichi, who chokes on his joint. He is kinda glad to be on Miyuki’s blind spot, his neighbour remaining oblivious, too busy snorting at his friend’s words.
“Don’t think it was a crush, I’m still persuaded he came on to me out of spite.”
“To lose your virginity to a spiteful rival. Sounds like you.”
Seiichi’s laugh brings him back to the present time. Away from the realisation that apparently everyone seems to know how fond of the four-eyes he is. Away from imagining blond and blue crawling over the abstract existence of the teenager-Miyuki he has seen on his neighbour’s walls. “Who needs a truth or dare, when Narumiya can spill everyone’s guts!”
“As long as he doesn’t spill his stomach on my floor.” Youichi mutters loudly.
Mima goes to the toilets and the established circle is broken. Shadows and seconds stretch until they leap like mini jumps to the future. The poised bastion that shielded him is gone, and for the first time Miyuki’s hand comes to rest on Youichi’s thigh.
“Don’t touch me.” He flinches like a cat, despite all his instincts screaming at him to lean in the touch.
Doe eyes blink at him behind glasses, cute face depicting more confusion than vexation.
“What if you got tested and they’d find weed in your blood or something?!” Youichi explains clumsily, eager to avoid any misunderstanding. Touch me more often.
“You-kun, so cute.” Narumiya coos, finally off Miyuki’s laps and sitting straight all on his own.
The pretty, haunting amber eyes get rid of the confusion and crinkle in glee, the asshole is laughing at him, but who can blame him when he is gorgeous doing so. “I’m not an expert in biology, but I doubt someone can get high just by touching someone else.”
And yeah, Youichi kinda feels stupid again. But at least he makes Miyuki laugh.
“You know what, think I’m gonna clear my head outside a little.” He shakily stands up, and fortunately Mima’s return is distracting enough. They trade one seat for another and nobody follows him to the balcony.
Fresh air is, indeed, more than welcomed to shake off his dazed state a little. Things get less blurry and time regains its usual tempo. Through the partially open door, Youichi can vaguely hear the rest of them.
“Amahisa, truth or dare?” Of course it comes from Narumiya.
Narumiya who has known Miyuki for half of his life, who is aware of the things Youichi does not even know he ignores about the brunette.
“I dare you to make out with Sanada for two minutes straight!”
And Youichi has known for days, weeks even.
“Did I say dare? I meant to say truth.”
Perhaps he has known ever since Miyuki evoked his father’s hospital bills with a wistful tone that he would be greedy. That he would do anything to have a peek again through this tiny window to his neighbour’s personal life.
“Okay, so my question is: what’s your deal with Sanada anyway?”
That it was not just the amber eyes, the Greek God-like body, and the handsome face. That he wanted more, probably always had.
“You know what, let’s stop playing, you were right it’s lame.”
And maybe it is just wishful thinking, but according to Youichi’s theory, he is not the only one to feel the tension, who tries to poke, and pry, and uncover wounds and secret sources of joy alike.
But from what he gathered, even before knowing that his first discovery of intimacy was treated as an indulgence given to an underclassman, he realised that Miyuki would rather take what he is offered, whether he truly wants it or not, than to act on his desire. The only thing Miyuki allows himself to be greedy about is dance. And, to be honest, that is the main thing that prevents Youichi from making a move.
Coming back to the room, the effects of pot decreased enough to notice just how much they are all out of it. Heretical image: the fucker that occupies most of his thoughts is bloody giggling. God helps him.
“Okay, the next round of tap water is on me.” He groans, and makes it his mission to hand out glasses to everyone.
“Not very punkish of you, Kuramochi.” Miyuki comments as he wraps a hand around Youichi’s shin, peering at him from the ground, and the host of the night almost stumbles.
“You’ll thank me tomorrow, shithead!” He cries out, trying to hide his blushing ears.
Even though – or because – the contact burns his skin through the jeans, he stays standing up there like a dumbass for a whole minute until Miyuki lets go of him.
And of course some water does not miraculously sober them up, but at least Sanada understands it as a kind way to say “fuck off, out of my house”.
