Ch 4 Hot and Cold
Enthusiastic applause accompanied Sho and Midori as they walked towards the stage exit after announcing they would return following a short break. Sho tried not to appear too smug. He'd probably gained a ton of new fans, especially with the "moms''. He'd seen a surprising number of hot ones in the crowd. And if the way Midori had been eyeing him was any indication, it seemed like he'd scored some points with her too.
As if she knew Sho was thinking of her, the J-Pop idol turned to address him, one hand resting on the curve of her hip. Stage lighting emblazoned a crown atop her glossy auburn locks and set the jade of her eyes alight. There was a stern set to the curve of the lips on her otherwise soft, serene face. She looked like a goddess about to pronounce judgment.
"Maybe you do have a bit of a heart," she said.
While her words weren't an endorsement, Sho figured it was a step up from the lazy narcissistic playboy asshole label she'd previously pasted across his forehead. Instead it probably read something like: professional narcissistic playboy prick. A small, but not insignificant improvement.
"Told you. I'm not a bad guy," he said, flashing her a charming smile.
She assessed him for another couple heartbeats. "Jury's still out," she said and turned around to resume her course.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, Sho followed, mulling over the reasons he cared to correct her averse opinion in the first place. Aside from his every move being captured on camera, maintaining a good reputation among peers was crucial and it bothered him that she thought he was too wrapped up in himself to do his work properly. Hell, he'd been doing this longer than she had–save the charity bit.
Backstage, Emi handed him water and began fussing over Midori's hair and makeup. Sho lounged on a too-small sofa in the middle of the room, half his lower legs hanging off the arm rest. Some dude handed him a piece of paper written in that same calligraphic script as the Watch Me! invitation. The musician's eyes skimmed over the sheet, reading the list of songs he'd be performing. Prisoner was first, followed by Lost November and Enigma.
Sho draped an arm over his head. It had actually felt good to perform again today, even if it was singing stupid little kiddie songs. It had been fun and he knew part of that was likely due to the hot chick by his side. Midori had implied that he'd become impotent. What else was he to do but show her that he could turn a child's song and dance number into a professional level production? Regardless of months of solitude, Sho Fuwa was still a Multi-Million certificate holder. He also held the record for consecutive days at the top of Billboard Japan. Talent was etched into every cell of his handsome body. He'd also given those children something to smile about when they probably hadn't had many reasons to and it had ended up serving as a decent warm up.
Sho thought back to his frustration and inability to compose new, fresh music. How the delight and confidence that manifested from a performance well done became buried under the weight of page after torn and crumpled page of failure. He remembered the subsequent decision to cancel his world tour and the argument with his stage manager who had ultimately quit. And he was the tip of the iceberg–so many people had left him. He remembered the numerous times he'd declined to take the stage because at a certain point he'd just ceased to give a damn and the only time he felt alive for a time was after a workout.
How had I let it turn out that way?
His arctic blue eyes caught on the list in his hands, freezing on the first song–Prisoner–and it was like fog clearing from a misty wood. Takarada's advice blended with Kyoko's words, penetrating the haze in his head. Shit, Sho snorted to himself. He'd been moping around like a loser. His childhood friend had snapped him out of it, demolishing the apathetic wall he'd built around himself with a bright pink sledgehammer.
Just like the last time when I lost to those cocky Beagle assholes. But I turned the tables on those bastards, he smiled to himself. He remembered how worried and confused Shoko had been at the time and her relief and joy later.
Shoko. She left me too. But that–Damnit. I fucked up. I–
"Fuwa-san," a banal voice spoke from above the musician's head and Sho startled, unfolding his arm from his face. "Are you all set?" The voice belonged to the gofer who'd handed him his setlist.
Midori came over as Sho stood and nodded his assent. When she suggested they play rock, paper, scissors to determine who would take the stage first, Sho hastily volunteered instead, not wanting to involve himself further with that cursed game.
"Sure you're up for going first?" Midori asked, amusement twinkling in her eyes. Apparently she hadn't gotten enough of the joke from earlier.
