My Dream Boy (Got Me So Inspired)

by RelativeMuse

Summary:

Become Her Dream Boy With Ibusu's New Summer Collection!

Inspiration strikes at the strangest moments. After all, the last thing Hiroaki expected was for his muse to crash-land in his life through a thoroughly misunderstood attempted murder.

Still, he's in for it now, as it just so happens that the dream boy he's been chasing for so long is standing far closer than he'd thought.

Chapter 1: Your Savage Good Boy

Notes:

Title from "Savage Good Boy" by Japanese Breakfast

Hiroaki spends his Friday morning getting assassinated. 

 

Well, he’s not entirely sure if it’s an assassination attempt exactly, but there’s an unfamiliar man standing in his office, holding a knife. 

 

“Gah! What are you doing?!” The coffee mug smashes on the floor with a dying shriek, almost rivaling Hiroaki’s own scream in pitch. “Security!”

 

The stranger startles, momentarily possessing the audacity to look annoyed at the disruption. When he speaks, it’s unbothered and unhurried, like he’s waking from a pleasant dream.

 

“Oh. Hi. Who are you?”

 

Hiroaki gapes at the would-be assassin. “Who am I? Who are you? And why are you trying to murder me?!” 

 

It’s only now that the stranger seems to notice the knife in his own hand. His eyes widen, revealing a mismatched pair of blue irises. “Oh! Sorry, I… don’t remember picking this up.” 

 

He shuffles over to Hiroaki’s desk, gingerly setting the knife onto it as if it might catch fire at the slightest jolt. Bafflingly, he gives himself a pleased smile when it doesn’t. 

 

Stumbling back in half-steps, Hiroaki grabs a coat hanger off the nearest rack, brandishing it in front of him. “Stay over there and… I don’t know, put your hands up or something!” 

 

“Um. Why?” 

 

“Because you’re in my office with a knife! Are you dense?” 

 

“Okay, okay!” The blue-haired man raises his arms slowly, without the manners to look the slightest bit intimidated. His gaze meets Hiroaki’s unwaveringly. “Now can you tell me who you are?” 

 

“I don’t have to tell you anything, criminal. Just stay still until security arrives.” 

 

“Huh? I’m not a criminal, I got in here legally. My name is–” 

 

“Not according to me! And I’m the owner of this building, so I’d probably know.”

 

The criminal gapes at this, quirking up an incredulous brow. “The owner? You look 16.”

 

“Wha– I’m 17! How old are you?!”

 

“17. But I’m not claiming to be the owner of any skyscrapers.” 

 

“Hello? I’m the Hiroaki Nakamigawa, the founder of Ibusu–you know–the fashion brand whose office you’re in right now? How do you not know me?”

 

The blue-haired idiot in front of him just shrugs, not a trace of animosity on his face. “Sorry. I’m just not really into fashion I guess.” 

 

“Not into–” Hiroaki takes a breath and counts to ten because strangling someone to death in your own office is bad for PR. Or so Seiko says. “Then what are you doing here?”

 

“Waiting for my father to finish up a meeting. Am I… not allowed to wait in here?” 

 

“No! This is my office! You can’t just wander in here and make yourself comfy without asking me!”

 

“Okay, I’ll ask. Can I wait in here?” 

 

Hiroaki momentarily considers if he’s hallucinating this entire situation, because no way in hell or heaven or purgatory is someone this oblivious. “No!” 

 

The intruder actually pouts, his mouth curving into a dissatisfied frown. “Please? Nowhere else in this building has chairs. It’s kind of weird, actually.”

 

“It’s minimalistic.” Hiroaki corrects. “There’s literally couches in the lobby. Just go there.” 

 

“They were full.” He shifts his pitiful, contradicting eyes in Hiroaki’s direction. “Please? I promise I’ll be quiet.” 

 

“Don’t look at me like that! It’s pathetic.” Why is he even entertaining this? And where the hell is security? He lets the clothing hanger fall to his side, arms aching. At the very least, it doesn’t seem like this guy is here to murder him. 

 

“I’m not here to murder you.” He confirms. “It’s just for a few minutes.” 

 

“I–” Hiroaki feels insane, and slightly baffled. This guy can’t be for real, right? “Are you a ghost?” He asks, completely serious. 

 

The stranger contemplates this. “No, I don’t think so. It’s been a hectic few weeks though, so maybe?” 

 

Hiroaki stares at him. He stares back. With two different blue eyes. 

 

“You know what? This is stupid. Sure. Whatever. Just sit down and shut up. I’ve got work to do.”

 

The intruder (ghost?) nods and drops down onto the small leather couch obediently, pantomiming zipping his mouth closed. Hiroaki rolls his eyes, circling the desk and sitting down heavily. 

 

It’s barely 10 in the morning and he’s already exhausted. 

 

He absentmindedly shoves around the papers on his desk: concept sketches and modelling contracts and business proposals and defamation lawsuits swim like moon jellyfish before his eyes.

 

Forget this. He can’t focus at all.

