Fried Chicken & Fumbling

His hair fell over his eyes, heavy with moisture from his shower. Drops of now-chilled water dripped on his chest where it lay bare between the folds of Koga's robe.

Leave.

He felt anger start to uncoil desperate and heavy in his gut.

"I'm trying," he repeated, his teeth clenched around the words this time.

Koga's hand fell to a fist at his side, then latched onto another stupid pot to put away. Shit in place my ass, Sho thought.

"Look at me," he growled. Koga ignored him, starting to stuff groceries into random cabinets. Noodles went on top of ceramic plates; onions balanced inside mugs.

"I'm not leaving."

"Like hell you aren't, Sho," Koga responded, finally turning to confront him. "Get out."

Sho stalked into the kitchen and grabbed Koga by the collar, pushing him against the counter. Koga sneered at him, his hands still by his side.

This was not how this scene was supposed to go.

"AHHH!" Sho roared in frustration, slamming Koga's back into the counter. He turned and fled the kitchen, his mind empty except for a white-hot mix of rage and sadness. He ripped off his robe as he entered the guest bedroom, throwing it back into the living room to land in a heap and pull on the discarded leather pants and shirt from the photo shoot.

Koga called out to him as he crossed the living room. "I said you could borrow clothes, twat."

"As if I want to smell your stench all night," Sho grumbled, refusing to look at the actor as he unlocked the apartment door and fled down the hall.

Sho felt himself starting to harden in place staring at the closing elevator doors. He'd apologized to Kyoko for him. He'd had an entire MV re-written for him. He'd picked him up drunk at a GAY BAR. He'd tried to help him snare a boyfriend, for Chrissake. He'd gone f'ing grocery shopping for him! How much was he supposed to lay down of himself?

The doors opened. Sho walked. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to keep warm against the cold night and dumpster fire of a day.

Every "friend" he'd had - all two of them, he scoffed at himself, kicking at debris on the sidewalk - ended this way. Yelling curses at him. Calling him selfish. Stupid. A child.

"I'm f*ing Fuwa Sho," he demanded of the empty sidewalk. He threw his arms out, staring up at the sky. "No one can stop me. I made this - I came from f*ing nothing, stupid country inn, and I made this life." Sho reached up toward the sky, his head thrown back. "No one can touch me," he roared.

A businessman jerked awake with a snort from the bus stop ledge next to him, startling him. The man rubbed bleary bloodshot eyes and looked around, confused. Sho grimaced and walked on before the man recognized him. Not that the man would recognize many people in that condition.

"Fuwa Sho..." he repeated, his voice trailing off. He was cold. He heard the click of a lighter behind him. The drunk was leaned back on the seat, smoking a fresh cigarette and staring at the sky. He reached his hand up for the stars, his fingers twisting aimlessly as the smoke curled higher than their tips.

Alone. Wasted. Staring at the cold stars.

Sho saw himself.

No.

He'd overcome the crush of Tokyo anonymity. He'd forced his way into the music world. To the top. He'd held the top for weeks now - breaking record after record. He'd smashed every pretender and competitor that arose.

He wasn't about to let a single actor with a fridge full of strawberry pudding stop his rise.

"F* the stars," he called out to the businessman. "Make your own path."

The man said nothing, just tipped the ash off the end of his cigarette.

Sho shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away.

Shoko was also strangely silent, opening the door to her place without any questions. At least that was going in his favor. He knew he didn't have great answers. He walked into her bathroom to take another shower and wash off the scent of the other man's shampoo.

Two days passed. Showers and wanderings and sleep.

"Write your damn song," the actor had thrown at him. Sho chewed on the end of his pen. Still just inane scribbles. He had never been stuck like this before. Even against the Beagles he'd found his way. Sho smirked; no matter what crap was happening that stupid band name always cheered him up. He spun around off the chair and went to order more food and beer. He'd find the song. He had to.

Another day passed. Sho's greatest discovery was a new fried chicken place. The notepad remained empty.

Shoko handed him a CD case the next day.

"What's this crap?" he said, pouting at the lack of concern she'd showed him during his slump.

"Well, it's not your usual crappy porn," she said.

"I don't watch porn."

"Mhmmm. Anyways, thought this might do to help inspire you." Shoko poked him on his shoulder. "She's always worked before."

