When the front face of the studio comes into view, an unfamiliar feeling seeps through Giyuu's stomach. He would pass it off as déjà vu, but never before has he pulled up to this building with such apprehension.
Still facing forward, Shinobu takes her hands off the steering wheel and places them in her lap.
"Giyuu." A sugar-coated warning, hidden under her usual placating voice. "Last chance."
Last chance to back out. To pull the plug and save himself from the consequence of today.
Giyuu appreciates her for giving him the option even when it doesn't really exist.
In a perfect world, he'd have the freedom to chicken out right now. In the real world, slumped in her car outside the door of the studio he has to film for in the same afternoon, it's far too late.
He thought about it, though. So much that he dreamt of it—being on set with Sanemi again and the many ways it could go wrong—only to wake in a cold sweat and hard between his legs. But after all his doubts and all his worries, Giyuu never picked up the phone to call Uzui and tell him he couldn't go through with it. So backing out now, when everyone had already taken time out of their day to come here and set up production, would be beyond insulting.
"I can do it."
Shinobu sighs, the sound of it filling the entire car. She's been doing that a lot lately.
Finally she turns her head to look Giyuu in the eye, scanning his face, a tightness in her own that suggests she has something to say. In the end, it remains unsaid.
Kicking open the car door, Shinobu chirps, "Let's go, then," and that's that. Together they walk across the sidewalk and to the entrance of the building Giyuu's been in more times than he can count, Shinobu leading the way as Giyuu trails a step behind.
The lobby is just as spotless as he remembers. A glaring reminder that while he's stuck in limbo, the rest of the world goes on.
"Welcome back, Tomioka-san, Kochou-san." Kanata, their trusty secretary, greets them with a perfect smile. Always cordial, regardless of the situation. Giyuu doesn't know how she does it, but he wants in on her secret. "It's good to see you both again. I'm happy to inform you that we are on schedule for the shoot at three o'clock sharp. There's no rush; take your time to prepare, then head to our main production room. They are all set to begin once you and your partner are ready. Are you okay to find your room on your own?"
Giyuu nods.
"Great. I'll let Uzui-san know you've arrived. Grab me if you need anything."
With another nod from Giyuu, Kanata smiles again and lifts a hand to her mic. Shinobu takes Giyuu by the elbow and steers him into the hallway on their right, all the way down to the private dressing room he's used since they relocated here about a year ago.
There, with Giyuu's hand on the doorknob, Shinobu squeezes his elbow once before letting go.
"I'll go fill out your paperwork now, okay?" She lifts an arm to flash her phone at Giyuu. "Text if anything comes up."
"Yes, Mom," Giyuu says, letting a small smile rise to his lips when Shinobu rolls her eyes and swats at him before taking her leave.
Once she turns the corner, his smile evaporates like a drop of rainwater on sun-scorched pavement. Giyuu faces the door, twists the knob between his fingers, and pushes his way into the room.
Inside, routine takes over. It's like a trigger—seeing these walls he knows almost as well as those of his bedroom empties his mind and sends his limbs moving according to pure muscle memory.
First, prep. Giyuu takes his phone from his pocket and deposits it onto the closest table before heading to the corner of the room, near the shower, and opening a drawer to pick out everything he'll need. Then he divests himself of all clothes from the waist down, washes his hands, and completes his prep without enthusiasm.
Second, wardrobe. The only piece of clothing hanging on the rack is a pair of tight boxer briefs, fresh out of the packaging, dark gray with a black waistband to contrast the paleness of his skin. Giyuu stares for a second too long, jaw locked tight, then reaches up to ease them off the hanger. Feels his eye tick as he slides them up his legs, snapping the waistband against his skin once to test the fit. Perfect, as always. With how often he stars in Hashira's videos, it's no surprise that they have his measurements down to a tee.
In the down time, Giyuu grabs a bottle of water from the mini fridge and perches himself on the arm of the sofa, sipping at it passively as he reads the fine print of a poster decorating the wall next to him.
You don't have to do it, was the first thing Shinobu said after dropping the bomb on him that night.
Sunken into a couch in his pitch black apartment after the longest day of his life, Giyuu was in no position to make a decision. So, head pounding, he told Shinobu that he would sleep on it and let her know once he was in a better mindset.
But Giyuu had already seen the end result: he would take the job and follow through with it 'til the end, misgivings be damned.
It could boost him out of his slump, or send him so far into it he'll have to quit this business and find some other way to make a living. A double-edged sword, held up to his throat with the promise of drawing blood. Whatever the outcome, it's a risk that Giyuu has to take. He drove himself into this corner; it's about time he hauled himself out.
So, the next morning, he texted Shinobu a simple: I'll do it.