“Time to go home, I guess.” The tall guy stretches idly, and five other intruders imitate him.
One of them is less subtly watching Youichi cleaning around. “Need some help?”
“Miyuki,” Mima deadpans, “I think you’re the one who needs help.”
Indeed, the brunette sways precariously as he stands up. And just how much did he drink? Maybe the number of times Youichi watched him swallow should have been treated as alarm bells instead of a lame daydreaming. “What am I gonna do with you...” The host sighs as the waste of space tries to pick up empty cans. Emphasis on the word tries.
“Just put him to bed!” Narumiya shouts from the door, already dressed up to leave like the rest of them. Youichi’s friends do not bother with manners, and there is just a chorus of “See you on Tuesday!” before they are gone. Mima respectfully bids him farewell and seems to wait for his blond colleague in the hallway.
“Narumiya you fucker, why don’t you do it yourself?” Youichi shouts back, his embarrassment visible on his reddening neck.
“I think he’d rather it be you.” Narumiya grins mischievously, before his features soften. “And Youichi... Call me Mei, will you?”
Dumbfounded, Youichi watches his neighbour’s best friend leave his flat, trying to make sense of the wistful expression he saw in his eyes.
The lack of attention proves to be a mistake, it only takes half a minute to hear the distinctive noise of broken glass. When he turns around, Miyuki is sheepishly looking right back at him like a deer caught in the headlight.
Full of disbelief, Youichi shakes his head in front of the spectacle and tries to hide his fondness behind grumpy annoyance. “They were right, let’s get you to bed.”
Surprisingly, their way upstairs is not met with resistance, and Miyuki lets himself be guided without making a fuss, just nasal chuckles and teasing remarks about whether or not Youichi is strong enough to hold him up.
They stagger inside the dancer’s flat, and for the first time Youichi enters the other’s bedroom. It is not very different from the rest of the apartment, nothing utterly more personal than the trophies and pictures on the walls of the living room. Careful emptiness seems even more impenetrable in the darkness.
At the first sign of Miyuki seizing his own t-shirt to undress, Youichi hurries in the kitchen to grab a glass of water, and even allows himself to rummage through the brunette’s cupboards to find some painkillers. He blushes at the sight of an untouched bottle of lube, and flies out of the bathroom as soon as he finds the medicine.
Miyuki is lying on his bed, an arm over his eyes. Youichi puts everything on his bedside table, notices the pair of glasses is already there, and his resolve to immediately leave falters. He might have a soft spot for bare-eyed-Miyuki.
“Was it true, what Narumiya said?” Maybe it is not fair to ask when the other man is not fully conscious, and blabbers whatever seems to come to his mind.
The brunette scoffs. “About what? Eighty percent of what Mei says is bullshit.”
“About you wanting him to be your first.” He mutters softly, almost hoping that the brunette has already fallen asleep in the span of four seconds. His openness is starting to get raw.
“Of course not.” Miyuki uncovers one of his eyes from under his arm just to distinctly roll it for dramatic effects. “The guy decided at eleven years old that he’d stick to me our entire lives. I’d never have willingly wanted to embarrass myself and be at the butt of his jokes until we died.”
That is not what he wanted to hear. Not when dismissing their bond over all feels like a huge lie. Not when it is the exact nature of that said bond that he oddly got insecure about in the darkness of Miyuki’s room, after seeing an almost resigned expression on Mei’s face half an hour ago.
He only is looking for a clear confirmation that he was not risking his sanity in vain as a third player in a story of star-crossed lovers. That the adoration in Mei’s eyes and Miyuki’s indulgent smiles were a manifestation of an unshakable friendship, and not a mess of doubts and unspoken feelings.
“He’s a brother if I ever got one.” His neighbour eventually admits, and a weight lifts from his chest. “It’s pointless to want people anyway.” Miyuki distractedly mumbles, as if he heard Youichi’s thoughts about longing. “What are you gonna do with it if you even manage to get it?”