 

“What’s your name?” He blurts. 

 

The stranger sitting on his couch does that weird falling-out-of-a-daydream expression again. “Huh? Me?” 

 

“No, genius. The throw pillow next to you.” 

 

“Oh. Takeshi. Ojima Takeshi.” 

 

Hiroaki blinks. “Ojima as in… Ojima Shigeo?!” 

 

“Yeah.” Ojima says with a note of… bitterness? “He’s my dad.” 

 

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Hiroaki had just spent the past fifteen minutes actively threatening Ojima Shigeo’s son. He shoots up to his feet, slamming his palms flat on the table. “Why didn’t you tell me? I thought you were just some random lunatic!” 

 

“No, I’m a ghost.” Ojima says with a straight face.

 

Hiroaki squints at him. “Are you screwing with me? Am I going to wake up tomorrow with a billion-dollar lawsuit on my desk from Ojima Insurance for trying to viciously gore you with a coat hanger?” 

 

“Um, probably not? Not as long as you don’t sue me for breaking and entering.” 

 

“Okay, but you see how you actually did do that, right? While I’m completely innocent?” 

 

Ojima shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t really remember these things.” 

 

“Right. That’ll hold up great in court.” 

 

The boy on his couch chuckles at this–a real, resounding chuckle–light and teasing as it bounces around the room. “I guess I’ll just have to trust you won’t report me then.” 

 

All of Hiroaki’s sharp words and biting remarks flee him, and his legs feel suddenly unsteady. “Well– uh– yeah.” He collapses back into a sitting position, hiding his face behind a sketchbook. No way in hell is he letting Ojima see the shades of red clawing their way up his neck. 

 

“I am sorry, though.” Ojima says after a pause. “For intruding, I mean. If there’s anything I can do to make you not sue me… I’ll do it.”

 

“You could just leave.” Hiroaki grumbles, but finds he doesn’t really mean it. Ojima leaving would mean he’d actually have to do work, and the way this morning is going he really isn’t in the mood to sign modelling contracts for four hours–

 

Wait. 

 

Shifting around the maelstrom of paperwork cluttering his desk, he unearths a crumpled concept sketch for a new collection he’d been planning. He’d drawn it up weeks ago, but he’d been overwhelmed by other projects and the creative spark had fled him completely. But now…

 

Become Her Dream Boy with Ibusu’s Summer Collection! 

 

Hiroaki looks up at the boy on his couch, surveying him up and down with a renewed intensity. Sure, the hair would need work… a lot of work, but otherwise…

 

The pair of distant, clouded eyes both contradictory and inseparable. The aloof, far-off stance teasing untouchability and fragility all in one. The fact he was 6’2. 

 

He was perfect. 

 

Pinning Ojima with a hungry leer, Hiroaki presses his palms together. “Actually, there is something you can do for me.” 

 

“I… don’t like the way you said that.” 

 

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad.” The picture is coming together beautifully in Hiroaki’s head now, he can nearly see the display windows already. 

 

“How do you feel about modeling?” 

 

---

 

“I’m really not sure about this…”

 

“Wha– You can’t say that now! You already signed on the dotted line.” Hiroaki waves the contract bearing a clear signature in Ojima’s flushed face. He steps back a few feet to get a better look at the whole ensemble. 

 

“I know, but it’s just… this outfit is kind of… out of my depth.” Ojima’s brows are furrowed into deep creases as he tugs at the collar of the floral button-up wrapped tight over his torso. “Aren’t these shorts a little too short?” 

 

“No such thing.” Hiroaki tuts. “Plus, this is just a concept design right now. It’s liable to change pretty dramatically.

 

“Okay, but still…” He frowns. “Why’d it have to be me, anyways? It’s not like I’m that pretty, or anything.” 

 

“That’s ridiculous. My whole job is to make you pretty. You just have to stand there.”  

 

“Right, but why me then? Couldn’t it be anybody?” 

 

“Because you fit the concept perfectly!” Hiroaki frames the shot with his fingers: Ojima standing bashfully before a floor to ceiling beachview window, the late afternoon light streaking through his blue hair. It’s an enticing image, that’s for certain. 

 

“When I think ‘dream boy’,” He continues, mouth working faster than his brain, “I think aloof and humble, with a hint of mystery and rugged muscle lurking just under the surface!” 

 

Ojima cocks his head. “And I’m… all that?” 

 

“Eh. Close enough. Maybe a little light on the ‘rugged muscle’ part.” Hiroaki shifts position, monitoring the way the light pierces the thin fabric. “Move your legs further apart, you’re stiff as a statue.” 

 

“Alright, but,” Ojima comments while inching his legs apart like it physically pains him, “surely that’s not everyone’s idea of a ‘dream boy.’ What if I don’t fit them?”

 

“Who cares? What’s your dream boy like then?” The words slip out before Hiroaki can catch them, and his face heats instantly. God, who asks that?

 

“I don’t know.” Strangely, Ojima seems to be genuinely considering it, blue eyes growing distant in thought. “Confident, probably. Responsible, and organized? Basically all the things I’m not, I guess.” 

