Can You Believe It, Karen?
Shoko's brows knit as she thumbed through the pile of stationary he'd plopped in her lap that next morning. She rubbed her temple, dragging her hand around to rest over her lips as she read. Her eyes flashed up to him, something like concern in their depths.
"Not your usual style," she said in a too-soft voice. Sho forced his hand to stay by his side as she examined him. Had he done the eyeliner right? He wanted to style his hair back again; he'd gotten used to it up and out of his face, but the side swept bang covered one of his eyes fully. He needed to hide the marks somehow, and 4 a.m. desperation had led him to a corner store and an attempt at a gothic style. He could link it to the new songs, lyrics full of dark dreams and aching without resolution.
"Undead," he said simply. She frowned at him in silent question. "The album title."
"Dramatic…" Her word trailed off. He could tell she was debating whether to push farther. He knew the lyrics and score were golden. She wouldn't push too hard. The material was guaranteed to be a hit, and she never saw past his first layer. She wouldn't see.
Couldn't let her see.
Sho turned, shifting the collar on his floor-sweeping bruise-colored jacket to sit more fully over the darkest mark. His eyes in the waist-high mirror were heavy and red from too many nights of not enough sleep. He fidgeted with one of the heavy buckles crisscrossing his torso. Hands trembled at the memory of being trapped, held by cloudy chains tighter than the buckles - he shook his head, trying to free the memory of shame.
The outfit was a deliberate message to Reino. Sho's eyes were firm as he fastened the buckle tighter, glistening with determination. He could trap his body. He could abuse it, mark it, etch it and not be stopped.
But Fuwa Sho would use it. He was an artist. He would draw from the pain and throw it into words, bringing the heat of life and need to the darkness.
Reino could try and burn him down. He'd take it all and burn down the world.
Papers shuffled behind him. He caught Shoko's eye in the mirror, her appraisal now confident and bright. She'd been watching him, measuring, and had not found him wanting.
Top layer.
"Slower- make it feel like a heartbeat," Sho threw over his shoulder, guiding the drummer. The studio had a whole band in for today's takes of vocals and music. It was a one-and-done run through, building each song's layers in a matter of two or three practice runs and a final take. The end goal was gritty, raw music with the visceral feeling of live performances. It was risky, and a style of recording usually only done by bands that had toured together for years.
He pulled the studio mic in close, nodding at the sound team. He raised his hand, fingers poised like a gun. A trigger pull and the bass-line started, throbbing like an incoming storm. Two measures, eight beats. First words - spoken hoarsely, unleashing the reel of guitar.
"Let's burn it down."
Whisky sloshed against glass as he sat and watched Shoko. She was ebullient, her hands both waving freely, phone capriciously clasped between neck and shoulder while she gushed.
"Nearly half- can you believe it? No, no retakes needed. It was magic. The emotion- yes, yes, let's do the late night show. No, morning show, not for Sho. Too cranky. The emotion! It's going to be great- live on TV, perfect. Ok, 11 p.m. Wednesday. And Thursday? Got it. No, we film that weekend. MV. He's always released with one. We could, sure. I'll ask. Ok- bye."
Her eyes glittered as she grabbed the phone from her shoulder, sliding it into her bag to scribble notes in her calendar book. The phone buzzed again; she winked at him and picked it up. He sipped his drink slowly, wanting to prolong the burn.
He didn't care to listen to her prattle anymore. She'd tell him where he needed to be and when. Someone else would decide what he'd wear, how he'd look, what songs he'd sing. He wanted to try one of those cosmo drinks, it looked fruity.
On second thought, best stay away from strawberry-colored drinks.
Sho slung the rest of the whisky down his throat, hissing as the spicy scent filled his nostrils from the inside. "Burns," he whispered to himself. Shoko looked over the table at him and mouthed some words.
Our Wicked Lady
He licked his lips. Great song title. Waited til she hung up to shrug his lack of comprehension.
"Rooftop concert, Friday night. Brooklyn music scene! Sho, this is going to be-"
"Rooftop?" He sneered. "Seats, what, 150?"
She tapped her pen on the calendar book.
"You want me to sing to a crowd the size of a loser's class reunion when I've sold out entire arenas back home?" He sat back in the booth angrily, his face twisted. This was not why he'd come halfway across the world.
Arguably, neither was singing to sold-out arenas, but she didn't need to know that.
"175. Of the top label reps, talent scouts and paparazzi."
He looked at her skeptically.
"And some models," she concluded, her hands opening in surrender.
"At least 20. None taller than me."
"Done," she said, smiling. She thought she'd won. He rolled the empty glass between his hands.
The bartender loomed suddenly tall next to their table, his dark hair shading his eyes, the artsy-fartsy blue fringe tucked behind his ear. He placed a crimson drink in front of Sho, waiting to collect the empty glass still pinned between suddenly sweaty palms.
"What's this," Sho intoned.
