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a love story for the new age
(originally written for #SWAG2016)
The words echo in his head all night—"And the award for Best Director goes to... Ennoshita Chikara!"—and the award statue in his left hand is the best sort of high, better than his six glass of wine, precariously held in his right hand. He winds through the crowd in search of his producer, the first person he'd thanked in his acceptance speech, to thank her in person. It's busy at the bar after the ceremony, and Ennoshita's never been spectacular with crowds, but according to the text from his personal assistant—You're #1! Buckle up for the next level of fame lol—he'll have to get used to it.
Just as he sees his producer at the other side of a gaggle of actors, he feels a hand close around his forearm, and as he spins to look at his assailant a little bit of wine tips out the edge of his glass.
"Ennoshita, right? It's not a common name, you know," the man says.
Ennoshita looks up at him, blinking. "Do I know you?"
"Futakuchi Kenji," he says, smirking, "actor, model, ace spiker—"
"Oh!" Ennoshita says, as it clicks. Of course he remembers Futakuchi—more than anything, he remembers that one time after Inter High in their third year, when Datekou beat Karasuno and they'd spent the whole match antagonising each other to the point that they'd hooked up behind Sendai City Gym afterwards. It hadn't gone anywhere, but half the fun was the knowledge that it was a one-time deal, and the urgency and fervour that came with that. And now, like a ghost, Futakuchi's standing there in a sharp suit and the same angular haircut as he always had.
"Come on, don't tell me you didn't recognise me," Futakuchi says, a teasing lilt to his voice.
"I didn't expect to see you here, of all places," Ennoshita says, "since you're apparently an actor, but I don't think I've seen your name around."
"Makes sense," Futakuchi says, shrugging effortlessly. "I'm pretty new to acting, and I don't suppose someone who makes art movies watches soap operas. I'm more well-known in the fashion scene, actually."
Ennoshita decides not to admit that there are a few soap operas he religiously indulges in, in what free time he can find. "Maybe you should try auditioning for a movie next," he says instead.
"Is that an offer?" Futakuchi asks.
"Get your agent to call me," Ennoshita says, twirling his wine glass a bit and bringing it up to his mouth to take a sip. Actually, he's never liked wine much, but it gets him drunk fast and makes him look fancy, which is a must at events like this. And it distracts him from the look on Futakuchi's face, which is stirring up—something.
"Why don't we cut the middleman," Futakuchi suggests, "and work something out ourselves?"
"You're being awfully forward," Ennoshita says. "At least take me out to dinner first."
Futakuchi's grin falters, just for a second, but Ennoshita catches it. "Technically, I'm not allowed to," he says, his nonchalant tone hiding the sinister side to fame that no-one really talks about. "My agency dictates who I'm 'dating' at the moment. I think she's a model? We haven't really talked."
"Right," Ennoshita says.
"Anyway," Futakuchi continues, recovering the tone quickly, "this could count as dinner." He reaches across to a nearby table, covered with half-empty trays of canapés and hors d'oeuvres and other things with fancy French names—and grabs a cracker with a slide of soft cheese on it.
"You are joking, aren't you," Ennoshita says flatly.
"Are you going to take the cheese or not?" Futakuchi demands.
Ennoshita narrows his eyes at it. "It doesn't look like very good cheese. I can't even tell by sight whether it's brie or camembert."
"You're faking," Futakuchi says, "no-one can tell that. Come on, just take it."
"You're right, I can't," Ennoshita says. "I'm still not eating it, though."
"Would you prefer blue cheese?" Futakuchi asks. "Cheddar? I can arrange to have cheddar brought directly to us."
"Now you're faking," Ennoshita says.
Futakuchi aims for something like an innocent look. "Want to try me?"
And, Ennoshita's drunk on the mood and the booze, bold and buzzing with nostalgia, every movement like a rush of blood to the head, so he doesn't hold back. He finishes his wine in a gulp and puts the glass down on the table, moving his hand to the hemline of Futakuchi's blazer. "Yeah," he says, "if you're still up for, uh, cutting the middleman."
"Now who's being forward," Futakuchi says, but there's a hint of breathlessness in the way he says it that lets Ennoshita know he's won.
"You liked that ten years ago," Ennoshita says.