"Ha ha," Sho replied, sarcasm practically frothing his words. "I am a wildly talented, professional musician who has been in this business years longer than you."
She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at him. "Not that many years."
He winked at her. "Besides, you should know I'm always up for it." The musician leaned toward the lead singer of Lucky-M and whispered a low sultry promise. "Anytime, anywhere. I'd knock those little black panties of yours right off."
Too stunned to move, Midori stood there blinking as a dark blush bloomed on her cheeks. "How did you know–" she began, but stopped when she saw the smirk on Sho's face. She cleared her throat, shooting him a deadly glare as she stepped back to put a little distance between them. "You know that kind of speech constitutes harassment."
"You started it," he shrugged as he brushed past her.
Midori couldn't think of a retort. Sho knew one could not argue against Truth.
"Come on," Sho said, pointing to the stage door. He could feel the anticipation of the crowd, that excited, almost electric energy that permeated the air before a performance. One (of many) reasons the musician had risen to the top was his ability to tap and channel that energy, to bring the crowd to life. His cells were humming with it. "Let's begin."
He'd think more about Shoko and why he'd sabotaged himself against performing later. For now, he was ready.
At the edge of the stage, Midori watched Sho Fuwa utterly dominate. There was no hint that the musician had taken a lengthy sabbatical from the industry. Or that he had been battling some weird psychological stage fright or whatever. Overwhelming–that was the only word that could describe his stage presence, his seductive voice.
She had been set on hating him. Her mother had warned her to watch out for men who were attractive and damn well knew it. Men who wore charm as readily as tattoos or nipple rings. Midori didn't know whether Sho had pierced nipples, but he did have tattoos running down one of his muscular arms (and somehow knew the color of her underwear). Sho Fuwa was that kind of man and those kinds of men would rip your heart out and stomp all over it and make you feel like you deserved it. This she knew all too well. She'd intended to go on hating the musician because that womanizer had broken Mimori-chan's heart, even if it had never truly been Mimori's to begin with.
But Midori was in trouble. So, so much trouble.
Sho Fuwa's arrogance came as no surprise, but the skill and passion rivaling the ego were. She had not expected to find him so damn charismatic and quick-witted either. And there was the change in his appearance. From what she recalled, Sho Fuwa had been the typical visual kei singer, slender and handsomely pale, though taller than most. She had not expected the contours of hard muscle visible through his clothing nor the inked skin. She had not expected that being the focus of those icy blue eyes would light a fire deep within herself.
In her youth Midori had often confused infatuation, that shallow attraction, for love. Living life under a spotlight resulted in a great many men longing and lusting after her for one reason or another. Occasionally she'd shared their sentiment, drawn by the hard set of the shoulders against soft cotton or a slow, sexy smile or a man's humor and confidence. But infatuation was a lot like cliff diving. The rush, the thrill of diving headlong into waters unknown–a mysterious flowing surface, impenetrable to the eye. The dive ignited sensation and emotion alike, but as you took from the waters, so the waters took from you–until you were eventually left half naked and shivering, bereft of something you couldn't quite name, and wishing you'd never plunged into the depths in the first place. Pain and Heartbreak had been Midori's teachers; had taught her to ignore fanciful, hollow urges. Knowledge and unfortunate experience had made infatuation much simpler and as familiar as an old friend.
Whatever this attraction was, it felt stronger than the usual superficial desire and longing she was used to caging. And it scared her.
As Sho sang his final lines, her eyes continued to track his movements onstage like a moth following a flame.
It's the enigma of us dreaming the future at the end of the world,
even if the shattered sun has already burnt everything down.
I won't let them
snatch away even our hearts…
Not even our hearts…
And she was afraid, very much afraid of the feelings he elicited, of having her heart snatched away and scorched to ash.
She couldn't–no–wouldn't go through something like that again.
Sho bowed and strolled over to Midori, handing her the mic with a grin. His index finger kissed lightly against her thumb and she quickly jerked her hand away. Cursing herself, she offered him a bland smile, heart thumping loudly, frantically in her chest, knowing well that he'd never believe she was indifferent if her body betrayed her like that.
