Raw Sugar
Title: Raw Sugar
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Ohno Satoshi/Kuroki Meisa
Summary: On most days, Meisa wishes she hadn’t chosen money over happiness. Then again, she’s not too sure what happiness is or could have been.
Notes/Warnings: For Wannatee and Jackie, who ship this. From a song by Metric: Raw sugar / I don't wanna die living in a high-rise grave. Fluffity fluff~
On most days, Meisa wishes she hadn’t chosen money over happiness. Then again, she’s not too sure what happiness is or could have been.
When she was fifteen, she lived three blocks from the ocean, occasionally slipping off her shoes and walking in the sand on the way home from school. Now she goes from high-rise to high-rise. Her condo’s much too big for someone who’s barely twenty-three. She goes from there to her manager’s office, another skyscraper in the maze. From there to meetings. From there to the runway. And when she visits the sea now, it’s always for work, and it comes with a camera crew and someone attacking her with hair spray.
There are worse things than being a model, Meisa knows. She just wishes that when the scout had come by that she hadn’t answered the door.
--
“Kuroki-san! This way! Beautiful!” The flashes go off, and she keeps the smile, pivoting in the towering heels they have her in. She’s pretty sure most women wouldn’t be able to balance in these, but if she’s wearing them and there’s posters all over Shibuya, they’ll buy them anyway. “You’re gorgeous, sultry!” Click, click. Flash.
The jeans are a little too tight, and she’s pretty sure there will be indentations on her skin from the seams and buttons later, but she does what she’s paid to do, and when all’s said and done, the photographer calls her aside. With the five inch heels she’s advertising, she stands considerably taller than him, Nino as he’s known professionally. Her smile from the shoot doesn’t waver, even if he tries this every time they meet.
“Kurokitty,” he says, leaning close as he makes like he’s showing her some of the photos on the monitor. It’s not a nickname that she likes, less so because she doesn’t consider Ninomiya-san close enough to use it. “Kurokitty-chan, are you busy tonight?”
Her manager’s talking with other staff. She’s no use. “Ninomiya-san,” she says gently. Maybe it’s her lack of aggression that keeps him asking. “Thank you very much, but I have other plans.”
He clicks the mouse, sighing. “Blinking in this one,” he comments as her dismissal. She resists the urge to roll her eyes - it’s an honor and privilege to be photographed by Nino. It’s just not as much of a privilege when he hits on you.
“Date him and you’ll go places,” her manager chides her later.
She goes enough places. She’s a little young to be jaded about love, but her surroundings don’t help.
“He just wants to bag a model,” she says when the makeup comes off and she’s herself again. She wonders if anyone actually knows there’s a difference.
--
Meisa can tell right away that Sakurai Sho isn’t usually responsible for the fashion column. Seems as though his magazine is cutting staff and those remaining are filling in the gaps.
He’s visibly bored as he reads through his copious notes. He’s come prepared, but he doesn’t necessarily understand what he’s written down. “So you’re...you’ve been to Milan this year?”
“Yes,” she answers him politely. Even if her selling points are her face and body, she does her best to speak intelligently and not give her profession a bad name. “Twice.”
“Why twice?” he asks, scribbling things down, and she grips the arm of the chair a little tighter in her frustration.
“Milan hosts Fashion Week twice a year.”
“Oh.”
The interview continues painfully with Sakurai going through his notes, most likely wishing he was covering the latest political scandal. But they eventually wrap up, and it’s only then that Sakurai seems to notice her.
His eyes don’t linger long, but it gives him enough courage to smile and slide over one of his business cards from inside his jacket. “It’s been so lovely to chat with you, thank you,” he says, no longer bumbling. He inclines his head slightly. “Kuroki-san, I don’t mean to be forward...”
He does, Meisa knows. He does indeed mean to be forward.
“...but if you’re at all free the rest of the afternoon, there’s a rather charming coffee shop a few blocks from here. We could talk more. Without the script, I mean.”
He’s good looking, but he only sees her as long legs and hair he can probably yank while he’s getting intimate with his first model. “It was nice to meet with you,” she says, shouldering her bag, “but I’m afraid I have another interview.”
She knows he’s watching her leave.
--
The agency’s set this one up. More like her manager’s confused by her lack of interest in dating at all. Matsumoto Jun’s in another agency, and Meisa knows he has a spotless reputation. But he’s as aware that she is that this is just a set-up in hopes of the paparazzi giving both of their careers a boost.