Then she sent him the script. Every word was harder to read than the last, and by the end of it Giyuu was certain that Sanemi would drop out within twenty-four hours. In fact, on the slim chance that Sanemi didn't quit, the nausea pooling in his lower belly was nearly enough to push Giyuu into withdrawing himself.
But he stayed aboard, stuck on the deck of ship he wasn't sure would float or sink when push came to shove, praying with everything he had that it would never leave port. Checked his inbox every hour for the email that would begin with We are sorry to inform you... and end with a list of alternate actors who could fill the role instead. Watched his phone obsessively, jumping every time it chimed with a message or rang with a call. Waited for that cancellation, so sure that Sanemi would turn it down.
Only he didn't.
The final contract still came through, followed by the schedule and the paperwork and everything that confirmed Sanemi had agreed to work with him again as if nothing had happened. Like Giyuu hadn't ruined whatever relationship they had, hadn't taken a sledgehammer to whatever had started to grow between them.
Day after day Giyuu waited, all the way up until the morning of the shoot arrived and he realized that no change was happening and that he really was going to film with Sanemi again.
Giyuu wanted to call him. Punch his number into his phone and call him and ask him why. He had the means, just not the spine. Nor the right, if he's being honest.
Not that it matters. Giyuu feels like he's watching his life through a screen, the events rolling past him in a motion picture with a plot he's powerless to reshape.
A knock at his door saves him from the pitfall of his thoughts.
"It's open," Giyuu calls out. He pushes himself off the sofa, screwing the cap back onto his water bottle and leaving it on the table.
The door cracks open slightly, revealing one wide green eye, before pushing forward just enough to let one Mitsuri Kanroji into the room.
And third, makeup.
"Hi!" she says, cheerful as can be, and hurries to shut the door behind her. "Ah—sorry! Hope you weren't waiting for too long!"
"Not at all."
"Oh, good!" Mitsuri perks up, but because she's always worn her emotions plain on her face, Giyuu can pick out the wobble in her smile and the uncertainty in her eyes.
He doesn't know why she's so nervous, but he doesn't ask. Just moves to sit in the chair before the vanity, business as usual, and waits for Mitsuri to walk up behind him. There, she places her hands over Giyuu's shoulders, pats twice, and beams at him through the mirror.
"This shouldn't take long at all, okay? We're going for a natural look today, since you're... Well, I guess you already know, so I won't bother you by saying it all over again."
Without waiting for a reply (not that Giyuu had one ready), Mitsuri reaches up to pin his hair away from his face. Then she gets to work, neat and efficient as per usual, using more concealer than normal to hide the dark smudges under his eyes from sleepless nights and tired days.
A few minutes in, she asks, "Are you doing okay?"
"Yeah," Giyuu lies.
Pausing, Mitsuri steps back and frowns at him, cheeks puffing with the effort. "You work too hard, you know? It's okay to say no sometimes."
"I can't say no to work right now," Giyuu answers. "I don't know if Shinobu told you, but..."
"She hasn't, actually." Mitsuri picks up her brush again and leans in close to Giyuu's face. "Tilt your chin this way."
Giyuu moves as directed, holding still as Mitsuri carefully dabs at the corner of his eye. Once she's satisfied, she lets him go, wipes the brush off, and clears her throat.
"I have heard some things from the rumor mill, but I always take that kind of stuff with a grain of salt."
Despite himself, Giyuu feels his stomach sink down into the floor. He shouldn't give a shit about gossip. And he doesn't. Never has.
Yet here he is, sitting before his vanity only minutes before he has to go out and film and wondering what kinds of stories everyone's been spinning around him.
Giyuu knows people are talking about him. As much as he tries to self-isolate and as much as he tries to deny it, he isn't a nobody. The sudden rise and plummet of his performance capability, all tied to Sanemi, is undoubtedly a hot topic in several inner circles right now.
It's far from a good feeling, but it's not like Giyuu can do anything about it. Can only stare at himself through the mirror as that hole in his stomach widens and widens and widens until it threatens to consume him whole.
"It's nothing, really!" Mitsuri says, hasty. "You know how it is—people will talk about anything. Give it a few days and they'll move onto something new."
She has a point, and Giyuu wishes he could say it erases all his anxieties, but it doesn't. Unable to look at himself for another second, Giyuu drops his gaze from his reflection down to the table, gleaming from the dozens of white lights encircling the mirror.
Itching to change the subject, Giyuu asks, "Is, um... Have you seen Shinazugawa yet?"
"Huh? Oh—Sanemi? Yeah, 'course! He got here a little before you, so I went to him first. He's all ready for you."
As Mitsuri applies the finishing touches, Giyuu gives up searching for something else to say, not that he tries very hard. She packs up, tosses the used wipes in the trash, and departs with a comforting smile and a smattering of encouragement.