 

Hiroaki huffs, crossing his arms. “Well I’m the designer. And I say this collection needs a model that’s humble, aloof, and mysterious. So shut up and stay still– I need to jot down some alterations.” 

 

The model complies, although begrudgingly. He keeps shifting uncomfortably against the fabric of the shirt, and his fingers play around the leg holes of his shorts. 

 

“You think I’m mysterious?” He finally says, as if it was a cutting insult. 

 

“I mean, kinda. I don’t know anything about you.” 

 

“Okay, but that doesn’t mean I’m mysterious. It just means you haven’t asked.” 

 

“Do you… want me to ask? Why?” Hiroaki glances up from his sketchbook at Ojima, who bristles with indignation. 

 

“If I’m going to be your model, you should at least know me a little.” 

 

Hiroaki’s breath catches before he can snap a response. Your model. It’s so pathetic, how the slightest admittance of possession makes his stomach flip. “Uh– Fine, then. What do I need to know?” 

 

The– his model grimaces, as if he hadn’t thought that far ahead. “My name is Ojima Takeshi… I work as an illustrator… I have two brothers, and my favorite color is… blue?” 

 

By the time he’s done, his face has dyed itself bright red with embarrassment. Hiroaki resists the urge to slow clap. 

 

“Wow. Enlightening.” 

 

“I don’t know! You’re supposed to ask the questions! Isn’t that how it works?” 

 

“I’m pretty sure that’s only for dates.” The way Ojima’s face somehow turns even redder at this is nothing short of miraculous. “I’m kidding. What kind of illustrations do you do?”

 

Ojima jolts, as if he wasn’t expecting Hiroaki to actually follow-up. “Um… children’s books, mostly.” 

 

“Like fairy tales?”

 

“Sometimes, but storybooks have a lot of variety. More than you’d think.”

 

Hiroaki snorts in amusement. “I’m sure your kid books have tons of literary merit.” 

 

“They do.” Ojima insists. “At least, I feel like they do when I’m illustrating. There’s a whole world in there, even if it’s simple.”

 

Hiroaki bites back another insult. He can’t find it in him to taunt Ojima’s overwhelmingly earnest expression. “Don’t move, you’re still shifting your feet.” 

 

Before he can wrangle Ojima into staying in one position, for christ's sake, his phone chimes a bright ringtone. In its lit up screen, Hiroaki notices something he probably shouldn’t have forgotten about: the time.

 

He’s late. For a lot of things.

 

“Damn it.” He hisses, snapping his sketchbook closed. “I gotta run. We’ll need to continue this next time.” 

 

Ojima blinks. “Next time?” 

 

“Yeah– you didn’t think I was only going to review the designs once did you? I need at least a dozen more drafts, not to mention the actual shoot.” 

 

“And that’ll take…”

 

“Over a month, at minimum.” 

 

“Oh.” Ojima says weakly. “I don’t think I read the contract very well.” 

 

“Take it up with your lawyers. You’re in it now, so don’t even think about backing out.” 

 

His phone sounds again, loud and insistent. Seiko is going to have his head.

 

“Alright, seeya. Bye, Ojima.” 

 

“Uh–” Ojima starts, a hand grasping onto Hiroaki’s wrist as he turns to leave. He shoves down the irritation. 

 

“What?” 

 

“Takeshi’s fine.” 

 

Hiroaki’s mouth runs dry, because what is he supposed to say to that? Certainly not the excited, flustered gibberish that found this moment opportune to bubble up from his gut. He swallows hard.

 

“Um… Okay. I guess you can call me Nakamigawa.” 

 

Ojima blinks again, somewhat reminiscent of a frog. “Was I not already doing that?” 

 

Hiroaki sighs. “Bye, Takeshi.” 

 

---

Confident, responsible, organized…

 

Why is he still thinking about that? It’s not like–...whatever. He’s probably the furthest thing from responsible you can get. Case in point…

 

“Hiroaki.” Seiko’s voice cuts through his musings like a hot knife in fishing wire, dragging him into reality. “If you’re going to be late, the least you could do is pay attention during our meeting.” 

 

“I was busy.” He scoffs, dismissing the lecture with a roll of the eyes. “Speaking of, I’m thinking of revitalizing that abandoned summer collection I drafted up a few weeks ago.”

 

“The dream boy concept? I thought you scrapped it for being… what was it, ‘corny and overly sentimental’?” 

 

“Yeah well, I’ve found a model to build the whole thing around.” Hiroaki flips through his sketchbook, tracing a finger along Ojima’s sketched limbs. “It’s given me some creative inspiration.” 

 

“We can’t build a collection around a single model. Should I look into building up a cast for a concept shoot?” 

 

“Sure. I’m thinking…” Ojima’s words worm their way into his mind again, this time his passionate and frankly, incredibly dorky, rant on the literary merit of his kid books. “We go experimental with it. All-in on the storybook concept: knights, princes, sailors, the works.” 