“Maybe first don’t refer to people by “it”,” Youichi states with as much sarcasm in his voice as he can muster, “and second... Just be there for them, I guess. And they’ll be there for you in return.”
The arm over his head slides, and Miyuki’s glassy pupils turn a tad sharper when they settle on him. “What about you, satisfied with your little harem?” The fucker grins.
It truly is a proof of the time they spent together that Youichi immediately understands what the other is referring to.
“That’s a feature called “friends”,” he snorts, “and I’m not the one having a whole ballet company fawning at my every move.”
“What a shame. That’s some cheetah moves you’ve got, Mochi.” The dancer slurs.
Eight months ago, he would have throttled Miyuki for calling him that. Tonight, it just makes him shiver inexplicably. Or maybe it is not the fault of the nickname at all. Maybe it rather has to do with the hungry, drunk stare that the brunette undresses him with.
“Not everyone is made for the spotlight.” He counters lightly, his throat increasingly tight.
“You think I am?” The dancer cocks an eyebrow, amused.
Youichi only shrugs in return, “You wouldn’t be where you are if you didn’t want to.”
The ardent stare turns contemplative for a moment, features marred with a frown. Miyuki is obviously turning words around a furred tongue. “We don’t know each other.” He eventually utters.
That’s not entirely true.
Youichi knows how Miyuki likes his coffee in the morning – with a surprising amount of sugar considering how faithfully he observes his diet –;Youichi knows the difference between Miyuki’s sarcasm and genuine appreciation depending on which one of his juniors he is addressing; Youichi knows that Miyuki wears his offensive plain-spokenness like self-sacrificing blanket; Youichi also knows how selfish Miyuki can get, how he would rather perform with a sprained ankle than to give in his role to anyone, and he admires his driven nature just as much as it scares him.
Miyuki knows when he is on the verge of really pissing him off; Miyuki knows his favourite dishes and inconspicuously brings some when Youichi had a bad day, even though he pretends he just cooked too much without noticing; Miyuki knows which subjects to avoid around Youichi and respects his boundaries; Miyuki knows about the cracks behind his mask.
Even though there is so much we ignore, that’s not true. We know each other.
“What do you know about what I want?” It sounds like a challenge, but Youichi detects underlying fear under the bravado.
“Nobody would know unless you say it yourself.” He gently replies, before taking a deep breath. “But hey Miyuki, call me cocky, but I’m pretty sure I know one thing you want.” He jumps in with both feet. “I think you want me. You want me really bad, but you don’t know how to ask.”
Maybe he is still high after all, filled with smoky courage. Youichi tries to not let himself be distracted by his feverish heartbeat and clammy palms, and attentively watches as a myriad of emotions cross Miyuki’s face.
Surprise, disbelief, fear, only to settle with an unreadable gravity. “I don’t want you. Specifically.” The brunette finally implacably voices out. “You’re too perceptive. You’d ruin me. You’d bring me down. You’d never leave me alone.”
Youichi struggles to make sense of it all over the blood pumping in his ears. It is a rejection, isn’t it? So why is the look in Miyuki’s eyes so fierce? You’d bring me down. And for a second Youichi realises what it would imply for Miyuki’s reputation. To be seen with a man. With a man like Youichi.
But of course, before Youichi can fully wrap his head around the words, the heartbreaker has to get even more cryptic.
“Hey Mochi...” He brings a hand to Youichi’s cheek, surprisingly gentle. “Can you distract me from disaster?” And doesn’t it sound like a plea, eyes never straying from his, filled with a form of urgency. “Can you hate on me and mask it with laughter? Can you touch me and not call me after?”
“The fuck you’re talking about?” The shorter man splutters in confused distress, “Are you asking if I’m able to, or are you asking me to do it-” But he is shut up by a hand on his nape that leans him down. Rosy lips open in front of him, back arching to come to meet him halfway. Always so graceful, body of steel turning delicate under the silent appeal.
Still. At the last second, Youichi breaks from his trance and diverts his head to delicately place his lips on the brunette’s cheek.