Giyuu dithers around for another moment or two, fiddling with the sleeve of his robe and chewing at his lip until it's sore, before peeking at the clock and heaving a sigh. He's reached the end of the road.
Exiting the safety of his dressing room, Giyuu makes his way to the set.
With the impending dread hanging over him, it feels a little like walking onto the floor of his own execution. Past the double doors, the room swarms with motion as every member of the crew gears up to begin production. With all the bustle, it's difficult for Giyuu to discern the set, so for the time being he spares himself the trouble.
Sanemi stands only a few steps from the entrance. He doesn't look at Giyuu and Giyuu doesn't let his eyes linger for long, but just a cursory glance reveals all he needs to know.
Despite the hostility of his body language, the obvious message of don't fucking talk to me, Giyuu takes the bull by the horns and says, "Hi."
Sanemi whips his head around fast enough to suggest that the last thing he ever expected was for Giyuu to acknowledge him at all, but turns away again before Giyuu can return the look. As it is, the only response he manages is a jerky nod, but it's still more than Giyuu could've ever hoped for.
Giyuu slants his eyes to the floor. Leading up to today, he rehearsed the many ways he might communicate his true feelings and self-revelations to Sanemi, provided he finally found the guts to do so. Minutes away from showtime obviously isn't the best place to start, but that doesn't stop Giyuu from practicing in his head.
I wanted to tell you that I—
"Oh, good—gang's all here," Uzui butts in, carrying a manila folder labeled with today's date, and out of nervous habit Giyuu tugs the belt of his robe tighter around his waist.
"How we feeling? Good?" Uzui doesn't wait for them to answer, steamrolling ahead before Giyuu can open his mouth. "Okay. I want to get rolling ASAP, so I won't say much. By this point, you guys probably know what to do better than I can tell you. We aren't doing anything complicated like last time, either, and you have all the guidelines and deets you'll need to set the scene. Should be smooth sailing. Let's see here..."
Uzui thumbs through the folder in his hands, grabbing the loose pen rolling around inside and tucking it behind his ear instead. "And are we okay with the script?"
Right. The script. Just thinking about the things they will have to say and do and feel in order to meet Uzui's standards is already near overwhelming. Let alone actually putting it into effect.
"It's fine," Sanemi says, uncharacteristically calm. His voice still sounds the same, though—low, a bit gravelly. Giyuu doesn't know why he thought it might've changed in the days since their last encounter. "We're all actors here, yeah?"
With just those words, Sanemi lays down the state of their relationship in all its tarnished glory. Reaffirming what Giyuu already knew: that he had sent them right back to square one, where they were associated only through a common job, strangers who couldn't replicate physical passion without wearing an actor's mask.
Knowing the contents of the script—what the both of them will have to fake—makes it hurt even more.
Uzui lowers the folder to look between the two of them, finally cluing in on the less than friendly air around them.
"Yeah, true," he says, "but it's a little different from what we normally put out—what the industry puts out, actually—so I wanted to make sure. Looks like I have nothing to worry about."
Sanemi shrugs.
"I heard you aren't doing so hot, Giyuu," Uzui remarks, flipping a page and creasing the corner down, and inwardly Giyuu cringes. The blatant callout shouldn't surprise him, given the fact that Uzui never learned to build a filter, but it hammers home his insecurity anyway.
Sanemi remains completely still. Not even his breathing is fazed.
Inexplicably, the lack of a reaction disturbs Giyuu more. He almost wants to see Sanemi's face, if only to gain a better understanding of what he might be thinking. Giyuu's own head swirls with a legion of questions he wants to ask, the most important of which run along the lines of why Sanemi is here right now and why he seems so okay with this.
At the uncomfortably long silence, Uzui looks up from his notes, catches Giyuu's horrified expression, and immediately throws his hands up in an attempt at reassurance.
"Hey, don't worry, man! We'll get you back on your feet. Promise."
Giyuu doubts that's a promise Uzui can keep, but he just keeps his mouth shut and smiles through the pain.
"Just relax and enjoy the ride! We've all got your back. Alright, enough chitchat." Uzui snaps the folder shut, looks over his shoulder, and waves a hand to shoo them away. "Go join everyone else by the set. We're starting in a few minutes."
Then, maneuvering around them to move onto the next task, he leaves them to their own devices. With no choice but to comply, Giyuu heads deeper into the room. Sanemi does the same, but peels away from him to approach the set in a different direction. Giyuu doesn't look up to see how far he goes.
The bed they used the last time they were here together is sequestered away in the far corner, a sheet flung over it haphazardly enough for Giyuu to identify it by the exposed frame.