"They've been a long ten years," Futakuchi says. "How do you know I haven't changed?"
"Let's call it an educated guess," Ennoshita says, trailing his fingers along the hem and around to Futakuchi's back.
Futakuchi smiles sort of sadly. "You know no-one can know about this, right?"
"This room is crowded," Ennoshita says, "and no-one's looking at us. Let's leave now, and we can think about agents and publicity later."
"Did you genuinely think I'd say no?" Futakuchi says, shoving the cracker and cheese into his mouth. When he's finished eating it, he flashes Ennoshita a magazine-cover smile and grabs his arm. "Let's go."
They take the least-crowded path to the exit, turn a few corners until Ennoshita sees a sign for the restrooms, and drags Futakuchi along behind him. Thankfully, there's no-one at the urinals, and they slip unnoticed into a cubicle. Ennoshita puts his award down on the floor, just behind the toilet, as Futakuchi begins to unbutton his shirt.
"Wait," Ennoshita says, "let me."
He's not entirely certain what comes over him in that moment, but he chalks it up to the alcohol again—a convenient excuse he'll be able to use the morning after, to explain away his actions. All he knows, right know and in the thick of the moment, is that this is what he needs to do. This is his night, his moment.
He unbuttons Futakuchi's shirt slowly, working from the top down, and then moves his hands to the lapels of Futakuchi's blazer, running his fingers along the seams either side. He focuses on the silken material—probably real silk, for the price tag on Futakuchi's attitude—and the ridged brocade that forms piping along the lines of the lapels. Then, pressing his thumbs onto the piping, he drags his fingers across Futakuchi's chest and upward towards the collar. He slides his fingers behind the blazer collar but above the shirt collar and slowly, painstakingly, edges the blazer off Futakuchi's shoulders. He brings a hand out to catch it, though, and hangs it off the hook on the cubicle door.
"You're being thorough," Futakuchi comments, breath rushing warm against Ennoshita's ear.
"And so I should be," Ennoshita says. "How much did this cost you?"
Futakuchi shrugs, his white shirt slipping down his shoulders a bit. "More than you'd want to know," he says.
"I take it that means it was purchased on your behalf," Ennoshita says, "and you actually have no idea."
"What," Futakuchi says, "you expect me to be clever as well as pretty?"
"Worth a shot," Ennoshita says. "Still, I hear these fancy suits are one-use only."
Futakuchi raises an eyebrow. "How'd you figure that?"
"You get photographed at one event," Ennoshita says, "and at every event after, you're expected to look new, exciting. The camera's always on you."
"You're right, of course," Futakuchi says. "The camera can only see this suit once, but if you play your cards right you might get to see it again."
Ennoshita is more flustered than he should be. It's entry-level flirting, the sort of thing that would even have been embarrassing when they were teenagers, just starting to figure out how this all worked. Still, Ennoshita manages to keep the tone.
"I don't know," he says, "I'd rather see it off than on."
Futakuchi grins, a smile bright like a struck match. "And what about your suit?"
"What about it?" Ennoshita asks, taking the bait.
Unlike the navy and gold brocade that Futakuchi's wearing, Ennoshita's suit is plain black—his only mark of originality is his orange tie, which he insists on wearing because some things stay with you forever, like the sound of a volleyball hitting the hardwood floor, or flashes of orange against a stark black background.
Also unlike Futakuchi's suit, Ennoshita's does not stay on for long. Futakuchi isn't drunk—Ennoshita can taste the absence on his breath, and a conversation flashes across his mind, an assurance from an old friend, long forgotten, that he'd come out, honestly, only coach doesn't let them drink when it's volleyball season—only he's more desperate, more attuned to a sense of urgency that Ennoshita just isn't feeling.
They move at different paces, but stay confined by the four walls of the cubicle. Even when Futakuchi gets down on his knees and his pace slows, he still manages to make Ennoshita's mind race, and it's strange, electric—everything Ennoshita hates about the rush of his lifestyle, yet somehow, this is the only way to do it. A voice at the back of Ennoshita's mind tells him, That's because this is the only chance you'll get, and he's beginning to suspect that he's sobering up, but he pretends he's still beyond his inhibitions, because that way he can think, No, no, it'll happen again, it will—
He races to a messy finish, cries out so loud he's sure he'd be audible outside the restroom—puts it down to the excitement of the night, the moment. It all starts to feel uncomfortably real as they use up all the toilet paper in the cubicle to clean up, and as they dress themselves, standing just far apart that they aren't touching, elbows knocking against the walls.