The lack of understanding is blatant in Miyuki’s eyes when their gazes meet, confused as to why his request for a drunk kiss was not granted.
“You’ll regret this tomorrow.” Youichi offers with a sad smile. “If you want it, do it when you’re sober.” And when he is a little less high himself. He is still not a hundred percent sure the past ten minutes are not a figment of his imagination.
Without a word, Miyuki turns on his side, his back to Youichi, and he takes it as a silent order to leave.
Sleep is hard to get. His heart is clenching painfully when he remembers Miyuki’s first words after his overconfident statement. I don’t want you. Specifically.
Youichi had been so sure, so sure all the stares, the subtle attentions had meant something. And then Miyuki states that Youichi would bring about his downfall before trying to steal a kiss.
Things just do not add up, and not just because of their intoxicated states.
The ballerino might feel conflicted but screw it. Youichi will leave him no other choice but to make up his mind.
And before he finally falls asleep, he is reminded of the fact that Miyuki does not care what people think of him.
And that the four-eyes is a terrible liar.
The next day, for the first time he does not send a complaint. He sends a good morning text. A real one, with no insult serving as pretences, with punctuation and everything.
But the day passes without a reply.
The only text he gets that is not Amahisa whining about whatever, is a nagging one from Mei.
From: Narumiya M
I leave Kazuya in your care and that’s how I get him back??? Fix this shit Kuramochi Youichi.
[received at 5.57 PM]
Youichi curses under his breath but trusts the process.
Two days crawl without thumping from upstairs in the morning, without answers to his texts and much less a glimpse at a tall silhouette.
Miyuki avoids him, this much is obvious.
To think that Youichi told him to come collect his kiss on the next day and the dude just disappeared.
If he has to admit it, he will. Miyuki and he are alike in many ways, in their humour, in their down-to-earth dispositions, in the way they deal with personal business.
However, contrary to what happened with Carlos, he is under no illusion that they understand perfectly how the other works. Youichi knows wanting to form a deeper bond with Miyuki won’t be easy and that he will have teeth to pull.
Moreover, the bastard is shameless. If he goes as far as to hide himself, it must be because he revealed more than he was ready to. Because it matters.
The bastard is scared, and Youichi is fed up. It has been only forty-eight hours and he already misses the dumbass.
He could see it unfold.
They would pitifully avoid each other for weeks, looking in the void with sad music in their ears.
Youichi would hesitate to go to the first night, not knowing if he is still allowed to but Mei – because it is glaringly obvious by now that Mei has been acting as a matchmaker for a while – would pester him and convince him Miyuki still wants him there.
Their eyes would meet during the final reverence and emotions would be too strong not to dramatically reconcile in the dressing room.
A decent plot.
Except Youichi does not need that crap.
He does not want to wait, when Miyuki somehow indicated he was interested, and he craves him now. Maybe it is all for another fling, many efforts of moving a mountain for something in passing. But maybe Youichi would not feel like he was putting his heart on the line to be broken if it was not worth something.
So after his day of work, he warns his friends he won’t come to the bar tonight, he thoroughly gets rid of the grease stains, and keeps an ear out for the minutest noise upstairs, like a creep ready to ambush his neighbour.
At six o’clock and twenty-six minutes exactly, Youichi can distinguish the sound of a key inside a lock, and for the first time he blesses the awful insulation.
He does not waste a second to march upstairs, fully intent on confronting Miyuki.
“Open up asshole, I know you’re in there!” He forcefully knocks on the door.
A whole minute passes excruciatingly slowly, until the door finally half-opens. “Hey Kuramochi, how’s it going?” Miyuki greets him nonchalantly, as if nothing was out of the ordinary.
Shit. Youichi has it really bad for his heartbeat to speed up just at the sight of the other’s face.
He forces his features to school and not to let his stupid elation show. “You tell me. I’m not the one ghosting my neighbour.” And he makes his way inside the flat. It is his turn to act like an entitled little shit.
“Didn’t know your mood depended so much on my luminous presence.” The dancer sniggers with his usual teasing tone, but it sounds fake.