He spends most of their dinner hiding behind the menu or leaning to hide his face. He’s career driven. All he talks about is himself. He even sets his bag on the table while they’re waiting for dessert. She sips her wine and watches him take out bottle after bottle, jar after tiny jar.
“Kuroki-san,” he says politely, holding up one of the bottles. “This is great for elbows. I know you do a lot of beach shoots. With all the sand, it’s understandable. Dryness.”
She takes it and looks at it, unscrewing the lid. A medicinal smell, almost overpowering. Regular lotion’s just fine for her elbows and elsewhere. She’s only 23. He thrusts another tub under her nose.
“Cuticles.”
She doesn’t offer him her phone number, and he doesn’t ask for it either.
--
Aiba’s a nice guy. He’s a comedian, on lots of variety shows. He lives down the hall, and they’ve met in the laundry room a few times.
He’s a nice guy, but he doesn’t know how to talk to her. He tries to make up for it by staring at her chest instead of her eyes. “I was hoping you’d like to go to a movie sometime,” he explains shyly, eyes darting up and down and staying down for most of it. “As neighbors of course.”
Her manager’s curious what went wrong with Matsumoto. Her manager doesn’t want her to get a frigid reputation, even though cool glances and serious eyes have gotten her pretty far in her career. So she agrees, half-heartedly, to the date with Aiba. As neighbors. She should have known right away that was a lie. Or a joke. Meisa’s never really paid attention to Aiba’s gags on television.
The shyness dims along with the cinema lights, and his fingers find her knee and squeeze. “You aren’t really going to watch the movie, are you?” he asks, breath warm against her ear.
Perhaps Aiba-san has assumed too much after Meisa’s let him borrow laundry detergent here and there. It’s been a long time since someone’s come so close and not for a photoshoot. Maybe since she’s come to Tokyo. She doesn’t necessarily dislike the attention, but she doesn’t know him. He’s probably just like everyone else - having fantasies about Kuroki Meisa, the model.
She hates to break it to him, but she doesn’t move this fast. Her fingers curl around his where they’re trying to work up her thigh. “Aiba-san,” she whispers as the previews start. “I’d like to watch the movie.”
He doesn’t touch her again. He also, thankfully, doesn’t mention her by name on one of the programs he’s on the following week when he admits to being rejected by a famous model. The other panelists have a good laugh at his expense, and she switches the channel.
--
She’s not feeling well at all. Jet lag from New York and a head cold, and her manager’s trying to get her to go to the hospital. She’s not that ill and tells the woman off. Kuroki Meisa the model is flawless and airbrushed, but Kuroki Meisa the person dresses in sweatpants and a t-shirt when she’s ill.
Instead of going to the hospital or some specialist doctor, she’s perfectly capable of going to the convenience store around the corner for cold medicine. The man behind the counter is reading a magazine when she walks in, wearing glasses as her only means of disguise. She’s sick - there’s no motivation to try when she just needs something to knock her out.
She shuffles through the store in her sweats, grabbing the first box she sees in the medicine aisle. The employee looks up from his magazine, and there’s none of the usual recognition in his eyes. In fact, he looks at the box she’s set down instead.
“Oh. I hope you feel better soon,” he says. “But are you sure you want this one?”
She’s already got her wallet open. “Of course, just ring it up.”
He smiles, and it’s genuine. It’s not the smile of someone trying to get something from her or trying to impress her. “Well, this is the kids’ dosage.” He sets it back down and comes out from behind the counter. “Stay here.”
She wonders if the glasses really are that effective. She’s on the cover of at least half a dozen magazines that the employee walks by on his way back to the medicine aisle. He returns, shaking the box a bit. She notices how tan he is - it’s almost like being back home, living near the sea.
“This is the adult dosage. I think it’ll help you,” he says. “Although I’m sure the kids’ kind tastes better.”
“Thank you,” she tells him as he puts it in a bag for her. “Guess I’m in a hurry, not reading things.”
He just nods and hands over the change. “Thank you. Please come again.”
--
Maybe it’s the cold medication or the fact that he didn’t recognize her, but Meisa dreams about the guy at the convenience store. She wakes with the oddest urge to see him again.
But it passes.
She gets back to work, smiles, poses, answers interviewer questions. She even shows up for a variety show or two - her manager says it’s good public relations, makes her seem more approachable.
She goes from high-rise to high-rise. It feels more and more like she’s disappearing.