Sho looked at her suspiciously. "She?"

"Kyoko-chan."

Sho grimaced and tossed the disk onto the couch next to him.

"Watch the music video, Sho." Shoko stood and gathered her things. "Or I'll call Poochi to come tend to you."

"I can write fine," Sho yelled, feeling anger rising again.

"Mhmmm," Shoko hummed again. "That's why I've thrown away four notebooks full of angry tornado-spirals. Not a single legible word in any of them." She paused. "Even if you think it won't help, you should still watch it. You did an excellent job."

Sho ran his fingers through his hair. His work on that music video had nothing to do with his own talent. Yet again, that girl had pulled a performance out of him beyond expectations.

"I refuse to do another video with her," he said quietly.

"Kyoko-chan?"

Sho nodded. Shoko shook her head, confused. "But the sales for Prisoner were excellent, and your chemistry on set for Chocolate was beyond even that. It's going to be another huge hit."

"She's a crutch," he said simply. "I don't need crutches."

Shoko studied him, then nodded briskly and turned to leave.

Sho fingered the CD case, staring at the TV.

"I don't need crutches," he repeated to the empty apartment. He stood and slid the disc into the player, turning off the lights before he sat down on the floor in front of the screen.

The video played without prompting, a pre-release just for the cast and agents. He heard his voice an octave deeper than in previous releases, pushing his limits to capture the right ache and tension he'd wanted in the song.

Kyoko's kimono was luridly bright against the pale sand, her movements full of power as she spun and kicked. Sho rubbed his chin, watching her closely. With his lyrics overlaying her martial dance, each glimpse of skin beneath the swirling fabric demanded notice. She'd changed in their year apart.

He straightened subconsciously as he watched himself walk on-screen. The white kimono was off-putting at first; opposite of his typical attire. Looked like some friggin angel samurai. But his stride was powerful, and he snagged the attention away from Kyoko. Sho rolled his shoulders to release tension, proud of on-screen Sho.

Their combat-dance started just as the chorus broke through. Sho could feel the tension building; lyrics of lust and illicit touches drawn over the rhythmic beat echoed in each grip and punch on set. He bit his lip to keep from humming the words, his fingers tapping out the rhythm on his knee.

She struck him— he dodged, cut back, tripped her— the film slowed motion and camera zoomed in on their faces as Sho leaned down, his fingers gently clasping her neck, her lips open, waiting; his own eyes darkened with need as he drew her to him.

Sho swallowed hard, his finger rubbing the fast forward button. He wanted to skip it. Skip over the proof — proof of what, only he knew. But he found himself transfixed watching his face show desperate longing for another person.

Had he seen that face?

Sho hit pause.

All the times he'd let his guard down around Koga in ways he'd never even considered for another person. All the times he'd let it all shift; let the very fabric of who he thought he was be pulled apart by those slender fingers

How much more could he change for Koga before he lost himself? Sho stared at himself on screen.

Someone else could draw that out of him without demanding his world. This was an aberration. A mistake. He'd find someone else that wanted him as he was.

Childish. Stupid. Selfish.

Sho cursed and hit play, seeking refuge in the success of the MV. The music crescendoed as the action paused, then shifted to more subtle shots— their sparring from above; the waves crashing, a close-up of their lips nearly touching.

The final scene showed Kyoko walking away from him into the waves, her hair undone and flying in the wind, his back turned from her.

She'd walked away in real life, too; hadn't she. The words she'd flung at him in fury slammed into his mind.

You took me to Tokyo because it was convenient. But for me you were everything!

We were once friends, Sho.

Their figures on screen were frozen, separated; her character standing in the waves and his on shore. He had a sudden awful feeling that she would know exactly how he felt. That she would know exactly what he should do. His stomach clenched.

She's always worked before.

He lay back on the floor, staring at the ceiling. His hand drew his phone out of his pocket and pushed #2 speed dial.

A/N: Ah, Shotaro WE GONNA BREAK YOU. Ahem. Hope you're having as much fun with our two couples as I am! Question is - who is #1 and who is #2 speed dial for Sho?

Thanks as always for reading and for your reviews! I'm about a week away from having a baby, can you believe it?! I shall blame any angst on pregnancy hormones. And any lapses in updating on L&D XD

Persie loves you!