“Well yeah, it kinda does.” Youichi shrugs. At least one of them has to be honest. “What are you gonna do about it?”
Apparently the brunette was not expecting that, if the way he stares dumbfounded at Youichi is any clue.“Huh.”
He fights a deep sigh down his lungs. “Miyuki, don’t lie to me and say you don’t remember anything about Saturday night. You’re too uncomfortable for that.”
The mask drops and the taller man’s posture turns defensive. “What about it? Want me to humiliate myself once more?” He bitterly asks.
“Humiliate yourself?” Youichi frowns, confused. “You’re not the one who’s been rejected as far as I know.”
Miyuki shakes his head and his eyes are colder than he ever saw them. “You said I didn’t know how to ask, but when I asked you said “no thanks” and left.”
He must be kidding him. “What the -” Youichi exclaims, brimming with indignation. “You didn’t ask! You were drunk and tried to kiss me after saying cryptic things! Not only cryptic bullshits by the way,” he accusingly points a finger at the brunette, “after saying you weren’t interested! This isn’t some Victorian literature, gimme a clear signal and don’t stray from it!” The shorter man is seething at this point. How dare Miyuki play the victim card!
The ballerino frowns in confusion, his cold demeanour melting a bit. “Wait, when did I say I wasn’t interested?”
“You literally said you didn’t want me because I am bad news, and that I could harm your image!” Okay not literally, but that’s a legit interpretation.
Miyuki looks downright offended by now. “Don’t twist my words, I never said a thing about my reputation! I meant...” And lo and behold, the dancer covers his blushing face with one of his hands, his voice dropping several octaves. “Gosh, I just meant you make me feel vulnerable. I’m not used to that. And I was right, you’re here pestering me instead of letting me do as I wish.”
“Oh.” Yeah, that’s a more logical interpretation that did not cross Youichi’s mind.
They both let themselves fall heavily on the couch, not daring to look at each other but sitting close all the same. They stay silent for a moment until Miyuki voices out, “Note to self: never talk about serious shit while drunk. Why did you bring the subject then?!”
“For the same reason you tried to kiss me! Seemed like a good idea at that time.” Youichi defensively protests. “Are we good, then?” He asks a few seconds later.
“We’re not.” The brunette gravely negates. But Youichi recognises the fake serious tone he uses before spouting bullshit. “In fact, you just went and affirmed I wanted you like some peacock, but you never said a thing about yourself.”
True enough. The green-haired man can at least rectify that. So he changes his position to face the dancer.
“Miyuki Kazuya.” He starts solemnly. “I like you a lot, even if you’re insufferable. I think that if two jerks like us got together it’d be another step towards world peace, since we’d be too busy trying to kill each other to burn the planet, and it’d spare the rest of the population from ever trying to date either of us and get their hearts broken.”
“Because we won’t ever break each other’s hearts?” Miyuki highlights with an amused smirk.
Youichi seriously shakes his head. “Neither of us have one.”
“I disagree.” The dancer snorts, before bumping his fist against Youichi’s chest. “I think there is a very mushy thing beating in there.”
“Shut up.” And instead of swatting the fist away, he keeps Miyuki’s hand between his. “What d’you think about it?”
“If it’s for the sake of the greater good, sure I’ll date you Mochi.” He mimics Youichi’s grave statement and nods in agreement.
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
And it’s so lame that he barely manages to contain himself from bursting into hysterical laughter.
His will to laugh quickly dies down when Miyuki’s free hand starts to caress his cheek though, and that he starts to melt. For such a cold-hearted bastard, he sure has warm hands.
“You’re really touch starved, ain’t you little stray dog?” The brunette laughs softly, before his tone turns breathy. “Not to sound needy, but now that we’re both sober, will you kiss me?”
Of course he does. And it is a curse he casts on himself, because the moment he gets to taste Miyuki, he knows he will become addicted to it.
Addicted to the perfect way he fits in his arms.
To the pliant way he surrenders himself so gracefully, so completely.
To the sound of his breath hitching later in the night.