"Half Blood Prince," the man said, listing out its contents professionally. "Bourbon, pomegranate juice, maple syrup, lemon juice."
"No," Sho paused, only his eyes betraying his unease as they darted around the room, looking for their mark. "I didn't order it."
The bartender shrugged. "Ticket came through for your table." He gestured at the glass. "Tab's paid."
Sho swore under his breath. He shoved the cocktail over to Shoko.
"I'm going home."
"Wait," Shoko said, reaching out to snag his coat sleeve. "Is there something you want to talk about?"
Sho frowned at her, his face masked with disdain.
She sighed. "I know it's different. New York is a lot to take in. I can set up a more casual get-together— invite some other musicians and artists from our part of the world?" She tilted her head, her smile inviting. "Get some favorite foods catered to celebrate the wrap of the album."
He wrinkled his nose at her, his voice laced with sarcasm as he slid out of the booth. "Gee, thanks mom."
Her hand tapped his lightly, drawing his gaze back to her in time to see her raised eyebrows and cross glare. He sighed dramatically.
"Make sure there's strawberry pudding."
Shoko held the blood red drink up to him in cheers. Her face crinkled with distaste after the first sip. "I'm so not a bourbon girl," she said, pushing the drink away.
—
Shoko sparkled as she made the rounds, pointing her guests to the drinks stuffed in ice barrels at the corners of the room, asking after new releases and tour dates, drawing one after the other to come and "chat" with him. The latest still held the high ground on the stool next to him, a K-Pop starlet with bleach and pink hair. She kept talking about a collab she'd pulled with Jackson Wang. Sho kept wanting to say "Jackson Wank" but he didn't think she'd find it funny.
He didn't really either. He eyed the pudding pile slantwise. She'd taken him at his word. There were probably 500 cups there. If she'd been Kyoko she would've known he didn't actually mean he wanted pudding there. No way he was eating a cup of pink pudding in front of this crowd.
Berry boy.
Sho gritted his teeth, nodding mindlessly at the starlet. Shoko was making her way over with another "new friend." God, he was tired. If this is what Kyoko meant when she told him he should make some friends, he wanted none of it. What he wanted was to go back to his hotel room and watch old dating shows and mock the contestants. With his pile of pudding. And some pillows. Maybe a couple hundred beers.
"Moping, I see." The voice was quiet but ran like ice through his veins. Don't react. Don't run. Sho gripped his own wrist, punching his fingers into the space between the bones, feeling his pulse twitch beneath the pressure.
Jackson Wang Girl leaned around him. "Ooh, is that good? It's such a weird snack for a party, I wasn't gonna go for it, but—"
"Want to try?" The long-handled spoon slid into Sho's peripheral vision, reaching out toward the girl's mouth. Her smile crumpled, then shot back with less brightness and more pressure.
"No— ah, I think I'll just go get my own," she said, sliding off the chair with a bounce.
Reino stepped around to fill her space, leaning to whisper in Sho's ear just as Shoko arrived, boy band in tow. "More for us." He held the spoon out to Sho, eyebrows raised in question over darkly shining purple irises. Sho grimaced, drawing a laugh out of Reino as he licked the spoon clean himself.
"Sho-kun, these are the Arashi brothers, they're recording with—oh, Reino-san, hello!"
Reino smiled wolfishly around his spoon. "Shoko-san."
Sho pushed off his stool, grabbing Shoko's elbow to pull her in close. "A word, manager," he said.
Shoko's grin was fake, but her voice held steady as she waved at the Arashis and Reino. "Excuse us."
The balcony door caught, grinding open with a jarring squeal that drew most faces towards them as he shoved his manager out into the small moonlit space.
"What the f, Shoko?"
She threw her hands out in dismay. "Rude!"
He cut her off. "Reino! The Beagle! Do you not remember what he did to Kyoko? And you still—"
"Of course I remember, I'm not an idiot." She shook her finger at him. Dammit, she really was acting like his mom. What did he ever find attractive in her? "I also remember the effect he had on you."
Sho swallowed his retort. "What?"
The balcony door slid open again, the noise like teeth grinding.
"She means you spent one week with me and rose to legendary status on the Billboard charts," Reino said, pudding cup discarded.
Sho scoffed. "No one asked—"
Reino held his hand up, patting the air. "Let me start with an apology. I was bored. My friends wanted to make music. I didn't— so we compromised. Stealing your music was far more fun." His grin was all teeth. He turned to Shoko, his hands raised in mock surrender. "I'm not in music anymore. I've found far more interesting pursuits."
The way he drew out the word interesting made Sho's skin crawl. He felt like he was a science experiment, slowly being dissected under a microscope. Reino shifted his stance, resting his hand on the balcony next to Sho's, close enough for him to feel the heat radiating off skin.
"It's a big city, though," he said, his voice tinted with longing. "And it gets lonesome." Sho felt his skin start to burn. He wanted to rip his hand away and run but he refused to be the first to flinch in this game of chicken. Reino turned his head to Shoko. "Thank you for thinking of me."