"How was it? Think you can top that?" he challenged.
She would have loved to say she'd wipe that grin right off his (handsome) face, but she no longer felt so certain. Little wonder Sho Fuwa had become a household name in record time. Damn man really was talented.
Her voice was wistful as she spoke and a wry smile formed on her soft, full lips, "Maybe. Maybe not."
Easy to see why a laundry list of women had fallen into his bed. Why Mimori had clung to him. She just needed to keep reminding herself of that fact.
So she wouldn't.
Sho found himself at a loss for words–a rare occurrence. He had expected more sass…not whatever that was.
Midori signaled that she was ready to begin and it was immediately obvious how and why she was the lead for Lucky-M. Exotic looks aside, the woman possessed some serious musical chops–her adaptability, range, and power were impressive. And her voice, which he'd noticed turned huskier when she sang, was terribly sexy. Enthralled, he watched as she interacted with the crowd, winning them over instantly again.
Midori finished her third song and as she announced another short break, the gofer let Sho know what song they'd be covering as a duet. Sho chuckled as he read the paper. No wonder Yamada had been confident they'd know the song.
His smile widened when he saw Midori furrowing her brow at him in silent query. He waved her over and handed her the paper.
"Oh!" she blinked and peered up at him, beaming with pleasure, delight momentarily lowering her guard.
"Are you a fan?" Her face made the answer obvious, but he couldn't help but ask after seeing her reaction.
She seemed to realize she had relaxed too much and hardened her face into a more neutral expression.
Too late Ice Witch.
"Yes…the intro songs are some of my favorites–this one in particular. I've wanted to do a cover of The Miracle of Bonds since I first heard it, but couldn't think of a male singer to accompany me…" she trailed off and quickly took a drink from the bottled water she was handed, her lightly flushed cheeks betraying her embarrassment.
Sho smiled down at her, enjoying how her blush deepened. "It is among the top five most viewed TV shows for a reason. I like it too."
Why did I just admit that? Celebrities had to be careful so they wouldn't be viewed as endorsing anything and Sho was extra careful to maintain a particular image. Demon Slayer was one of many shows he enjoyed that he kept hidden from anyone, just like those comedies he'd loved back when he lived with Kyoko.
Thinking of the past made the smile slip from his face and he took a swallow of his water.
He wiped his face and asked Midori if she was all set. She confirmed she was and Sho grabbed the second mic as they walked to the center of the stage. The song was technically written for two male vocalists, but Sho was confident he could easily adjust his voice to vary his sound. Midori was used to singing J-Pop so Sho was looking forward to seeing how she would handle a song with a punk rock vibe.
He flashed the sound tech a thumbs up and the distinctive melody of a shamisen and taiko drum sounded through the room. After a few seconds it was joined by modern guitar and drums.
Sho sucked in a deep breath and began.
Running through the darkness, where am I headed?
The moonlight is my only guidepost
Midori broke in, husky voice strong and beautiful.
Pain and sadness cannot be wiped away,
but the flame in my heart will not be extinguished.
Then, together, Midori blending and balancing expertly, yet still somehow managing to surprise him with the diversity, the depth of emotion in her flawless voice. His eyes met hers and Sho saw a hint of a smile on her lips. Sho wasn't the only one having fun.
For whom do we persist in these feelings?
Tearing through the darkness,
Until the day we shine in the sun.
Fire that resides in my unleashed heart
Rise up and envelope me,
To the other side of dawn tonight
Back and forth and together they sang on as though it wasn't their first, but their thousandth time, voices, energies harmonized. Separate but together. Girls had been laying themselves at his feet since middle school and he'd been more than happy to indulge, but when was the last time he'd enjoyed the company of a woman out of bed (or car…or broom closet)? A slender raven-haired girl with bright, wide amber eyes materialized before his eyes, vanishing as quickly as she'd appeared, lost to time and memory.
As they bowed and waved to the audience Midori found his eyes and glanced away quickly, only to be drawn back by some strange overwhelming force.