To his warmth when it surrounds Youichi and leaves him overwhelmed with no hope to ever feel something so earth-shattering again.
And more than anything, addicted to having Miyuki fall asleep in his arms, spent and content.
Miyuki Kazuya is surprisingly easy to date.
Even though he is not the most demonstrative person at first sight, he indulges every sign of Youichi wanting affection, and after the first week already tries to ask some for himself.
They meet everyday in either of their flats, cook and dine, talk about their day and more if they are in the mood for it. Which happens quite a lot.
Youichi is aware that despite their slightly rocky start, getting together solves pretty much nothing, that they have not reached the hardest part yet, but he also gained the confidence that they will face it when it comes.
Of course, his friends are insufferable about this new development. Mei is probably the smuggest of them all, claiming that “he knew Kazuya had a crush before the dude realised it himself.”
After one week straight of teasing and dramatic complaining about their single statuses, Youichi eventually snapped, “Shut up, two of you’d be an item already if you had the guts to act like adults for once.” Spoiler: nobody got their shit together.
Finally, it is the seventh of October. The first night of the National Ballet’s The Nutcracker and the Mouse King.
Youichi has been banned from visiting the studio for the past week since apparently he saw too much already, and some feelings of surprise should be preserved.
He sits beside Mei’s sisters and Takako’s girlfriend, a very energetic woman called Sachiko with whom he hit it off immediately, the two of them looking far less sophisticated than the rest of the “VIP section” as Sachiko called it.
Still, Youichi wishes he looks at least a little bit the part, even if he only rented it the suit he is wearing cost him an arm and a leg. At least some of the money from the painting Miyuki sold came in handy. Speaking of which, he makes sure his portfolio is still stuck beneath his seat. He hopes Kazuya will like his present. A change from flowers.
The lights switch off, the noises die down, the curtain rises and the magic happens.
“What do you know about art, Kuramochi?”
He knows this is one of the most beautiful shows he has ever seen. After being explained the difficulty of each move, he can appreciate the sheer talent behind every step the dancers take.
Even if he knows the plot by heart, saw the dancers practise a dozen of times, nothing prepared him for this spectacle. The music, the costumes, the set, everything is carefully thought of.
Mei fills the audience with wonder as a mocking, lively villain. The fairies are enchanting. Takako as Clara leaves him speechless.
And Kazuya, the cursed nutcracker, the prince in disguise, steals his heart all over again.
“Holy shit, that’s my girlfriend!” Sachiko gasps next to him as the Sugar Plum Fairy and the Prince open the grand finale, their pas de deux about two stellar souls at long last finding peace.
And maybe a loud standing ovation is a bit unrefined for the New National Theatre, but Youichi does not even think about toning down his whoops nor his applauses, and Kazuya’s bright smile when his eyes settle on him confirms that the dancer does not care either.
It seems to take ages, but of course Miyuki has a lot of people to greet and to thank. Although Youichi is eager to have his boyfriend – the word sounds surreal even in his own head – for himself, it is hilarious how the ballerino obviously hates it all, even from afar. How he manages to fool anyone is a mystery for Youichi. But perhaps it is just another proof of how attuned to his moods he became over the past two months.
At long last, Mei starts to monopolise everyone’s attention and Kazuya subtly nods his head to make Youichi follow him out of the main hall.
The dancer leads him into the studio he trained in the first time Youichi drove him here.
“So what did you think about the lifts?” Kazuya mischievously asks as he saunters in the middle of the room. “Did it live up to your expectations?”
Yup, no doubts by now that the brunette purposely prevented him from seeing something he clamoured for.
Youichi snorts,“I bet you don’t have enough strength to carry me like that.” He declares with a challenging tone.
“I bet you don’t have a core strong enough to hold the position, and that you’d just slouch on me.” Kazuya’s grin widens.
“You’re on!” Youichi boldly claims with a matching smirk gracing his lips. He removes his jacket and rolls up his sleeves. “If you’re sooo strong I wanna do the fancy one, the one at the end when you carried Takako-san on your shoulder then in your arms.”