 

Seiko nods. She always had the uncanny capacity to cram his vague inclinations into concrete goals. “So in models, we’re looking for civil, gentlemanly, and charming.” Her fingers are already a blur on her tablet, perusing modeling agency catalogs at superhuman speed. 

 

“The Japanese Olympic Committee recently reached out for a collaboration.” Seiko thinks aloud. “Perhaps we could use some of their athletes.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, you can handle the specifics. So long as they're not gross or insufferable I don’t care.” 

 

Hiroaki never found any fulfillment in the drudgery of planning shoots or contacting magazines to carry his pieces. The marketing and networking he could leave to Seiko. His job is just to create the art. 

 

Which is why he’d really rather be anywhere else than in these monotonous budget and planning meetings, fussing over whether a brooding or contemplative model would work better. 

 

He'd really rather be with Takeshi. 

 

The thought startles him. It’s been… a long time since he felt so excited to work. He loved fashion, sure, he absolutely wanted to do it for the rest of his life. But lately, it’d felt more like a chore than a calling. Seiko had suggested that he was probably burnt-out.

 

So why now, does it feel sharply disappointing that he’s here sitting in a conference room with Seiko, instead of back in his studio with Takeshi sketching poetry into cloth form? Why do ideas and designs and patchwork visions swirl through his bloodstream like adrenaline, pushing his fingers to move, move, move. 

 

He’s probably just gotten lucky. The concept has really… spoken to him, this time around. That’s all. 

 

Still, he excuses himself early from his meeting with Seiko, stepping out of the building into the indecent heat of an early June summer. 

 

Are you free Monday afternoon? 

 

It’s just an innocent text, meant to confirm they were still on for their next scheduled session. It’s similarly innocent how Hiroaki holds the phone close to his face, counting the amount of heartbeats before the delivered turns to a read. 

 

After a few hundred beats, he gives up. Takeshi’s probably just busy. Or robbed. Or kidnapped. Or dead. 

 

Hiroaki asks his overactive brain to kindly shut up, and also, why is it so obsessed with this random guy anyways?

 

It’s just artistic inspiration, his brain replies, snarky as ever. Hiroaki’s brain is a real piece of work. 

 

“It’s just artistic inspiration.” Hiroaki repeats aloud to no one in particular.

 

Around him, people bustle by on the sidewalk, caught up in a featureless blur of lesser lives. The only thing Hiroaki notices in their mundanity is the lack of ruffled blue hair, the glaring absence of a pair of ill-matched irises.

 

Inspiration is, after all, only two steps away from obsession. 

 

Obsession is, after all, only one step away from wanting. 

 

Wanting is, after all, something Hiroaki cannot do. 

 

His phone dings gently in his hand: Sorry, didn’t see this. I’ll be there! :)

 

He’s so inspired, and there’s no doubt about it. 

Chapter 2: Suffer The Way I Should

Summary:

Hiroaki smiles as easy as lying, as easy as dying.

Takeshi laughs as easy as falling in love.

Notes:

chapter title from "Mega Circuit" by Japanese Breakfast

cw: panic attacks, unironic use of the term "eboy"

Seiko had crossed a line this time. Hiroaki had given her very clear instructions: no one gross, and no one insufferable.

 

So why, in the name of all that is good and just and matrimonious on this heaven-sent green Earth is the atrocity by the name of Yanagi Shigeki standing before him right now. Was this seriously the best Seiko could do in the weeks she’d had to plan this shoot? 

 

“And you’re absolutely sure you’re at the right place?” Hiroaki asks through grit teeth for maybe the seven hundredth time. “Because if you’re looking for the sanatorium it’s on the other side of town.”

 

“Of course. I was informed of the arrangement a week ago by my contacts at the Olympics Committee… is there a problem?” 

 

God, Hiroaki can’t stand the sugar-sweet prince act dripping off this guy like ill-fitting clothing. His voice grates like raw sandstone against his brain, and he’s seriously questioning how Seiko could’ve pegged this guy as charming. 

 

“Fine, whatever. Go get changed.” He waves away the bleach-blonde ice dancer, who, ew, literally places a hand over his heart and bows as he exits. 

 

Frowning, he surveys the set and notices the conspicuous lack of two people: Ojima, and the model they’d hired to be Yanagi’s shoot partner. He feels a pang of worry slither its way up his spine. 

 

“I’m trying to get a hold of her.” Seiko interrupts, reading his mind. “She’s not answering, so we might need a substitute to shoot with Yanagi.”

 

“Seriously? That is so unprofessional. Remind me what agency she’s from so we never work with them again.”

 

“It’s–”

 

“Nevermind. I don’t actually care.” Hiroaki glances over the room again, just to make sure. “What about Takeshi?” 

 

“Right. The 'inspiration' you found which you didn’t bother to mention was Ojima Shigeo’s son.” 

 

“Oh, yeah. I probably should’ve told you that part.”

 

“Yes, you should have.” Seiko pinches the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know where he is. You didn’t even bother to give me his contact. But given he’s an heir to Ojima Insurance, I’d expect him to be rather busy.” 