The threat of reality very nearly spoils Ennoshita's evening as he prepares to head back out into the crowd—he has no idea how long it's been, only that he'll certainly have been missed—when Futakuchi pulls him aside, kisses him like he means it.
"We're not teenagers anymore," Futakuchi says, "so I won't ask for your number."
"You never did," Ennoshita reminds him.
Shrugging, Futakuchi says, "I'll get my agent to call your agent. See if I can't get an advance audition for whatever it is you're directing next."
"In the end, my casting department makes all the decisions," Ennoshita says. "I'll have absolutely no say in the matter."
"Surely you can put in a kind word?" Futakuchi asks. "Say I'm an old friend, or something?"
"That line never works," Ennoshita says. "Besides, we were hardly friends back then. Or is nostalgia painting everything rosy for you?"
Futakuchi laughs, even though Ennoshita's passingly aware he's being a bit harsh.
"But if you want," Ennoshita continues, apologetic, "we can meet up sometime to make up for it."
"You mentioned dinner earlier," Futakuchi says.
"Did I?" Ennoshita asks, searching the recesses of his foggy mind. "Well, I can do dinner. If you're allowed out after curfew, that is."
"Probably not," Futakuchi says. "But I think it's time I started breaking the rules a little bit."
Breaking the rules starts small—starts with the two of them walking back into the bar area together, instead of waiting, one of them holed up in the restroom for another five minutes so it's not too obvious—and it steadily becomes something bigger, more frequent, like they're making up for lost time. Breaking the rules starts with that award ceremony, with Best Director Ennoshita Chikara Leaves His Award On A Toilet Floor all over the news sites, and Futakuchi Kenji's Shock Break-Up! the next week, and a month after that, This Month's Surprising Celebrity Power Couple—and for Ennoshita, it's a better feeling than any award.
The words echo in his head all night—"And the award for Best Director goes to... Ennoshita Chikara!"—and the award statue in his left hand is the best sort of high, better than his six glass of wine, precariously held in his right hand. He winds through the crowd in search of his producer, the first person he'd thanked in his acceptance speech, to thank her in person. It's busy at the bar after the ceremony, and Ennoshita's never been spectacular with crowds, but according to the text from his personal assistant—You're #1! Buckle up for the next level of fame lol—he'll have to get used to it.
Just as he sees his producer at the other side of a gaggle of actors, he feels a hand close around his forearm, and as he spins to look at his assailant a little bit of wine tips out the edge of his glass.
"Ennoshita, right? It's not a common name, you know," the man says.
Ennoshita looks up at him, blinking. "Do I know you?"
"Futakuchi Kenji," he says, smirking, "actor, model, ace spiker—"
"Oh!" Ennoshita says, as it clicks. Of course he remembers Futakuchi—more than anything, he remembers that one time after Inter High in their third year, when Datekou beat Karasuno and they'd spent the whole match antagonising each other to the point that they'd hooked up behind Sendai City Gym afterwards. It hadn't gone anywhere, but half the fun was the knowledge that it was a one-time deal, and the urgency and fervour that came with that. And now, like a ghost, Futakuchi's standing there in a sharp suit and the same angular haircut as he always had.
"Come on, don't tell me you didn't recognise me," Futakuchi says, a teasing lilt to his voice.
"I didn't expect to see you here, of all places," Ennoshita says, "since you're apparently an actor, but I don't think I've seen your name around."
"Makes sense," Futakuchi says, shrugging effortlessly. "I'm pretty new to acting, and I don't suppose someone who makes art movies watches soap operas. I'm more well-known in the fashion scene, actually."
Ennoshita decides not to admit that there are a few soap operas he religiously indulges in, in what free time he can find. "Maybe you should try auditioning for a movie next," he says instead.
"Is that an offer?" Futakuchi asks.
