A/N: A question for readers that would really help me: do you find the pace of this story on the slower side and think it should be sped up or do you find it adequate? Because I do realize that this is the fifth chapter and Atobe and Ryoma haven't really interacted yet.
--
Momoshiro called five times before Ryoma finally picked up.
"Why aren't you here at the tennis courts?" Momoshiro's voice was demanding and hurt. "I've been waiting for thirty minutes. Can you imagine that? I've been standing next to an empty tennis court for the past thirty minutes and I haven't even started playing yet, what's wrong with—"
"I can't play tennis," and he uneasily added, "my agent says so."
"You have an agent? That's like, amazing, since when? Why didn't you tell me? They maybe could have signed me up, too!"
"Acting agent, not sports agent." Ryoma waited for the silence that would come from the other end of the phone.
"What? Echizen, what's the matter?"
"Nothing's the matter. I've just been forbidden to go near a tennis court for the next month or so."
"The next month?" Momoshiro counted on his fingers. "That's like, thirty-one days. Or more. Isn't this a violation of your rights?"
"You think I don't know that?"
"Why the hell not?"
"How am I supposed to know?"
"And you're just going to let him tell what to do?"
"Of course not," insisted Ryoma.
"Then why aren't you here, God dammit, you little—"
"There's a guy outside my apartment."
Ryoma heard Momoshiro suck in his breath. "What the—"
"Yeah. There's a guy outside my apartment. He looks like some cross between a bouncer and a thug. Or maybe he's both. If I squint a little, I might be able to read what his tattoos say."
"Tattoos," repeated Momoshiro.
"Pretty much, yeah. Tattoos."
"How do you know he's for you?"
"I tried going outside a couple of times, but he was always there and—look, I don't want to break an arm. What if I have to get surgery and a cast? And then it's no tennis for three months." It did not occur to him at the time that breaking his arm might also mean a release from the studio; his health reserved solely for tennis was clearly more important.
"Go around the back," he suggested. "Climb out the window or something. Just get yourself over here."
"I did. He was waiting for me. And then he cracked his knuckles."
Momoshiro gulped. "Did he have a lot of tattoos?"
"I lost track after twenty. And some are hidden by others."
"Twenty? Echizen, why are they doing this?"
"Probably to make a point. I'll wait until nine and see if he's here then. If he isn't, I'll meet you at the University's indoor court."
"What the hell, what the hell," he said.
Four hours, Ryoma called Momoshiro. "Forget it. The guy's still there."
"Does he ever sleep?"
"At some point, maybe. He's brought in ten more people now. They're currently beating up some poor slob. Oh, look at that. His teeth are gone."
"Well, fuck."
Ryoma vehemently agreed with him. And somewhere in a nightclub with a brunette on his lap, Oshitari was laughing.
A rumor floated into the stills department, through to the cinematography unit, past the photography studio, and onto the writers' floor: Yukimura had been admitted into the hospital once again. The reason had yet to be released, but since Yukimura's constant hospital visits and checkups were almost a routine by now, most of the employees under his control were not particularly worried.
"I bet he's getting surgery again," Kirihara Akaya sighed to another writer, Shiraishi; "and I bet he's going to stay ill for another two months, and I bet that this means Sanada's going to take over. Again. I might as well take a sick leave. My life is over."
"I don't think Sanada is quite as bad you make him seem," Shiraishi said.
Kirihara stared at him until Shiraishi began to feel otherwise. "You don't know him," he groaned. "You don't know how dictatorial he gets when he's annoyed. And you don't know how anal he is because he wants everything, and he wants everything his way. And everything has to be one hundred percent perfect because ninety-nine percent isn't good enough. I should know. I went to school with him. And now that I work for him, it's even worse. He is evil."
"That would imply he isn't much older than you," Shiraishi logically pointed out. "You know, your going to school with him and all."
"Your point being?"