After going through the script and the accompanying brief of the scene, Giyuu spent a considerable amount of time imagining and reimagining what the set might look like.
Never could he have imagined this.
This time, they aren't fucking on a bed. On the floor lies a futon, large enough for two, piled high with fluffy white pillows on one end and covered with a thin duvet more for decoration than anything. A few feet away stands a heavy wooden coffee table, mahogany brown, a vase of deep red roses placed in the center of its polished surface. To the left: a brick fireplace with a digital screen embedded inside, one that flickers with flames detailed enough to pass for real in the background.
For the same purpose, clusters of LED candles sit atop the coffee table, by the futon, and around the fireplace. As obsessed as Uzui is with realism, the props are a precaution they have to take when filming this type of activity, where the wrong placement of an arm or a leg could mean burning the entire building down.
Fake or not, the candles don't detract from the atmosphere at all. And if Giyuu focuses hard enough, he can detect a distinctly sweet scent permeating the room—perfume that won't translate across the camera, but spritzed in the air anyway just to set the mood further than should've been possible.
Just then, the ceiling lights shut off, leaving the center of the room bathed in tints of soft red and gold and every color that lies in the spectrum between. This, combined with the gentle dance of the fire and the wavering candles, paints a scene right out of Giyuu's worst nightmares and his highest dreams.
It's cozy. Warm. Welcoming. Picture-perfect romance, a complete antithesis to their current situation.
Uzui has always been praised for going the extra mile. With props, setting, tech, action—everything. Now, it's proving to be the bane of Giyuu's existence.
His foreboding grows, billowing upward in an exponential curve. Giyuu tries desperately to slam the brakes and stop the uphill climb, only for it to run away from him until it morphs into a silent devil that brews above him in a stormy mass of heightened nerves and a premonition of imminent disaster.
Love—that's what the both of them will have to fake.
Uzui was right when he said this is different from what Giyuu's used to. Because what he's used to is rough, messy, nasty sex—fucking, manhandling, vulgar dirty talk—a tactic that works to get off the vast majority of their viewers. Acting out lust is rather simple, especially if you find your co-star attractive.
Love, on the other hand, is a different story. There's always a certain level of intimacy that comes with sex, even when it's with a complete stranger during a porn shoot, but Giyuu has never done anything to this extent. While he can see why this type of content might be appealing, Giyuu doesn't know how he's going to pull it off.
His mounting panic is stalled by the sudden appearance of a voice at his side.
"Do you like the lights."
"Um, I—what?"
Iguro rolls his eyes, tapping his foot impatiently against the floor. "I said. Do you like the lights."
Giyuu looks at the set, washed in smooth honey, then back at Iguro. "Oh. Yeah? They're... Um. Pretty."
"Oh my g—I can't do this. Forget about it." Iguro starts to turn away, only to catch sight of something that makes him halt. "I mean—uh, yeah."
Puzzled, Giyuu lifts his eyes to the opposite side of the room, peering through the darkness. There, he finds Mitsuri watching them intently and nodding along to Iguro's very forced words.
"Did Mitsuri ask you to talk to me?"
"No."
"Okay. Well..." Giyuu doesn't believe him, but he gives him the benefit of the doubt anyway. The thought of Mitsuri cajoling Iguro into trying to cheer him up and Iguro choosing to do so by asking him about the lights is incredibly amusing.
It almost works. Almost.
"Look, Tomioka, just." Iguro pauses, face warping like it physically pains him to speak to Giyuu. "Whatever. Good luck. Okay? That's it. That's all I have to say."
"Okay. Thanks."
Iguro's eye twitches. He reaches up to adjust his face wrap, then abruptly spins on his heel to walk away. Giyuu just blinks after him, still mildly confused.
"O-kay!" At the boom of Uzui's voice, Giyuu goes stiff as a whip. "Cameras ready? Move the—yeah, there we go. We ready? Well, doesn't matter. Actors, let's get in position."
As soon as the set clears, Giyuu unknots his robe, shrugs it off his shoulders, and deposits it into the waiting arms of an attendant. He doesn't give himself the chance to shiver before walking to the right side of the futon and slipping under the duvet, turned away from the middle. Lying on his side like this, Giyuu can only tell when Sanemi joins him by the rustle of the sheets as he shuffles to find a comfortable position.
"Looks great, guys. Remember: keep it slow, love is in the air, yada yada. Let's make this a flamboyant one."
Giyuu closes his eyes. Behind him, he hears Sanemi take one long breath in.
"Lock it up! Roll camera. Roll sound."
"Rolling."
"Action!"
With his eyes closed, Giyuu picks up on every brush of fabric, the resounding beat of his heart, each breath exhaled out of his nose. In his head, he counts the seconds as they go by. Some drag on longer than they should and some leap ahead of the others, but around twenty-six is when Sanemi starts to move.