Sho felt dazed. Midori made a few closing remarks that went in one of Sho's ears and out the other. It wasn't like he hadn't performed with women on occasion, though it was rare because he preferred performing solo. There was something markedly different, more intimate about their duet and he couldn't seem to drag his eyes away from her either–not that he wanted to. Midori tucked a strand of her satiny hair behind her ear again and turned towards him. He imagined pulling her in close, brushing her full, soft hair behind her shoulder and sucking on her dainty little earlobe. He wondered what kinds of sounds she would make then. But it wasn't just her body he wanted either. She was compassionate, driven, focused, and accomplished. Sho imagined she'd be working solo before long.
He watched her and she watched him and for the first time in months his mind birthed new lyrics:
Beneath the shining lights you pulled me under
Bewitched, I've fallen into your spell
Never knew what I was missing
Never knew until I fell
Sho had never felt like this before. The way her jade eyes bore into him made him feel like glass—glass she could temper or shatter. Given the opportunity, which would she choose?
Midori swallowed hard and stepped towards him. "Thank you for the duet, Fuwa-san," she said with a tight smile.
"Thank you, Midori-san," he replied, but his mind was as tangled as his emotions.
He had never felt–or allowed himself to feel–vulnerable with a girl. The closest he'd ever come had been with–
Kyoko.
The girl he'd pushed away. The girl who he'd never had to hide a part of himself from. The girl who stayed by his side and supported him from the very beginning. The plain girl who had vowed revenge and changed so radically. No, it wasn't that she had changed so much as that she'd found the perfect outlet–away from Fuwa Sho. And then with Tsuruga Ren. The girl had never been plain at all.
"Fuwa-san," Midori waved a hand in front of his face. "We should head backstage."
He blinked alive again and realized he'd been standing, staring blankly at the door.
"Uh, yeah."
Reeling from his thoughts, he followed after her to the little back room, plopped himself on the sofa and closed his eyes. The answers to the earlier questions of how and why were as clear as the cloudless blue Tokyo sky visible through the hospital windows.
The ghost of Defeat had been shadowing Sho since the day he had read Ren Tsuruga's true name. It had possessed him when Kyoko had said "Yes" to Kuon Hizuri.
Once upon a time, Kyoko Mogami had been wrapped around his finger. When he'd dismissed her long ago he'd been confident she would go back to Kyoto despite her big talk. But she hadn't. Instead, she met Tsuruga. Sho had thought a man like Ren Tsuruga would grow tired of a simple girl like Kyoko Mogami. But Tsuruga hadn't. Sho had thought his shared childhood had bound them tighter than anything binding Kyoko to that platform-wearing hack. He had thought Kyoko would turn to him after he'd shown her how much he cared again after everything with that asshat Cedric in America. But she hadn't been alone then either—Tsuruga was there and they–shockingly–also had a childhood bond, one that ran deeper than his own. Even after Tsuruga's violent past was revealed, she had stayed with Kuon Hizuri. The whole world had. Sho had been clinging to the ghost of the Kyoko Mogami that had belonged to him—before he'd tossed her aside like a dirty snot rag—and he had turned himself a phantom of his own making.
His mind distantly registered the activity in the background: Emi congratulating Midori on a job well done, the murmurs of the assistants, the squeak of the hall door and heavier footsteps approaching him.
I lost Kyoko to Ren Tsuruga, to Kuon Hizuri. And here is the real kick in the balls–it is my own fucking fault.
He'd lost Kyoko long ago, he had just never admitted it, had never admitted that he felt her absence deeply to begin with, a hollowed-out ache in his chest. He wondered what would have happened if he had apologized back then. The ache in Sho's chest throbbed with each pulse of his regretful heart. He'd always thought she would eventually come back to him, but she never did and now never would.
He swallowed hard as he allowed his mind to admit the painful reality. Kyoko is getting married and she deserves to be happy. With that thought, Sho Fuwa let Kyoko Mogami's ghost go.
The footfalls stopped, replaced by the strong scent of tobacco and aftershave. "Well done Fuwa-san," Director Yamada said. Sho snapped his eyes open and stood, stretching his arms high and rolling his shoulders. "I hope you will consider taking part in other charitable events in the future?"