--
She’s nearly forgotten the friendly convenience store clerk the next time she visits. The same glasses for a disguise, she’s having a few juniors over for dinner. She’s not a really expert cook - she’d prefer one of her favorite yakiniku places, but the newer girls in the agency are all concerned about their weight and a dinner of meat seems abhorrent to them.
She looks at some packaged vegetarian meals, wondering if the supermarket would have been a better choice. She turns the corner with her basket, nearly colliding with him. The clerk with the out of season tan and an easy smile.
“Ah, it’s you...”
Normally, when Meisa hears that, it’s always followed with “...the model.”
He grins. “...the children’s cough drops.”
She blushes, and she wonders when she last had such a reaction. Does he really not know who she is? It’s invigorating. “Not cough drops,” she reminds him. “Cold medicine.”
He nods, as if remembering, before going back to the pallet of drinks he’s unloading onto the display case. “Let me know if you need help finding anything.”
She lingers in the aisle, noticing that the clerk hums while he works. Maybe it’s because nobody else is in the store but her. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. But his voice is soft, only barely audible over the tinny store radio. She grabs a vegetarian soup stock and decides she’ll throw it in a pot with some vegetables.
“I see you got better.” He starts to ring up her purchases.
“I did, thanks to you,” she says. Is she...flirting? Does she even know how to after so long? After so long being pursued can she actually be the one pursuing?
He shrugs. “You were a little woozy. Didn’t want you to waste your money.”
“You do that for everyone?”
He pauses with the scanner in his hand. “Hmm. No.”
“Just sick people?”
“No.” The scanner beeps. “That’ll be 1423 yen.”
She pays and takes the bag, feeling like a high school girl once more. Then again, she never really acted like a “high school girl” that much even when she was one. Is she really thinking about a convenience store clerk? Someone with messy, spiky hair working part-time at the Lawson around the corner? When she could be with anyone she could ever want?
Meisa’s halfway to the door when she hears him call after her. “Excuse me!” Her heart’s racing until he walks up and opens his hand. “Your change. Sorry.”
--
And yet, she finds more excuses to go to the little store around the corner. She starts buying things she probably won’t even eat. Half the time she goes, and he’s not behind the counter or stocking the shelves. It’s stupid, she realizes. She doesn’t even know his name.
She’s not the type to ask someone out, or even ask to get to know them better. She’s not sure if it’s shyness or just being used to people approaching her first. She can’t think of anything to buy on her next day off, but she goes to the store anyway, wondering if he’ll be there.
Thankfully, he is, but she’s nervous. Maybe this time she’ll at least sneak a glance at his nametag. When she gets to the counter empty-handed, his eyes widen slightly.
“Hi,” she says, glancing at the plastic tag over his left pocket. Ohno.
“Can I help you?”
Yes. No. Well...
“Um, do you like art?” he asks her when she doesn’t reply.
“I’m sorry?”
“Art,” he repeats himself, not at all annoyed with her. At least as far as she can tell. “There’s a new exhibition opening up at the gallery around the corner. I’ve got a day off tomorrow.”
It seems like he’s taking the initiative. Wait. Is he even asking her out? Is he just suggesting they go as...well, not friends. As...convenience store employee and convenience store customer? He’s waiting patiently for an answer. He seems to have eternal patience where she’s concerned.
Instead of a simple yes or no, she bolts from the counter with far less than her usual grace as she disappears behind the magazines. He has to know. She has to tell him. It’s easier if he knows. She returns, and the hurt look on his face changes as she approaches with the latest copy of JJ.
She sets it down, finger tapping her own forehead on the cover. “Before you say anything else, I need you to know that’s me. I’m her. The girl there.”
He leans over the counter until he’s staring at the magazine cover. “Huh.”
“Kuroki Meisa,” she introduces herself, feeling suddenly embarrassed. “I just...I needed you to know that. If you really want me to go to this art gallery. I won’t be upset if you change your mind.” Except she really would be.
“Why would I change my mind? You mean you’d actually go?” he asks curiously, looking up at her. He’s got such a round face that he looks a lot younger than he might actually be.
“Yes.”
He looks back down at the magazine. “It really is you.”
“Yes.”
“Wow.”
“You’re sure? About tomorrow?”
He nods, smiling almost nervously. But he hasn’t become like the others - he’s clearly impressed by her fame, but there’s nothing manipulative in his eyes, no conniving look to him at all. “Yes, I’d like to see you. Oh, and I’m Ohno by the way. Ohno Satoshi.”
They make plans to meet at the gallery at noon the following day. And maybe, Meisa thinks, just maybe things are starting to look up.