 

A sharp feeling of loss pierces through Hiroaki’s chest. Was that it? Did Takeshi simply have better things to do? He bites back the feeling of bitterness. Takeshi was the son of Ojima Shigeo, after all, he could probably get out of any employment contract with a snap of the fingers.  

 

They’d been working together for a few weeks at this point, so Hiroaki had assumed Takeshi was willing. Maybe he’d screwed it up. Maybe he’d scared him away somehow. 

 

He shakes off the cloying insecurities before they can shove themselves further down his throat. He was Hiroaki Nakamigawa, for crying out loud, no matter how famous, people should be tripping over themselves to work for him. 

 

“Fine. We’ll just get started without two of our models, then.” He’s made do with worse before, and he is not a quitter. “I’ll be Yanagi’s shoot partner.”

 

“You’re sure?” Seiko raises a judgemental brow. “I thought you were going to demand he be fired. I've already got a replacement lined up-” 

 

“It’s fine. The final photos won’t even capture my face– just my arms.”   

 

He gets into position against the white tarp background, the butterfly lights bright upon his face. Yanagi stumbles onto the set from the dressing rooms a few moments later, a bit flustered. 

 

“Nakamigawa! I wasn’t informed that you’d be replacing–”

 

“Hiroaki.” He replies shortly. “It’s just so we can get this done as soon as possible. Just act like I’m who you expected.” 

 

He nods towards the director, shedding his outer jacket. He’d need his arms bare to convincingly sell that he was a girl for the shoot. 

 

For the first shot, they just had to link arms, as if they’re on some cutesy romantic walk in the park. A physical shiver of revulsion passes through him as he feels Yanagi’s shirt sleeve brush against his skin. The fact that the moron is smirking at him as he does certainly doesn’t help. 

 

“Don’t smile at me like that. It’s creepy.” He hisses. 

 

“Excuse me? This is my reassuring smile.” 

 

“Well it’s not reassuring me. Put it away.” 

 

“Quiet on set!” The director yells from across the room, earning a scathing glare from Hiroaki. 

 

The camera flashes, illuminating in stark shadows the dips and curves in Yanagi’s stupid reassuring smile. As much as it pains him, he can’t deny Yanagi sells the chivalrous prince charming role well on camera, even if actually hearing him talk shatters the illusion immediately. After about a dozen takes, the photographer gives the go ahead to move on the next shot. 

 

This time, Yanagi’s kneeling on one knee, and–oh god–kissing Hiroaki’s hand. He was starting to seriously regret volunteering to substitute. 

 

“Let’s get this over with.” He grits, eyeing Yanagi’s lips as if they were radioactive. For how revolting this would feel, they may as well have been. 

 

“Believe me, I’m not bursting with enthusiasm either.” Yanagi mutters from beneath him. 

 

“What was that?! I’ll have you know that hundreds of people would kill to–”

 

“Quiet on set!” 

 

Yanagi seizes Hiroaki’s hand with frankly way more force than necessary, and… it’s at this moment that Takeshi finds it appropriate to burst through the studio doors, frantic and out-of-breath. 

 

“Sorry for being late I–” He stops stock-still in his steps. “Uh… what’s going on here?” 

 

“Takeshi! Finally.” Hiroaki shakes off Yanagi roughly, stepping off the white tarp much to the director’s chagrin. “What took you so long, you look…”

 

Terrible. He looks really terrible. There’s obvious tear stains streaked down his face, and his hair is tangled in even more rough knots than usual. Hiroaki falters. “Um, are you okay?” 

 

“Yeah, I-” The room is dead silent. “I just need to-” 

 

“Let’s go somewhere more private.” Hiroaki grabs Takeshi by the wrist, pulling him towards the hall of dressing rooms. “Seiko, cover for me.” 

 

“I am not a model.” Seiko says icily. But she doesn’t move to stop them, so that’s good enough for him. 

 

Hiroaki shuts the door behind him and sits Takeshi down in the makeup chair. Though he doubts Takeshi’s going to get any work done in this state. 

 

“So… Do you want to talk to me about… anything?” Hiroaki’s words feel fragile as glass, and similarly painful in his throat. He never gets this sappy with anyone, what is he doing?

 

“No, I just– God, this is so stupid. I’m the one who was late and now I’m dragging everything down again–” 

 

“Wait, stop. You’re not dragging anything down.” Hiroaki resists the urge to grab Takeshi by the collar and shake him out of his stupor. “Can you tell me… why you’re so upset?” 

 

“I don’t know– no–” Takeshi swallows roughly. “I think I just need a moment.” 

 

“Okay, that’s fine.” Hiroaki steps back, his back hitting the dresser. “I can do that. I’ll come back in a few minute–”

 

“No. Um. You can stay. I probably shouldn’t be alone right now.” He flushes. “You know, in case I space out and break something.” 

 

“Oh, sure. That works too.” 