"I'll think about it."
The man smiled widely. "Good," he said, offering a little bow. "We look forward to it."
Sho returned the bow and Yamada left to speak with Midori.
Click-clack, click-clack.
The musician swiveled towards the sound of approaching high heels and was met with the dispassionate stare of his former manager.
"...Shoko…"
"Sho."
He opened his mouth and, finding too many–or perhaps too few–words, promptly closed it again. Frustration and pride had pushed him to a point where he'd snapped at the woman who'd remained at his side from the beginning of his career. Where would he even start? Hey Shoko, I've had an epiphany and I'm sorry I smashed a hole in your wall and called you a bitch when you told me I needed to get off my ass and stop behaving like a cowardly man-child and get over myself.
Actually, that's not half bad. Women liked that kind of sensitive self-aware shit, didn't they?
"Look Shoko, I–"
"I'm here to escort you to your next event. Come on," she ordered.
Whatever it is can't possibly be worse than Baby Shark. That fleeting thought set him in motion, but it wasn't towards the door that he moved.
"There's one thing I still need to do." Sho wasn't leaving without Midori's contact info.
"No need. She's coming with us."
"...Eh?"
Shoko's voice had been cold when she spoke, but the corners of her mouth, which Sho could not see, had curved up into a little smile. While it was true that she had been quite infuriated with her former charge for a time, the overarching emotion had been one of extreme disappointment, partially with herself for coddling him for so long. Twenty-three was too old to behave like a hormonal teenager and much too old to be mooching off one's manager, unable to cook or clean for oneself. Shoko had kicked him out without hesitation or second thought and had continued to play the part of pissed off ex-manager long after her anger quelled in an effort to get his lazy ass in gear. It appeared her efforts were finally bearing fruit–thanks to Kyoko Mogami.
20 minutes later…..
He was in a van again, but this one didn't have a hood requirement or hijacked radio. It contained two gorgeous women–one as driver and the other as passenger. Neither had spoken to him thus far, but it seemed Fate (or Lory Takarada), cruel or kind depending on one's point of view, wasn't done throwing Sho Fuwa and Midori Lin together.
On his lap was a bundle. A very egregiously pink bundle with a note taped to its plastic wrapping.
Godsdammit, I knew better than to think that there couldn't be anything worse.
The note read:
Fuwa-san,
Kyoko mentioned that you had expressed a certain fondness for the exquisite shade of LoveMe pink in the past and after you appeared similarly smitten with my attire in our meeting, I took the liberty of preparing this outfit for your next adventure.
Warmest regards,
Sho could barely make out the ridiculous flowery signature, but it could only belong to one man: Lory Takarada.
Warmest regards my perfectly toned ass. The Demon King of the MoE gets his jollies harrying me at every opportunity, Sho huffed.
The musician dubiously eyed the package in his lap before unwrapping the contents and pulling out a pink and black-edged jersey shirt and matching mid-thigh length shorts. Underneath them was a pair of solid pink meggings. Sho ran a hand over his face as he stared distastefully down at the clothing.
Soft laughter filled the air, making him glance up. His disgust was such that the woman couldn't contain herself, despite her determination to avoid conversation after that unnerving–and far too intimate–connection they'd shared on stage.
"Who wears short shorts?" Midori snickered.
"Apparently, I do," Sho replied grimly.
Midori wondered who he'd pissed off enough to look like he belonged in a Barbie Dreamhouse.
"Probably be more accurate to ask who I haven't pissed off at this point."
"Ah," Midori looked towards the woman hidden behind the bulkhead in the driver's seat. "She's…your manager?" A clear pattern had emerged: Sho Fuwa preferred to surround himself with well-endowed women.
A flash of pain and something else flickered in his eyes as he uttered, "She was."
"I see." Though she was curious, she had no desire to rub salt into an obviously open wound. Besides, the less she talked to him, the better off she'd be.
The rest of the short drive passed in silence, the van's occupants engrossed in past, present or future.