Giyuu fights to keep his face relaxed and his breathing steady, maintaining the illusion of sleep around him like the blanket draped over his body. When Sanemi touches him, palm settling over his waist, the chill of his skin comes as a surprise. In a reflex reaction, Giyuu's stomach tenses, and immediately Sanemi freezes. His hand stays where it is, though, and once Giyuu relaxes it continues on, fingertips just brushing the waistband of his underwear. For a second Giyuu thinks he might dip farther down, but Sanemi just leaves his hand stationary at his hip and shifts in close enough for Giyuu to feel the heat of his body, slow enough to let him prepare for the first kiss to the bare skin of his shoulder. Just the slightest skim of his lips, a point of contact Giyuu might've missed if he weren't anticipating it.
The next one lands stronger, a little lower than the one before, and following this pattern Sanemi works his way down Giyuu's body. He draws the duvet down as he goes: skating feather light kisses along Giyuu's skin as he uncovers it inch by torturous inch. Giyuu knows Sanemi's just sticking to script—how boring would it be to watch them fuck under the covers—but he still has to resist the impulse to fidget, ignoring the goosebumps that rise over his skin.
When Sanemi reaches the small of his back, Giyuu makes a low noise and shifts further onto his stomach, playing it off as a natural movement in sleep. In reality, it's to give Sanemi more room to undress him. Not that there's much to undress, but.
Hooking his fingers past the hem of Giyuu's briefs, Sanemi eases them down his thighs, past his knees, off his feet. Lays another kiss to the swell of his ass, open enough for Giyuu to feel the wet of his tongue.
Giyuu forces himself to loosen the grip of his fingers around the corner of the pillowcase. He isn't even doing anything. This is okay. He can ride it out, no problem. It doesn't even feel that bad.
Actually—it isn't bad at all. It—it's better than Giyuu was expecting. Already a thousand times better than the scenes he had in the weeks before this, but beyond a superficial level Giyuu wonders if that's really something he should be celebrating.
Then Sanemi parts his cheeks, leaning in close, and Giyuu barely suppresses a shudder at the warm puff of his breath over his hole.
The most difficult part, hands down, is staying still. Every drag of Sanemi's tongue has Giyuu swallowing down a moan, wrestling with the urge to rock his hips back. Sometimes Sanemi seals his mouth over his hole and sucks, a fleeting pressure that nearly pries the sound right out of Giyuu's throat, then pulls back to lave over it with his tongue before it becomes too much.
Finally Giyuu stirs more decisively, mimicking the motions of waking up. Eyes open, he lifts his head from the pillow to blink down at the place where Sanemi's eating him out. In response, Sanemi presses even closer, pushing the tip of his tongue through the loosened muscle of his rim, and Giyuu drops his head back down with a weak moan.
"Awake?" Sanemi murmurs, and kisses him again.
"Mmmhm." Blindly, Giyuu reaches down to tangle his fingers into Sanemi's hair. Not to push or pull, but just to feel. "Fuck..."
It's good. Surprisingly so. Giyuu doesn't even have to touch himself; he's already hard, straining up towards his belly and pooling precome over the mattress. Sanemi might have a filthy mouth, but fuck does he know how to use it. Works it slow and easy, licking Giyuu open in long, lazy strokes, every now and then grazing his teeth around the edges to make Giyuu's hips jump.
With one last flick of his tongue, Sanemi climbs back up the length of his body, laying down another trail of kisses to mark his path and ending with his mouth at the back of Giyuu's ear.
"Morning," Sanemi says, rasping a little for that morning-after effect. He must've ditched his own underwear at some point, because when he drapes an arm over Giyuu's waist and pulls him into his chest, Giyuu doesn't register a barrier between his ass and the hard line of his cock.
It takes a moment for Giyuu to remember his line. "I think it's... afternoon already."
Sanemi laughs into the crook of his neck. The sound tweaks at something inside his chest.
"Good fucking afternoon, then."
Blood pounding in his ears, Giyuu starts to push back into the ridge of Sanemi's dick until it slots into the space between his ass cheeks, glancing over his hole every time Sanemi grinds into him. Giyuu bites his lip, angles himself just right, and the head of Sanemi's cock just barely sinks past his rim and into the tight clasp of his body.
Giyuu stutters out a moan, trying to roll down on it, but Sanemi backs away with another short laugh. He keeps Giyuu from squirming with the grip he's got over his waist, pinning him down to the mattress in a way that makes him gasp out.
"Last night wasn't enough for you?"
Giyuu shakes his head no. "Mmn. Always want you," he says. Spoken as a whisper, but not as a lie.
"I know you do." Also a whisper, but this time it sounds like a lie.