"He's already the executive producer, second only to Yukimura, his Holiness. It's quite an achievement." He did not add, "While you're only a screenwriter."
Kirihara pouted just the same. "It's 'cause he knows Yukimura. If I knew Yukimura, I'd be an executive producer, too. Only, I don't even want to be a producer in the first place."
"Then what do you want to be? How did you ever end up here?"
"I started out as a short story writer," said Kirihara. "Then I got forced into writing the gossip stories because my stories didn't sell even though the critics loved it. I hate the critics sometimes. Ever heard of Spy Magazine?"
"No."
"Well, I was their top reporter, if that means anything. And I got so sick of it that I ended up here. And what am I writing? A script called Romeo and Julio." He slapped his forehead. "But after this is over, I'm going to Sanada and I'm going to tell him—to his face—oh, yes, I'm going to—that I'm sick of his treatment of me; he treats me like he treats all the other screenwriters. I'm a real writer. I've published before, and that makes me different from all the struggling ones that just want to get noticed. So this isn't fair. It's wrong, it's degrading, it's inhumane, and I'm not about to stoop over just to write mediocre scripts starring talentless idols like Atobe. Or talentless nobodies."
"I hear this Echizen is supposed to have talent. Potential, it's called."
"Anyone can have potential. Even I do, for God's sake! So do you, and any other person on the street. What does that mean?"
"At least you're not on the streets."
"That's not the point," he cried. "The point is that I'm being mistreated and I'm going to complain to better my situation. This is why we have unions. This is why we can go on strikes and fight for our rights. Which, at this moment in time, is virtually nonexistent." He had worked himself up quite well. Shiraishi was very much impressed.
"Either way, he still controls your contract. If there's no contract, there's no job, no bank account, no food, no roof over your head," Shiraishi sighed. "Perhaps this is no royalty treatment, but I'd warrant that an empty stomach is rather horrible, too."
Kirihara, unable to sustain his argument, returned his attention to brooding. Shiraishi went to get coffee.
Atobe was angry. He returned to his private trailer on the lot and proceeded to pour himself a drink. A visit to the exec office had informed him of Yukimura's latest hospitalization, which meant that Sanada would be at his side. Which meant a junior producer would be taking over for today, and today, Atobe did want to deal with Yanagi. It was annoying to deal with Yanagi for several reasons, but Atobe was too upset at the moment to direct that anger at someone who was not Yukimura.
Yukimura would have listened to Atobe's woes, offered him tea and baked cookies, and then he would have told him very gently that he would do all he could to help him. And then he would toss out Atobe's request out the window and that would be the end of the matter; Atobe would appeal and the same process would start all over again; but there was that hope every time he went to his office. Yukimura was notorious for his treatment of all the big stars under his payroll, and he knew very well how to deal with that self-centered prima donna called Atobe Keigo.
But Sanada did not. Sanada listened to half of his concerns before cutting him off and sending him back out without even a cup of tea; once, he had even threatened him with suspension—suspension?—to Atobe?—which was, of course, inconceivable. Sanada was utterly unflappable and unbending to his stars' needs; he was even sometimes unintentionally cruel because he did not want to go over the budget or film past the deadlines.
He was strict in trying to achieve his goals, and he was not about to white-glove everything simply for people like Atobe who had already been born with a silver spoon in his mouth.
So it was inevitable that Sanada be at once feared and revered, but it did not help his popularity. Yukimura, on the other hand, had been diagnosed with a rare disease, and rumor had it that he would not live past his fortieth birthday. No one knew how old he was.
Atobe did not want to imagine life after Yukimura. It was a given that Sanada would succeed him, and although Sanada was almost a better leader—he was ruthless when it came to business: there was no such thing as a compromise—, a better producer, Yukimura was simply more likable. That was the difference, and that was why Yukimura was pitied and why people empathized with him and went to his pictures: because they knew that he was going to pass on soon and then the Era of Sanada would sweep in and movies would begin to carry a military feeling to them. Yukimura specialized in frothy romantic comedies and all-star musicals (Let's Dance Until the Music Ends!); Sanada strayed towards the boiling crime melodramas and the theme of deep human suffering (O, How They Were All Forsaken).