 

The stillness between them stretches like a pulled tendon. There’s a need, an urge in the air to say something, but Hiroaki can’t for the life of him figure out what. 

 

“Can you… say something?” Takeshi asks. 

 

“About what?”

 

“I don’t know. Just talk. I need to feel real right now.” He pauses to think. “About you, maybe? I realized a few seconds ago that I… don’t really know that much about you.” 

 

“Okay, well. I’m great at talking about myself. I’m the Hiroaki Nakamigawa, the foremost menswear designer in all of Japan!” Flinging his arms out in a grandiose gesture, Hiroaki lets himself fall into the narrative of the overconfident, narcissistic celebrity. 

 

This role is familiar. This role he knows so very well. In this role, he doesn’t have to give anything up. 

 

“No, not about that.” Takeshi interrupts. “That’s just your job. What about you?” 

 

“I- Huh? My job is a part of me.” 

 

“Well, yeah, but I know all about that. What’s your favorite color?” 

 

“I… don’t really have one. Definitely not green.” 

 

Takeshi scoffs. “How can you not have a favorite color?” 

 

“I’m a fashion designer! I think all colors can work if they’re used correctly.” 

 

“Fine. Did you have any pets growing up?” 

 

“No, parents didn’t like them.” 

 

“Have you ever been outside the country?” 

 

“Duh, plenty of times. You don’t get famous and not travel.” 

 

“Have you ever dated someone?” 

 

Hiroaki gapes, the temperature in the room spiking a dozen degrees. “Why, that’s awfully forward of you.” 

 

Takeshi shrugs. “I’m just asking.” 

 

“Yes, I have.” 

 

“Who was he?” 

 

“Wha- It was a she! Multiple shes!” 

 

“Really?” Takeshi makes a strange expression. “I thought for sure you were gay.” 

 

Hiroaki opens his mouth. And then closes it. And then opens it again. He’s sure he looks completely inane, but then again, what Takeshi just said was the definition of completely inane. 

 

“I’ve dated women.” He repeats, firmly. 

 

“Okay, well, that doesn’t really mean anything. I mean, I’m bi.” Takeshi says, casual as all hell. 

 

Hiroaki feels like he’s slipped into an alternative universe. How can he stand to just… say things like that? He reminds himself bitterly that Takeshi isn’t the face of an entire mainstream fashion brand. Takeshi doesn’t have paparazzi projecting his every move onto the cover of every fashion magazine in the country. 

 

He reminds himself, also, that it’s not Takeshi’s fault. 

 

“Good for you.” He says finally. “That’s not really relevant to me.” 

 

Takeshi looks down. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” 

 

“It’s fine.” He pauses, guilty immediately (why is he guilty immediately???). “Are you… feeling better at least?” 

 

“Yeah.” He breathes out, some mix of relief and chagrin in the sound. “Sorry for slowing everything down.” 

 

“I already said you aren’t. Stop thinking like that, you know this project couldn’t even happen without you.” 

 

Takeshi startles, cocking his head. “I don’t, actually. What do you mean?” 

 

“Uh– nevermind. I didn’t say anything.” 

 

“No, no. What was that?” Something almost like a smile is hanging stupidly off his face now, the sadist. “Say it again.” 

 

“Fine. You’re my muse, or whatever. Is that what you wanted to hear?” Twin emotions of gratitude and embarrassment burn icy hot in Hiroaki’s gut. “You already knew this entire collection is based on you.” 

 

“I don’t know,” Takeshi says. “it looked like you and that Yanagi guy were working great together a second ago.” 

 

“You-! That was just for the shoot! Because the model who was supposed to be his partner didn’t show up!” 

 

“Mhmm, I believe you.” The stupidly smug expression on his face makes Hiroaki want to slap him. But it’s better than crying, so he doesn’t. 

 

“If you’re feeling uppity enough to be annoying, you’re probably fine to get back to work.” Hiroaki steps towards the door. “I’ll send in some stylists to get you looking presentable.” 

 

“Oh, hold on. One more thing.” 

 

“What?” 

 

“Do you want to get dinner with me sometime?”

 

Hiroaki is rendered speechless for possibly the fourth time today. “Sorry, I just had a momentary auditory hallucination, what did you just say?”  

 

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Takeshi sighs. “Not like that. Just to talk. I want to know more about… well, you.” 

 

“I-... um. I’m pretty busy–” 

 

“I’ll pay.” 

 

“Oh. Okay then.” 

 

A smirk dances across Takeshi’s face, a rare break from his previously cloudy exterior. “Seriously? That easy?” 

 

Hiroaki valiantly resists the urge to kick him in the shin. “Well, I suppose if you’re offering, I suppose I can’t turn down an opportunity to dine with the great Ojima Takeshi.” 

 

“Cool. Does Friday work?” 

 

“I’ll… check my schedule. I’ll text you.” Hiroaki strides towards the door, turning away so Takeshi can’t spot the warmth flowering like poppy blooms across his face. “Bye.”

 

The door shuts behind him with a click. He slumps heavily against it, not trusting his muscles to carry him in the moment. 