Kazuya cocks a doubtful eyebrow. “Oh my, a difficult one at the drop of a hat, you’re fully getting ready for a disaster.”
“It’s already our specialty, isn’t it?” And Youichi jogs towards the dancer.
And despite Kazuya’s taunting, he is very careful in catching and guiding him to do the right moves. While being far less graceful than Takako, there he is crouching on Kazuya’s right shoulder. He might let out a little cry when the dancer parts his legs to swing him in the air. The exhilaration is real, and touching the ground again feels disappointing.
“Well that’s fun,” Youichi laughs, hanging onto Kazuya to regain his balance, “but I can tell my abductor muscles are gonna be aching.” After all, he is not used to open his legs that much – no pun intended.
“We gotta work on your flexibility a little if you want to be lifted around princess style.” If his words are full of teasing, Kazuya’s embrace is tender, the kind that Youichi would gladly spend hours in. It is not everyday you can be in the arms of a prince.
The moment of silent complicity is eventually halted by Kazuya’s curiosity. “What do you have over there?” He asks as he eyes Youichi’s portfolio on the ground, next to his jacket.
Not even waiting for his answer, the brunette is already walking towards it, and the shorter man suddenly feels a bit self-conscious about his idea. “Oh, just a little something to congratulate you on your first night.” The shorter man casually downplays the importance of what he did.
“Did you finally draw me like one of your French girls?” Kazuya grins teasingly. A grin that is quickly swept off his lips when he opens the portfolio. “Oh... You did.”
It is a watercolour of Kazuya at a dance bar, an arm and a leg reaching for the sky, barely belonging to the human world.
It has been a nightmare to try to convey the perfect posture and all the emotions he feels when he sees Kazuya dance, but Youichi is quite pleased with the result and the soft watery colours.
So he holds his breath waiting for the verdict, while Kazuya apparently stays in stunned silence for a bit, before clearing his throat. “Thanks Youichi, it’s... I look handsome in this.” Youichi can feel his ears blushing, both at the use of his given name on Miyuki’s lips, and at the way his boyfriend sounds genuinely touched.
“Well, that’s how I see you.” He shrugs, trying not to look too smug.
The look in the ballerino’s eyes is softer than anything he thought he was capable of when it settles on Youichi. “I got really lucky, didn’t I?”
“That’s up for debate.” And really, Youichi is pretty sure he is the lucky one even when he pretends otherwise.
“Can I have your portfolio?” Kazuya asks, reverent eyes back on the drawing. “I’ll give it back to you later, it’s just to make sure this doesn’t get creased.”
“Of course.” The green-haired man naturally agrees, and picks up his jacket.
Finally, Kazuya takes his eyes off the paper he is carefully holding. “When you become famous, I’m gonna hit the jackpot with this unique piece.” He offers him a wide smile.
Youichi rolls his eyes. “Not planning to ever make it anything else than a hobby, you can give up on the “artist couple” ideal.”
“A pity, I’d have loved to be your muse.” The grown-up man whines, a childish trait Youichi only discovered recently.
“I don’t need to be famous for you to be my muse.” He retorts easily.
Once again, Kazuya’s eyes turn softer than they ought to be, and offers Youichi his hand to hold as they leave the room. “I suppose that’s right.”
And Youichi can already picture it. Filling entire notebooks of silhouettes of every role to come. Him, the shame of Chiba East, the thug his high school was all too happy to get rid off, the outcast beyond help, the disappointment that struggled to lighten his family’s eyes, getting acquainted with this posh world. Not really “brought to light and to the proper art of living” though, because, apart when it concerns ballets, Miyuki Kazuya is at least as much of a heathen as he is. The dancer already proved that he would rather spend his evening in pyjamas on Youichi’s couch trying to beat his Street Fighter record than to discuss art and politics with proper men of letters.
They are a different breed of stray dogs, but Youichi does mind being a mess if he is accompanied with a disaster in the shape of amber eyes and insufferable smirks.
and this is the song of our return from that place of cloud memory in the world above the world, where we hid each other under our tongues
Robert Montgomery