Sho made mock gagging sounds, evoking a stern look from Shoko.
"Of course," she said. She pointed at Sho. "Behave." With a smile at her vexsome charge she was gone, back to curry favor with the room full of Jackson Wankers.
"Drink?" Reino offered, turning to face Sho, his skin glowing alabaster white in the moonlight. When Sho didn't respond, he shrugged. "So much for trying to be friends." He yawned theatrically, waving loosely at Sho. "Interesting style. Making a statement for someone?"
Sho bit back a string of foul words. He felt sick, his emotions careening wildly from anger to fear to rage to shame. He gripped the railing tightly, wanting to rip it out of the ground as if by doing so he could somehow rip the shame out of himself. He suddenly hated his outfit, his hair, his need to do anything for this prick.
Beagle. He's a shitty dog. A faker. The litany ran through his mind over and over. He gave up, not me. He ran, not me. Beagle. Beagle. Beagle.
"You're a joke." The words came out more bitter than he'd hoped. "Beagle."
Reino smirked. "Reminiscing," he said simply. He leaned back against the railing, eyes on the stars, perfectly at ease. "I don't mind the name she gave us."
Sho rolled his eyes. He put on his best sneer and turned to face Reino, balling his hands into fists.
"Listen. I don't know what you get off on, but you need to back the F off."
"Or…?" Reino lolled his head to the side, unconvinced.
"Kyoko won't come for me," Sho spat the words at him. "She couldn't care less."
Reino hummed. He spun his fingers, tracing constellations as he spoke. "There's a tie that binds two people in love. Yours may be twisted and fractured, but when I show her just how broken you can be she won't have a choice except to come save you."
"I don't love Kyoko!"
"Oh I know…" Reino dropped his hands, folding them together to peer at Sho over steepled fingers. "But not all love is erotic. You've yet to learn that."
"Hah!" The laugh was sharp like daggers as it flew out of Sho's mouth. "You, teaching me about love! Hah!" He spun, shoving off the railing hard enough to make it rattle. The blasted balcony door erupted open with enough noise to rally an army, hushing the small crowd packed inside.
Sho leered, bowing ironically at his audience. "Fuwa Sho, exit stage right," he pronounced, wheeling to stalk out the door.
He walked for the exit as quickly as possible. He hadn't touched him. He made it. He freaking made it! Hands clenched and unclenches in excitement at his sides, his eyes alight with determination. He was going to get the tour signed and sealed and get the hell out of this city. But first—
The couch beckoned him, cushy and empty and pointed straight the tv. He cracked open a beer and collapsed, wincing with annoyance at the stray buckle digging into his side. Shirt flew off as quickly as a belt-laced shirt could, landing with a jangle on the floor in front of the tv. Sho sighed victoriously, stretching languidly as he turned on the tv and flipped looking for the most inane show possible.
A laugh escaped him, the tv on some random infomercial Americans seemed drawn to. He hadn't touched him. Sho sipped his beer. It all seemed so far away. A dream. He swirled the liquid inside the bottle, watching it more than the spunky ladies advertising laundry detergent.
And all that is ten dollars off, can you believe it Karen? But wait, there's more—
Maybe it had been a dream. He'd woken up alone. Some twisted projection from everything he was dealing with. He sipped his beer, swishing it around his mouth, testing the sensations before he downed the bottle and grabbed a second off the table.
Removes even the darkest wine stains from your last party!
He hadn't touched him. Sho's skin prickled. His phone buzzed with a new message, the text short enough to show on the preview as he automatically glanced over.
—I won't let them fade.
Sho's hand went clammy, palm slick on the bottle. A second message alert. A photo. He darted his hand out to swipe up, suddenly desperate to see it and know.
I can't believe my eyes, Debbie— do you see this? It's just like new!
It was him. Hands splayed limp above his head, lips open in unconscious abandon. Neck and torso covered in a leper's bruises eating away the space between, turning flesh the color of his eyes.
He flung himself off the couch, consumed with a need to see. To measure how long he had left.
The mirror laughed at him, lurid purple marks lightening to brown and green. Sho roared, punching at his reflection, shattering the mirror. He pulled back bloody knuckles, adrenaline dancing through his veins as Karen bleated enthusiastically into the dim room.
And at that price we're practically giving it away— act now or you're going to miss out!
A/N: Hey-o I'm on tumblr for no good reason! I'll post spoilers sometimes as I scribble, so if that's your thing come join me! persephonejinmi
ALSO TODAY WAS NUTS IN MOM LIFE LAND so if you had a crazy day too - I feel you! We did it! We made it! If you need a cocktail with me... here's Reino's recipe ;-)
1/4 cup pomegranate juice
1 1/2 ounces bourbon
1/2 ounce raspberry liquor (Chambord)
juice from 1/2 a lemon
1 teaspoon pure maple syrup, more or less to taste
pomegranate arils, for serving