 

What just happened? And why does he feel so outrageously happy about it?

 

“Nakamigawa! Are you okay?” A head of stupidly spiky blonde hair enters his field of vision. 

 

Ah. There goes the happiness.

 

“It’s Hiroaki.” He spits. “I’m fine. Let’s just finish the shoot.” 

 

Brushing past Yanagi, Hiroaki reaches up and touches his cheek. Still burning, still yearning, still wanting. 

 

Hiroaki seriously needs to stop. This isn’t going to end well– for anyone. 

 

But he knows he won’t.

 

His heart wasn’t his own anymore. He’d signed it away to a daydreamer with pretty tears and prettier words, with a signature on a dotted line. 

 

---

To his credit, Takeshi has the decency to arrive on time for his own da– no, not a date. Dinner. His own dinner. 

 

And even more incredibly, he’d managed to dress himself up nice enough that Hiroaki didn’t feel ashamed sitting at the same table as him. That was the true miracle of the night, he reckons. 

 

“Who are you and what’ve you done to Takeshi’s fashion sense?” Hiroaki drawls as the other slides into his seat at the table. “What happened to rumpled-hair and tie-tucked-into-pants Takeshi?” 

 

Takeshi flushed furiously, gingerly lifting a hand to his clearly gelled hair. “My brothers did this. I don’t know why they made such a big deal over it, but they insisted that I looked ‘actually presentable for once.’ Whatever that means.” 

 

“Well, they did a hell of a job. I barely recognize you.” Hiroaki makes a face. “Except… black studs? Really?” 

 

“That was Tetsuya’s doing. Does it look bad?” 

 

“Well– no, I guess. Just very… of the era, you know? Like, its a bit eboy.”

 

Takeshi stares at him blankly. 

 

“...It looks fine.” 

 

A waiter approaches them, graciously saving them from the beat of awkwardness. Hiroaki orders absentmindedly, watching as Takeshi squints at the menu. He scrunches his brow in concentration, wrinkles forming over the bridge of his nose as his pale blue eyes scan the options, and— what the hell why was Hiroaki gawking at him reading a restaurant menu like a creep.

 

He tears his eyes away, instead taking in the restaurant Takeshi had chosen. It looked expensive as sin, and from the prices on the menu it definitely was. He knew Takeshi was an Ojima, but still, why do this much for him? It had to mean something, right? A veiled clue for some deeper motivation?

 

Is he overthinking this? He's probably overthinking this. 

 

“So, these brothers of yours.” Hiroaki probes. “You haven’t told me that much about them.”

 

“Oh, they’re great. Tetsuya’s a utaite and Takumi’s an influencer.” Takeshi furrows his brows. “Is that what ‘eboy’ means?”

 

“Uh– sure. A utaite and an influencer? That’s not really what I expected from… well, the sons of Ojima Shigeo.” 

 

Takeshi shrugs. “They’re not supposed to take over the company, so my dad pretty much lets them do what they want. Career-wise, at least.” 

 

“Wait, you’re supposed to take over the company?” He’s not sure why this is surprising news to him, considering Takeshi’s always complaining about being dragged along to Shigeo’s meetings. “Aren’t you the youngest?” 

 

“My brothers didn’t want it. And they weren’t… the best in school.”

 

“And you are?” 

 

“Hey! Rude.” The wounded look on his face only lasts a second. “No, I’m not. But I’m better than them, at least.” 

 

“Well… do you want to take over the company?” 

 

Takeshi stills. A tremor runs through him, vibrating the tablecloth ever so slightly. “It doesn’t really matter.” He sighs. “Who else is gonna do it?” 

 

“But–”

 

“Nakamigawa. It’s fine.” 

 

Hiroaki blinks. “Um, okay. If you say so.”

 

The waiter, ever gracious in her divinity-gifted timing, interrupts the tense pause with their food. Takeshi, recovering from his outburst, shoots him a small smile as the steaming plate is set before him. (That’s what a reassuring smile actually looks like, Yanagi.)

 

“Look, it’s alright. I’ve come to terms with it.” He plays idly with his fork. “Plus, being the heir apparent to Ojima Insurance means I get away with a lot of stuff. It's useful for all the trouble I get into with my zoning out.”

 

“Like breaking into the office of the Hiroaki Nakamigawa?” Hiroaki says. 

 

“Yeah, exactly like that.” Takeshi quiets, contemplating. “I guess being the heir was the reason why I met you, then.” 

 

If this were a date, the next thing Takeshi says would be So it’s not that bad, I guess. If this were a date, Hiroaki would smirk at the flattery, and shoot back some egotistical remark that left Takeshi rolling his eyes. If this were a date, Hiroaki would hide his face in his bowl, unsuccessfully disguising the incriminating flush of heat up his neck. 

 

“So it’s not that bad, I guess.” 

 

Ah. So that’s how it is. 

 

Hiroaki forces another spoonful down his throat, not trusting what he’d say if he could speak. Would he play along, flirty and narcissistic and effortlessly charming? A dream date?