The anger was beginning to reside. It was an anger that Atobe was used to. It had caused severe enough problems for him when he was just starting out, but he was beginning to accept the fact that it would always be with him and he learning how to live with it. The psychiatrists and medication were superficial attempts at remedying the problem. Still, it was to the point where only certain issues could bring out the anger when he would have to be restrained and forced into the infirmary where a senile nurse offered him water and a colorful tray of medicine.
This, too, Atobe had gotten used to. So it became part of his routine, and he did not find it out of the ordinary that he was going to the infirmary at least twice a week, or that the colorful tray was piling higher and higher each time he went . . .
He decided that he needed to get Tachibana on the phone with Sanada soon, and he decided that he wanted Tachibana to bargain with Sanada on his contract. Of all the things in the world, what the actor values most is his contract.
The contract binds him to an employer, and the contract dictates his every action. One clause, for example, in his contract said that Atobe could only be photographed from his right side because that was his better side. Another said that he received ten percent of all profits from his projects. But Atobe was beginning to feel that Sanada was beginning to overstep his boundary of power.
Take the Shishido Ryou issue. That was enough of an example to make Atobe bare his teeth and grumble and lash out at unfortunate victims, such his long-suffering, but well-paid butler. He secretly dreaded the eventual meeting with Shishido, but he already knew how he was going to act when that day came.
He was going to act as if nothing had ever happened between them. He was going to act as if they were only days removed from being juniors in the entertainment agency where they had been part of a short-lived band. He was going to be flippant, and he was going to be the superior.
He was superior. That was the truth! Atobe Keigo was superior to everyone on this lot, and he was superior to everyone on the adjacent lots, and this included Shishido Ryou. This included Sanada. Hell, this even included the Son of God himself, Yukimura. He responded to no one's demands but his own, and people gave him what he wanted whenever he wanted it because he wanted it.
He resolved to have Tachibana on the phone with Sanada as soon as possible, and then Atobe felt a little better. He noticed that his drink was gone and he poured another.
I've got to pull myself together, he thought, looking out his trailer window towards sound stage 21.
On Saturday, Tezuka Kunimitsu was feeling a bit fed up. It was not often that he allowed himself to become heavily emotional over work (professionalism first; don't let a sob story choke you up, especially since all the stories are sob stories: either that, or break-up stories or make-up sex stories. The same goes for these, too. Tezuka possessed a very high-standard of professionalism).
His top reporter was late for work this morning, and it made Tezuka feel as though his authority was being undermined. It was very disrespectful.
Inui Sadaharu was never late. He did occasionally arrive five minutes past the first bell, but whenever he did—and those times were not often—he always had a good reason why, which usually included a dramatic display of pathos and histrionics that Inui saved just for the occasion. It made Tezuka wonder why he didn't audition for the daytime serial dramas.
But he was ten minutes late today, and this was very noticeable in the workplace. Two people had already commented on his lateness, and more were sure to question his absence. What if someone, at this instant, needed a quick calculation of the possibility of a meteor shower hitting the Earth next Tuesday afternoon? What? Inui was not here to answer that?
This was, Tezuka thought, inexcusable.
The other important point of notice was that Inui had an article that was due today—yes, ten minutes ago!—and this very article was to be the cover story for the leading tabloid publication in all of Kanto, Spy Magazine. There was a deadline, and Inui was going to miss it. It made Tezuka feel very mad and he wished he had a stress ball to release all of his unspoken anger.
This article which had so incurred his wrath (though no one noticed it, everyone actually thought that Tezuka was looking rather cheery today) was about Atobe Keigo, who was by far the most bankable star in the entertainment world. For reasons Tezuka would never quite understand, people loved Atobe; they listened to his every word, they bought the products he advertised. Had he suddenly decided to endorse purple elephants or frilly pink negligees (and he was soon to do so), people would be lining up all around the corner to buy them.