"Get your agent to call me," Ennoshita says, twirling his wine glass a bit and bringing it up to his mouth to take a sip. Actually, he's never liked wine much, but it gets him drunk fast and makes him look fancy, which is a must at events like this. And it distracts him from the look on Futakuchi's face, which is stirring up—something.
"Why don't we cut the middleman," Futakuchi suggests, "and work something out ourselves?"
"You're being awfully forward," Ennoshita says. "At least take me out to dinner first."
Futakuchi's grin falters, just for a second, but Ennoshita catches it. "Technically, I'm not allowed to," he says, his nonchalant tone hiding the sinister side to fame that no-one really talks about. "My agency dictates who I'm 'dating' at the moment. I think she's a model? We haven't really talked."
"Right," Ennoshita says.
"Anyway," Futakuchi continues, recovering the tone quickly, "this could count as dinner." He reaches across to a nearby table, covered with half-empty trays of canapés and hors d'oeuvres and other things with fancy French names—and grabs a cracker with a slide of soft cheese on it.
"You are joking, aren't you," Ennoshita says flatly.
"Are you going to take the cheese or not?" Futakuchi demands.
Ennoshita narrows his eyes at it. "It doesn't look like very good cheese. I can't even tell by sight whether it's brie or camembert."
"You're faking," Futakuchi says, "no-one can tell that. Come on, just take it."
"You're right, I can't," Ennoshita says. "I'm still not eating it, though."
"Would you prefer blue cheese?" Futakuchi asks. "Cheddar? I can arrange to have cheddar brought directly to us."
"Now you're faking," Ennoshita says.
Futakuchi aims for something like an innocent look. "Want to try me?"
And, Ennoshita's drunk on the mood and the booze, bold and buzzing with nostalgia, every movement like a rush of blood to the head, so he doesn't hold back. He finishes his wine in a gulp and puts the glass down on the table, moving his hand to the hemline of Futakuchi's blazer. "Yeah," he says, "if you're still up for, uh, cutting the middleman."
"Now who's being forward," Futakuchi says, but there's a hint of breathlessness in the way he says it that lets Ennoshita know he's won.
"You liked that ten years ago," Ennoshita says.
"They've been a long ten years," Futakuchi says. "How do you know I haven't changed?"
"Let's call it an educated guess," Ennoshita says, trailing his fingers along the hem and around to Futakuchi's back.
Futakuchi smiles sort of sadly. "You know no-one can know about this, right?"
"This room is crowded," Ennoshita says, "and no-one's looking at us. Let's leave now, and we can think about agents and publicity later."
"Did you genuinely think I'd say no?" Futakuchi says, shoving the cracker and cheese into his mouth. When he's finished eating it, he flashes Ennoshita a magazine-cover smile and grabs his arm. "Let's go."
They take the least-crowded path to the exit, turn a few corners until Ennoshita sees a sign for the restrooms, and drags Futakuchi along behind him. Thankfully, there's no-one at the urinals, and they slip unnoticed into a cubicle. Ennoshita puts his award down on the floor, just behind the toilet, as Futakuchi begins to unbutton his shirt.
"Wait," Ennoshita says, "let me."
He's not entirely certain what comes over him in that moment, but he chalks it up to the alcohol again—a convenient excuse he'll be able to use the morning after, to explain away his actions. All he knows, right know and in the thick of the moment, is that this is what he needs to do. This is his night, his moment.
He unbuttons Futakuchi's shirt slowly, working from the top down, and then moves his hands to the lapels of Futakuchi's blazer, running his fingers along the seams either side. He focuses on the silken material—probably real silk, for the price tag on Futakuchi's attitude—and the ridged brocade that forms piping along the lines of the lapels. Then, pressing his thumbs onto the piping, he drags his fingers across Futakuchi's chest and upward towards the collar. He slides his fingers behind the blazer collar but above the shirt collar and slowly, painstakingly, edges the blazer off Futakuchi's shoulders. He brings a hand out to catch it, though, and hangs it off the hook on the cubicle door.
"You're being thorough," Futakuchi comments, breath rushing warm against Ennoshita's ear.
"And so I should be," Ennoshita says. "How much did this cost you?"
Futakuchi shrugs, his white shirt slipping down his shoulders a bit. "More than you'd want to know," he says.