 

He’s scared to find out. So he’s silent, save for his breathing that sounds too loud in his ears and his heartbeat that feels too quick in his chest. 

 

Takeshi—thank god—doesn’t seem to notice, moving on to ask about Hiroaki’s siblings or schooling or some other meaningless, manageable small talk. 

 

Hiroaki smiles as easy as lying, as easy as dying. 

 

Takeshi laughs as easy as falling in love. 

 

Neither of them notice the time passing by, or the restaurant slowly clearing of customers finishing dinner. Takeshi handles his check, true to his word, and Hiroaki imagines the last vestiges of his sanity disappearing with the scratch of Takeshi's pen on paper.

 

By the time they leave the restaurant, Tokyo is painted in hues of inky black. 

 

“I think I lost track of time in there.” Takeshi whispers, as if speaking louder than a hush will shatter the fragile nightscape. 

 

“Yeah, me too.” Irrationally, Hiroaki whispers as well. 

 

“Um. I’m taking the train back, so…” 

 

“So am I.” 

 

“Oh- right. It’s just a few blocks away.” 

 

“Duh, I know that. Let’s go.” 

 

Star-drunk and dead on his feet, Hiroaki does something really, really stupid. He grabs Takeshi’s hand. 

 

Every muscle in Hiroaki’s body tenses the moment they touch. Takeshi does too, pausing midstep. He’s stone-still. At once, the contented flush on Hiroaki’s skin turns into brisk, frigid cold as Takeshi wrenches his arm away, fast as a retreating viper. 

 

“Ah- wait, I–” The panic in Takeshi’s voice streaks through Hiroaki, black lightning. He’s revolted. Because of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be?

 

“No.” Hiroaki says. “I get it, sorry.” 

 

“No, it was just...” Takeshi swallows. “A bit sudden.” 

 

Warmth surges like vengeful wounds up Hiroaki’s body, choking out his breath. “You don’t have to explain yourself.” He surges forward, but there’s a hand on his, and this time he hadn’t been the one to reach out.

 

“Wait, you’ve got the wrong idea–” 

 

“Yeah, I know. I have for a while, I think.” Hiroaki's tongue is dead in his mouth. "I guess we're done here then-" 

 

“No, I want to hold hands with you!” Takeshi blurts. Hiroaki hears his words through a wind tunnel, lilted and distant. He turns, mind reeling and uncomprehending and unbelieving. 

 

“What?” Newly suspicious eyes examine every corner of Takeshi’s expression, looking for mockery and dishonesty. He’s never found either before, not with Takeshi, so why is he so sure he’d spot them now? “You better not be messing with me.” 

 

“I’m not. I do.” 

 

“Then why don’t you?” 

 

“I just– can’t.” 

 

“Why not?”

 

“It’s– It’s none of your business–” 

 

“How is that none of my business?” Hiroaki explodes. “You can’t just– agree to model for me, and pretend you actually like me, and tell me you’re bi and take me out to dinner and suddenly claim it’s none of my business?” 

 

“I’m sorry for leading you on–” 

 

“Leading me on? I’m not some dumb teenage girl, Takeshi, I just need you to make up your mind.” He outstretches a hand, pretending to not see how it trembles. “Do you want to hold my hand or not?” 

 

“You don’t get it.” Takeshi’s face is furrowed in distress, hard lines etched into his once well-stenciled features. “It’s not that simple.”

 

“It’s really not that hard–” Hiroaki reaches out a hand, extending it towards Takeshi’s own. But as he brushes against Takeshi’s shirt sleeve, the other jerks violently back.

 

“Wait- Don’t touch me.” His voice is breaking. Scared. Scared of Hiroaki. “I can’t.”

 

“Takeshi? What’s wrong?” 

 

“I– I can’t do this. Can’t touch you–” 

 

“Why not?” Hiroaki hates how needy he sounds. His pleading is childish and desperate, but he can’t understand. He’s Hiroaki Nakamigawa, and he should be wanted. He’s Hiroaki Nakamigawa, and he should be wanted. “What’s wrong with me?”

 

“It’s not about you!” Something shatters in Hiroaki’s brain. Takeshi pulls his hand close to his chest, breathing heavily. “You don’t get to know this. Not this. You– you don’t get to ask.” 

 

Takeshi steps back. Hiroaki steps forward. 

 

Takeshi steps back. Hiroaki stops. 

 

Takeshi turns to go. Hiroaki doesn’t chase him. 

 

A three-step dance, executed perfectly. Hiroaki wonders if that’s all they’ve been doing: dancing around each other.  

 

Takeshi recedes into the night, turned back running from him. He doesn’t understand why, but he supposes he doesn’t really need to. Mortification and shame are feelings he knows well. It’s no surprise he inspires them in others as well. 

 

The only shocking part is how long it’s taken for Takeshi to discover how rotten through he really was. 

 

Hiroaki Nakamigawa wakes up on a Saturday morning, and his dream boy disappears with the sleep he blinks from his eyes.