Of course Sanemi wouldn't believe him.
Next to them, the fire crackles. Briefly, Giyuu wonders why he can't feel the warmth of it on his face, before he remembers that it's virtual. Fake.
"Bet you don't even need my fingers," Sanemi continues, back to normal, and Giyuu feels the tension in his shoulders unlock just a little.
Dirty talk he can do.
"Probably not," he sighs, letting one of his hands wander down to find Sanemi's, palm hovering above his knuckles. Sanemi doesn't pull away, but he doesn't lace their fingers together either. "Could just fuck me. Now."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," Giyuu echoes. "C'mon."
The mattress dips as Sanemi reaches under it for the lube stashed below. Held in suspense, Giyuu listens to the pop of the cap, the wet noise of him slicking himself up, the muted thud of the bottle landing somewhere off to the side.
When Sanemi returns, body aligned with Giyuu's, he abandons the teasing. Wasting no time, he spreads Giyuu open with one hand and lines himself up with the other.
Then Sanemi's pressing into him—slow, soft, smooth as silk. So gentle that Giyuu wants to turn his face into the pillow and cry.
It feels—it feels—
"Please," Giyuu gasps, once Sanemi's all the way in and groaning low into the nape of his neck. He doesn't know what he's begging for—if he wants Sanemi to stop, to move, to fuck him or listen to him or understand that he wants to take it all back, rewind back to the day he said what they did was a mistake when the only real mistake was letting it slip away from him.
For better access, Sanemi hooks Giyuu's knee over his arm and hitches it higher. Slides even deeper inside, as deep as he can go, familiar in the worst way possible. It's been more than a month since the last time he had Sanemi inside him like this, and yet his body knows the feel of him like it really was only last night that they fucked. Giyuu bends to it, caves into the pleasure, fostering the fire he thought he'd put out forever.
Sanemi fucks him slow—so slow that in any other circumstance Giyuu would tell him to speed up. Here, dictated by a script, he has to bite his tongue and take it and try not to think about what's to come.
"God—fuck, feel so good around me, baby." Sanemi's fingers tighten around the back of his knee. "So good. 'm so—fucking—lucky to have you."
Giyuu whimpers, unbidden. Desperate for what he can't have, he pushes his hips back, driven by something entirely beyond his control.
He can't hate it. Not when it's Sanemi.
It's so sick. So twisted. Because, in a way, this is what he wanted. For Sanemi to touch him again, to hold him and kiss him and tell him he was lucky to have him. To say it back.
It's almost like they're acting out an alternate universe, a world where Giyuu had no reason to leave after they spent the night together. Where he stayed in Sanemi's bed and Sanemi woke him up just like this, affection in his touch and warmth in his smile. A do-over.
Giyuu wonders if Sanemi's thinking the same thing. If he is, then this must be insufferable.
Because to Sanemi, Giyuu is still the man who baited him into sex and fled like a coward the very next morning. With a bitterness he wears around him like a sleeve, Giyuu wonders what tricks Sanemi's using to stay hard right now. Why he's still holding Giyuu like something precious. How he mustered the will to sign the contract and show up to film even after reading the script.
He's crazy about you.
Sabito's words strike him upside the head, launched out of nowhere, and Giyuu's heart wrenches.
Even now? Even after everything?
Has to be, or he would've given up.
Sanemi pushes up into him, lips hot against the edge of his jaw. Stays there, pressed in deep, Giyuu's thigh twitching against his forearm. Holds them there, second to agonizing second, before pulling back, back until Giyuu's left clenching around the tip. Then he eases inside again, down to the base, a friction that has Giyuu panting against his pillow. It's so slow. A pace that barely laps at the pleasure centered below his stomach but builds it up nonetheless, an excruciating crescendo that Giyuu can only watch from afar.
You're not too far from where he is.
Sabito was right. He isn't far from Sanemi at all. They're in the same place, feeling the same things but divided by miscommunication and the hurdle of a past that Giyuu had finally cleared. Trapped in their own minds, peering out at the other, drowning in wordless decay.
With a cue telling him to move on, Sanemi pauses, lowers Giyuu's leg, and turns him onto his back as gently as he did everything else. Giyuu closes his eyes before he can see the truth behind those sweet nothings, if only to preserve the illusion for just a moment longer.
And, like most good things, it's snatched away from him as soon as he starts to treasure it.
"Hey—Giyuu? Could you open your eyes for the camera?"
Giyuu has no choice. He opens his eyes, and he stares right up at Sanemi.
And instead of the affection and the warmth that he had imagined, all Giyuu can see is coldness. Coldness lined in confusion, sad and empty and distant.
Because everything they're doing is just as fake as everything else around them—the fake fire, the fake candles, the fake sweetness of the perfume and the fake words stemming from a fake love that could have been but never was.