--
She’s late. Her photoshoot had been scheduled to end at 10:30, and it was already after noon when she got in the company car to head home. She doesn’t have a phone number or anything, so she’s horrified that she’s going to find him standing outside the gallery thinking she’s ditched him.
She manages to change into something casual in record time (it helps that she’s used to changing on the fly) and hurries back out, past the convenience store to the art gallery Ohno-san had mentioned. What she doesn’t expect is the crowd. Her convenience store clerk is nowhere to be found, and she worries that he’s left already.
She debates whether or not to go inside and see if he’s waiting, and that’s when she spies the poster outside: OHNO SATOSHI FREESTYLE II.
Wait, this is his exhibition? And sure enough in the corner of the poster there’s a small photograph in black and white. His hair’s styled differently, and he’s got the distant stare of an attractive man who doesn't realize it, but it’s definitely her clerk. She heads inside and buys an admission ticket to the gallery, seeing dozens of well-dressed people walking around and admiring the art.
Ohno-san’s not just a convenience clerk after all - he’s incredibly talented. One wall of the exhibition is lined with stone pedestals and different, intricately-carved wax figurines atop each of them. Another wall has a dozen or more framed sketches in pencil or ink. And then there are the paintings, canvases streaked with bright colors, almost chaotic. Ohno’s work is alive, she thinks. It’s gorgeous.
She hears whispers as she approaches the wall of sketches. People are starting to notice her, but she doesn’t care as one of the inked drawings catches her eye. The eyes are larger behind the glasses she recognizes, and the nose is pink, but it’s the same hairstyle, the same way she carries herself. Beneath the sketch is a tiny card naming the picture as “Under the Weather.” It’s her, the first time she went into his store.
Ohno’s sketched her and added it to his exhibition. And, Meisa thinks, he’s captured her better than any photographer’s lens possibly could.
“Thanks for coming,” she hears behind her, and she turns to see Ohno-san himself standing there, hands shoved in his pockets.
“You drew me?”
“I’m sorry,” he says as visitors to the exhibition continue to mill around and look at his various works. “I should have asked your permission first. I hope you don’t think it’s creepy of me...”
“No,” she says, looking at the picture again. How well he’s captured her at a time when she was feeling so awful, but at the same time, it’s honest. And it’s real. “No, I think it’s wonderful.”
“I’m a little busy right now,” he tells her shyly. “I didn’t think so many people would come. See you again soon?”
“Of course.”
She reads the exhibition booklet. He’s been in dozens of exhibitions, dozens of magazines, and he’s won just as many awards for his work. It turns out that Meisa’s not the only famous one. She’d been so self-absorbed, worrying about him not knowing who she is when at the same time she could have been learning more about him as well. The same fingers and hands that had handed over her change at the store created all these amazing works of art.
When the gallery closes for the night, she’s waiting outside for him. “So why do you work at Lawson if you’re an artist?”
He smiles as they stroll down the emptied street. “Some extra money. Plus, you need to have something to draw, I guess. And I usually draw people. I mean, I could spend my whole day locked in my studio sketching, but then I don’t get to see anyone. I need to see people.”
“You saw me. And you drew me with a stuffy nose.”
“It was cute. It inspired me,” he teases. “Your agency’s not going to sue me for reproducing your image, are they?”
She laughs, blushing. Cute’s not a word many people use to describe her. “I don’t think so, not if you’re as acclaimed as the Ohno Satoshi Freestyle II guide says you are.”
He seems embarrassed. “It’s not a big deal.”
She’s about to correct him, about to tell him just how great his art was, but isn’t that the same thing she wants people to stop doing to her? Isn’t that what she’s trying to escape? Instead she stays quiet, and they manage to make it to her building.
“This is me,” she says awkwardly. His hands have been jammed in his pockets the whole walk back. She thinks that in a Hollywood movie, maybe he’d kiss her, but they’re a long way from Hollywood, and they’re still learning about each other. But she realizes in that moment that she wants him to kiss her. She wants everything with him, and the feeling of it is so new, so intense that she can’t meet his eyes.
“Well, Kuroki-san,” he says politely. “Thanks again for coming.”
“Can I see you again?” she asks.
He almost looks relieved. “I was hoping you’d ask me that.”
--
His head finally pokes around the side of the canvas. “Okay, I think we’re done for today.”
She sighs, getting up from the stool he’s had her sitting on and stretching. “I think I liked it more when you drew me from memory.”
He laughs. “You said it was okay!”