This article had come by as a request from Yukimura himself. Their industries worked side-by-side often enough, and through the years, Tezuka had struck up his own brand of friendship with the frail executive; occasionally, they went out for tea together and studied nature in quiet contemplation. Or else they met for power lunches and debated on how to squeeze out every last penny from their consumers. It was a very close relationship.
The movie and entertainment industry, with its overly scrutinized idols and actors, often needed an outlet for information, the official source of all of their misdoings or misdeeds or, when it happened, good deeds. These happenings were reported through the magazines that Yukimura was well-acquainted with, and just like that, millions of teenage girls (and occasionally, boys) were informed up-to-the-minute about their favorite idols and actors.
By establishing a solid friendship with Spy Magazine's Tezuka, Yukimura had a constant mouthpiece to the public. When he needed something to be told to the people, he went to Tezuka. When reports about his top players leaked out to the public, he went to Tezuka. And this brought magazine subscriptions and endorsements to Tezuka; it was a very profitable relationship for both parties.
Yukimura also used these magazines for another purpose: as a precursor to future projects, or giving audiences previews of what to expect in the upcoming months. On this occasion, the topic was homosexuality, which would no doubt turn up from the critics during Romeo and Julio's theatrical release. Would audiences be receptive? would they be comfortable? would they accept it?
The answers to all of these questions were, of course, yes. The targeted audience, after all, was the healthy adolescent teenage girl, and in Japan, there was never a shortage of them. The article was simply another ruse for the endorsements and the money. Yukimura knew how to exhort the money very well.
This article, titled very intimately, "I'm Totally Comfortable," addressed the personal views of Atobe on homosexuality. Here are some of his quotes:
When asked on his personal belief: "Of course, I'm comfortable with it. I'm totally comfortable with the idea because there should be no limit to love and everyone has a right to it because love does not just happen to one person and love does not just happen one way. Free love, isn't it? I support homosexuals just as much as I support heterosexuals and transsexuals and metrosexuals and really, there's no end to it. I could go on and on, and I will . . ." [see next page, Atobe]
When asked if he were homosexual: "I look at it this way. I know that I'm stunning, and I know that other people know it. If they truly believe that my beauty is the greatest in the world, who am I to deny them?"
When asked if he were ever accused of being homosexual: "Someone as handsome as me is bound to have received offers from members of the both sex. Do I discriminate? Never. [laughs] But take this: a girl expresses interest in me, and her male friend, fearing to lose his grip on her, says, 'Yeah, but I hear he's gay.' Well, what that fellow doesn't realize is that he's just helped me right then. By saying so, he is professing doubt on his relationship with his girl, and he is interesting her even further. She'll want to know if there's anything different about being with a gay man, and she zeros in on my bed. So that male friend has just created the exact situation that he had hoped to avoid. I can't say that that's disagreeable with me." [smiles and smooths hair]
But none of these wonderfully lewd and soul-baring quotes (ghostwritten by the combined efforts of Inui and Tezuka and Kaidoh Kaoru) were going to make it into the magazine on time if Inui never arrived with the final copy in hand! Had he been a more expressive person, Tezuka might have banged his fist on the table. He merely decided that Inui must have dropped his guard sometime between yesterday and today.
"Sir?" came a call from his secretary. "Inui just arrived. He was stuck in traffic, he says. There was accident on Takashita Street when someone got ran over because his cat jumped out onto the road. Apparently, he knew this person, and he rushed him over to the hospital where he had to give him a blood transfusion to prevent him from dying. They have the same type of blood, you know. Type O, if you're interested."
"Thank you," he said.
Yes, he thought, when Inui arrived in his office thirteen minutes after the workday began, he was going to give him a piece of his mind.