Not one bit of it is real.
But it feels real—so very real. Hauntingly, frighteningly real.
Giyuu walked into this scene with the fear that they couldn't imitate something as intimate as love. Now, in the throes of it, he's afraid they might pull it off too well. Against all the odds, the latter seems worse.
When they first filmed together, under this very same ceiling, Giyuu was the one perpetuating a fantasy and Sanemi the one striving to crack through. And now, in this role reversal, Sanemi wore the facade and Giyuu wished the lie they were enacting was real.
The frustration in knowing that he wants Sanemi and Sanemi wants him and they had somehow ended up here, the backwardness of it all, the despair, the displacement, the pain and regret and guilt and all the things that inevitably follow—it bears down on him, mingling and meshing into one great torrent that slept dormant within the pocket of his soul until he looked into Sanemi's face, searching through the windows of his eyes like sifting through sand in an impossible dig for diamonds. And instead of a diamond he found rust instead, jagged old shards that once shone bright as silver but now reeked of missed opportunities and his own faults, the tragic ending that he himself had lodged into the chamber where their hearts crossed.
Sprawled there, holding that rusted husk of an infant love between his fingers as delicately as he would a bird with a broken wing and wondering why he couldn't just polish it anew, that torrent of emotion finally broke free. Tore through the tissue paper of his composure, coursed down into his veins and clambered up the blockage of his throat, beating at him again, and again, and again, and he—
He sobs.
He sobs, loud and clear, the miserable sound of it breaking the air apart and flaying him by the tongue. Giyuu immediately clamps both hands over his mouth, finding a wetness under his palms that wasn't there before, but the damage is done.
Several people stand at once, someone tells the cameras to cut, and seconds later all the lights snap on. Sanemi pulls out of him fast enough to hurt, but Giyuu can hardly feel it, mental anguish crowding out the rest of his physical senses.
With arms that don't feel like his, Giyuu pushes himself up and to the very edge of the futon. Voices swell up around them, most directed at Giyuu, but the only one he hears is Sanemi's.
Giyuu, he says, the first time he's spoken to Giyuu today outside of the script. Just his name and the fervid want to say more. Bleak, hopeless, a plea that falls flat because there was no platform to dock on. A fishing line cast into vacant waters, deadened and dull and deprived of all life. Extending a hand when the person you're trying to save has already fallen to the bottom of the abyss.
And because his worst enemy has always been his own mind, Giyuu can't help but remember the last time Sanemi said his name like that—confused and vulnerable on the morning he wrecked it all, asking for something that Giyuu couldn't give him.
But that was then. Now, Giyuu would give him whatever he asked for. Anything.
It's fitting that in the one moment Giyuu wants to answer him, to turn around and face Sanemi with an open mind and an open heart, he can't. He's headed for a breakdown that was a long time coming, and looking at Sanemi will only expedite the process.
Giyuu moves his hands up from his mouth to cover the entirety of his face.
"I need a minute," he mutters. "Then I'll—I can keep going."
No conviction in his words, Giyuu tells himself to breathe through the combined weight of every eye in the room fixed on him, crushing, burning, until he wants to curl into himself.
And can't take it. He covers his body with the robe that was set down next to him the moment he sat up and he leaves. Through the double doors, down the hall, around the corner, down another hall, counting each passing room to identify his own because his vision is too blurry to read the nameplates. Once he finds it, Giyuu fumbles for the door handle, pushes his way inside, locks himself in, and sinks down to the ground.
There, sitting in front of the door and facing the expanse of his ridiculously glamorous dressing room with his knees drawn up to his chest, Giyuu lets it all out.
They're dry, heaving sobs, ones that wrack his body down to the rails of his bones and the crescents of his nails. Choking, rotting, dissolving the air inside his lungs whenever he tries to inhale. Every one hurts more than the last, but Giyuu lets it out, keeping his hands sealed over his open mouth to muffle the noise in case someone happens to walk past.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
"Fuck—"
He just cried on set. In the middle of sex. In front of Uzui Tengen and his entire crew. In front of Sanemi.
The enormous pressure of living up to expectations, the burden of putting up a fantasy he wanted to live but was miles away from his grasp, the heartbreak of witnessing the gap between what they were acting out and what actually existed between them—just one of those would've broken him. Together, they tear him down to the very last thread woven into the making of his person.
Giyuu clutches at his chest, balling the loose fabric of the robe into his fist. He's shivering like he's cold, but when he puts the back of his hand to his forehead it burns like a fever.
He wasn't made out of steel, no. Just a conglomerate of sorry hopes and dreams plated in cheap aluminum, a layer scratched away like paint off the wall. Not a machine, immune to crashing under stress and shame and love.
