The odd humidity of this place lumps in his throat like mold, but Aqua tries to ignore it anyway. Best to do it now than later, he reasons. Or when all that comes out of his mouth is diluted, muddled rainwater instead of coherent words from the script.
On his right, Kana's talking incessantly about the location and its shooting scene. She retorts something about normal dramas, how it was necessary for the entire acting crew to run through rehearsals again and again like it's almost a permanent routine in their mundane everyday lives. Though, from her resounding smile that doesn't really catch up to her pupils and the way her hands twitch every time a raindrop echoes through barren walls, it sounds like Sweet Today doesn't have that kind of privilege.
Aqua can figure that part out easily. Even the experiences with Gotanda are exquisite, almost foreign, compared to the place's profusion of reposing buckets and rags next to expensive camera equipment.
"What a mess," he states. Kana lets out a resigned laugh. "Even director Gotanda works more carefully than that."
"Well, we've got no budget and zero time, so…"
Aqua lets out a sound of understanding. Kana starts her next sentence, something about the actors, but she drifts to glance at something directly behind him, and Aqua, curious, eyes watching the way hers seem to first twinkle in familiarity only to squint in confusion, glances back as well.
The first thing he thinks is: purple. Like Ruby's grape-flavored candies that she keeps leaving on their dinner table purely because she detests the flavor, like Miyako's random pastry order for him in a wandering coffee shop because all he drinks and consumes is black coffee.
The first thing he sees, though, is this: a boy around his age, a face shaped and reprinted several times in passing magazines and online posts, his hair puffing up from all the lingering humidity, eyes staring right back and even further. He's dressed in identical clothes similar to the Sweet Today clips Aqua's seen, but his body movements are still. Stiff. Almost like a corpse.
"Melt?" Kana breaks the silence. She strolls up to him. "Are you good? Did something happen?"
And Melt—Narushima Melt, he recalls—doesn't say a single thing. He freezes in this moment of stillness, of an eternity. A torment, almost. He stares and stares and doesn't let his eyes stray away from anything but the residual lighting on Aqua's face.
Aqua, gandering first at Kana only to see she's also glancing worrily back and forth at the two, can't think of anything to respond. Finally, he bows.
"I'm Hoshino Aqua," he says. "I look forward to working with you, Narushima Melt."
He stays still for a moment. And then—
"Oh, Melt—"
Aqua glances up. He sees Kana with an actual concerned frown on her face, hands digging into one of her pockets for a handkerchief, her rushed words. And then he glances—
His eyes widen in instinct.
Melt's tears don't seem to stop. He sniffles, tries to cover the bottom half of his face, and it is the worst sound Aqua's ever heard. Like a mourning. Something shattering inside of him, a grief so profound it tears through the tattered walls, the rain outside. He sobs and holds back his lamentation. Yet, it is nothing but a struggle. A failed attempt.
Kana hands Melt the handkerchief, but he doesn't take it. Doesn't do anything. The sobs echo through the leaking puddles, and Aqua's sure everyone now has drifted their focus on them. Kana notices this as well. She always does.
She glances around. Uses her voice despite hesitating at the edges. She yells to halt the recording for a moment, to stop every single camera for a few minutes until he's calmed down. She grasps tightly at Melt's wrist, although Aqua sees her fingernails don't press down on his skin like she always does in other unanticipated times, and guides Melt towards the side. To where his manager and makeup artist and hair stylist are, hands rubbing his back and consoling him with gentle, easy understanding tones.
And Aqua, confused, disoriented Aqua, stands there in the midst of it. With half of a rational mind still gearing within him, he takes half a step forward. Almost lets himself put his hand on Melt's trembling, frail back. And then he stops. Steps back.
They're just acquaintances. This is their first meeting. Aqua's never met Melt in his life. They're strangers.
Aqua swallows the tight lump in his throat. He doesn't know what to think of this. Doesn't know what brought Melt to this, what made him bawl with a grief as extensive and ardent like his own deeply-rooted, never-ending mourning of a star so great, but for a split second of a universe, for a hope as deep as his soul, Aqua stands back and wishes Melt would find whatever solace he's yearning for.