"I take it that means it was purchased on your behalf," Ennoshita says, "and you actually have no idea."
"What," Futakuchi says, "you expect me to be clever as well as pretty?"
"Worth a shot," Ennoshita says. "Still, I hear these fancy suits are one-use only."
Futakuchi raises an eyebrow. "How'd you figure that?"
"You get photographed at one event," Ennoshita says, "and at every event after, you're expected to look new, exciting. The camera's always on you."
"You're right, of course," Futakuchi says. "The camera can only see this suit once, but if you play your cards right you might get to see it again."
Ennoshita is more flustered than he should be. It's entry-level flirting, the sort of thing that would even have been embarrassing when they were teenagers, just starting to figure out how this all worked. Still, Ennoshita manages to keep the tone.
"I don't know," he says, "I'd rather see it off than on."
Futakuchi grins, a smile bright like a struck match. "And what about your suit?"
"What about it?" Ennoshita asks, taking the bait.
Unlike the navy and gold brocade that Futakuchi's wearing, Ennoshita's suit is plain black—his only mark of originality is his orange tie, which he insists on wearing because some things stay with you forever, like the sound of a volleyball hitting the hardwood floor, or flashes of orange against a stark black background.
Also unlike Futakuchi's suit, Ennoshita's does not stay on for long. Futakuchi isn't drunk—Ennoshita can taste the absence on his breath, and a conversation flashes across his mind, an assurance from an old friend, long forgotten, that he'd come out, honestly, only coach doesn't let them drink when it's volleyball season—only he's more desperate, more attuned to a sense of urgency that Ennoshita just isn't feeling.
They move at different paces, but stay confined by the four walls of the cubicle. Even when Futakuchi gets down on his knees and his pace slows, he still manages to make Ennoshita's mind race, and it's strange, electric—everything Ennoshita hates about the rush of his lifestyle, yet somehow, this is the only way to do it. A voice at the back of Ennoshita's mind tells him, That's because this is the only chance you'll get, and he's beginning to suspect that he's sobering up, but he pretends he's still beyond his inhibitions, because that way he can think, No, no, it'll happen again, it will—
He races to a messy finish, cries out so loud he's sure he'd be audible outside the restroom—puts it down to the excitement of the night, the moment. It all starts to feel uncomfortably real as they use up all the toilet paper in the cubicle to clean up, and as they dress themselves, standing just far apart that they aren't touching, elbows knocking against the walls.
The threat of reality very nearly spoils Ennoshita's evening as he prepares to head back out into the crowd—he has no idea how long it's been, only that he'll certainly have been missed—when Futakuchi pulls him aside, kisses him like he means it.
"We're not teenagers anymore," Futakuchi says, "so I won't ask for your number."
"You never did," Ennoshita reminds him.
Shrugging, Futakuchi says, "I'll get my agent to call your agent. See if I can't get an advance audition for whatever it is you're directing next."
"In the end, my casting department makes all the decisions," Ennoshita says. "I'll have absolutely no say in the matter."
"Surely you can put in a kind word?" Futakuchi asks. "Say I'm an old friend, or something?"
"That line never works," Ennoshita says. "Besides, we were hardly friends back then. Or is nostalgia painting everything rosy for you?"
Futakuchi laughs, even though Ennoshita's passingly aware he's being a bit harsh.
"But if you want," Ennoshita continues, apologetic, "we can meet up sometime to make up for it."
"You mentioned dinner earlier," Futakuchi says.
"Did I?" Ennoshita asks, searching the recesses of his foggy mind. "Well, I can do dinner. If you're allowed out after curfew, that is."
"Probably not," Futakuchi says. "But I think it's time I started breaking the rules a little bit."
Breaking the rules starts small—starts with the two of them walking back into the bar area together, instead of waiting, one of them holed up in the restroom for another five minutes so it's not too obvious—and it steadily becomes something bigger, more frequent, like they're making up for lost time. Breaking the rules starts with that award ceremony, with Best Director Ennoshita Chikara Leaves His Award On A Toilet Floor all over the news sites, and Futakuchi Kenji's Shock Break-Up! the next week, and a month after that, This Month's Surprising Celebrity Power Couple—and for Ennoshita, it's a better feeling than any award.