Just human. A human heart wrapped in a human body, flesh that bruised as easy as a peach.
For seconds or minutes or hours, Giyuu leans into the cold panel of the door, relearning the normal pace of his breath and how to feel in his own skin.
"Giyuu?" Shinobu's voice rings through a few inches above his head, followed by two light knocks.
Giyuu wipes at his face viciously, sucking in a brittle breath that rattles at his ribcage.
"Yeah, I'm—I'll be right out. Give me a sec."
"No, you are not." She speaks firmly, resolute, leaving no room for argument. "Don't even think about it. I already told Uzui to pack it up."
"But—"
"You're in no condition to continue. I'm making the decision, so don't feel like you're troubling anyone."
Giyuu swallows. Tugs at the cuff of his robe.
"If it were up to me, I'd cancel the whole thing," Shinobu huffs. Giyuu would protest, but his mouth feels like lead. "But I know how you are, so we won't do that, okay? Uzui agreed to reschedule. We'll talk details later. For now, get yourself cleaned up. We're leaving, and then we're going to figure this out."
Giyuu doesn't hear any footsteps, but he can sense when her presence disappears. Watching the clock, Giyuu waits for the minute hand to tick past the zero before climbing back to his feet.
They never filmed the money shot, but Giyuu takes a quick shower anyway just for the sake of completing a routine. He dries himself off a bit too harsh, scrubbing the towel over his skin until it starts to redden. Once he's dressed, Giyuu puts everything back where it belongs, makes sure his phone is in his pocket, and heads out the door.
Someone is waiting for him outside and it isn't Shinobu.
It's Sanemi, back against the wall, arms crossed tight over his chest, head cast down, hair falling over his forehead to conceal his eyes but not the flat curve of his mouth.
At the sight of him, Giyuu stops dead in his tracks.
The door, of course, doesn't do the same. It closes with an audible click, announcing his presence to Sanemi, who raises his head at the sound.
He looks... tired. Not angry, or spiteful, or blaming. Just tired, and maybe a little defeated.
Giyuu hates that he's the reason behind it.
"Don't freak out," Sanemi says, and Giyuu quickly checks his expression. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
If he hadn't already gotten everything out of his system, Giyuu thinks he might've sobbed again.
God, he didn't deserve him. Sanemi, who stood in front of him, who chose to come to his room and wait for him and ask if he was okay after all the shit that Giyuu put him through because he cared. Cared too much and, just like Giyuu, couldn't let go of what they shared even when it had already gone to spoils.
Who, for all he knew, thought Giyuu had cried like that because he hated it so much.
But he was still here.
"Yeah," Giyuu finally breathes out, "I'm fine. Thanks for—"
Sanemi nods, curt, and pushes himself off the wall to start walking away. Giyuu should've let him walk away. And if nothing had changed, he would have let him walk away.
But things had changed. Everything. So much so that the thought of Sanemi walking away now and possibly never coming back scares Giyuu more than the uncertainty of the future they'd have together.
Did I lose it? was what he asked Sabito, and Sabito told him it wasn't for him to say.
Because it was for Giyuu to decide.
Time after time, he made the wrong choices for the wrong reasons. Paranoid over one failed love and using it as an excuse to shut people out, Giyuu dressed himself in exhausted locks and bolts to protect himself and only succeeded in shackling himself to the ground without any possibility of the second chance he needed to heal.
He wants a future. With Sanemi. There are so many places it could end in flames and more reasons why it wouldn't work out, but he wants to try. If Sanemi will have him, if he finds a way to forgive him, Giyuu wants to try. To replant the flower where he tore it out by the roots and nourish it with the soil and the water and the sun he had starved it of for so long.
Sanemi makes it halfway down the hall when Giyuu finds his voice.
"Sanemi," he says, unsteady and unsure, catching on the 'a' and skipping on the 'e' but still strong enough to cross the distance between them. Like a newborn deer in its struggle to stand upright does he speak his venture into existence, still foreign to the tongue, chasing strength and a chance to survive.
And Sanemi hears him—clumsy articulation and all—and stops. In silence, he gives Giyuu the opening he thought he'd already lost, and the glimmer of hope that follows is what gives him the push to keep going.
"I'm sorry," Giyuu says, because he is. Sorry for hurting the one person who trusted him enough to let him in when all he did was run away, sorry for dragging Sanemi into problems that weren't his, sorry for saying all this much, much too late. But he can't apologize for everything standing in a narrow hallway where anyone could interfere.
"Can we go somewhere to talk?"
Nudged out of the standstill, Giyuu waits for his answer with a heart that beats calmer than it has in months.
Without turning around, Sanemi says, "Yeah."
Word count- 7776