“I’ve been sitting for three hours.” She walks over to stand behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders. The sight on the canvas makes her gasp as it usually does. The entire picture this time is her eyes - he’d had her sitting about five or six feet away, and yet he’s managed to capture so much. Light and shadow, striking color, so much complexity. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s you, so of course it is.”
She blushes deeply at that, giving him a shake. “Embarrassing!”
When she’d stepped into the convenience store months back, she’d never expected to become and never wanted to be anyone’s muse. But, Meisa thinks, it really isn’t so bad as Ohno gets off his stool and takes her hand. By now, she doesn’t mind the roughness of his hands and the small, dried patches of paint that tend to cake them.
“I’m done working for today,” he declares as he leads her out of his new workshop. He slides open the door and lets the sunshine pour in. Palm trees sway as the ocean waves flow up and meet the sandy beach. When he kisses her, it’s a bit like floating.
There isn’t a skyscraper in sight.
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Ohno Satoshi/Kuroki Meisa
Summary: On most days, Meisa wishes she hadn’t chosen money over happiness. Then again, she’s not too sure what happiness is or could have been.
Notes/Warnings: For Wannatee and Jackie, who ship this. From a song by Metric: Raw sugar / I don't wanna die living in a high-rise grave. Fluffity fluff~
On most days, Meisa wishes she hadn’t chosen money over happiness. Then again, she’s not too sure what happiness is or could have been.
When she was fifteen, she lived three blocks from the ocean, occasionally slipping off her shoes and walking in the sand on the way home from school. Now she goes from high-rise to high-rise. Her condo’s much too big for someone who’s barely twenty-three. She goes from there to her manager’s office, another skyscraper in the maze. From there to meetings. From there to the runway. And when she visits the sea now, it’s always for work, and it comes with a camera crew and someone attacking her with hair spray.
There are worse things than being a model, Meisa knows. She just wishes that when the scout had come by that she hadn’t answered the door.
--
“Kuroki-san! This way! Beautiful!” The flashes go off, and she keeps the smile, pivoting in the towering heels they have her in. She’s pretty sure most women wouldn’t be able to balance in these, but if she’s wearing them and there’s posters all over Shibuya, they’ll buy them anyway. “You’re gorgeous, sultry!” Click, click. Flash.
The jeans are a little too tight, and she’s pretty sure there will be indentations on her skin from the seams and buttons later, but she does what she’s paid to do, and when all’s said and done, the photographer calls her aside. With the five inch heels she’s advertising, she stands considerably taller than him, Nino as he’s known professionally. Her smile from the shoot doesn’t waver, even if he tries this every time they meet.
“Kurokitty,” he says, leaning close as he makes like he’s showing her some of the photos on the monitor. It’s not a nickname that she likes, less so because she doesn’t consider Ninomiya-san close enough to use it. “Kurokitty-chan, are you busy tonight?”
Her manager’s talking with other staff. She’s no use. “Ninomiya-san,” she says gently. Maybe it’s her lack of aggression that keeps him asking. “Thank you very much, but I have other plans.”
He clicks the mouse, sighing. “Blinking in this one,” he comments as her dismissal. She resists the urge to roll her eyes - it’s an honor and privilege to be photographed by Nino. It’s just not as much of a privilege when he hits on you.
“Date him and you’ll go places,” her manager chides her later.
She goes enough places. She’s a little young to be jaded about love, but her surroundings don’t help.
“He just wants to bag a model,” she says when the makeup comes off and she’s herself again. She wonders if anyone actually knows there’s a difference.
--
Meisa can tell right away that Sakurai Sho isn’t usually responsible for the fashion column. Seems as though his magazine is cutting staff and those remaining are filling in the gaps.
He’s visibly bored as he reads through his copious notes. He’s come prepared, but he doesn’t necessarily understand what he’s written down. “So you’re...you’ve been to Milan this year?”
“Yes,” she answers him politely. Even if her selling points are her face and body, she does her best to speak intelligently and not give her profession a bad name. “Twice.”
“Why twice?” he asks, scribbling things down, and she grips the arm of the chair a little tighter in her frustration.
“Milan hosts Fashion Week twice a year.”
“Oh.”
The interview continues painfully with Sakurai going through his notes, most likely wishing he was covering the latest political scandal. But they eventually wrap up, and it’s only then that Sakurai seems to notice her.
His eyes don’t linger long, but it gives him enough courage to smile and slide over one of his business cards from inside his jacket. “It’s been so lovely to chat with you, thank you,” he says, no longer bumbling. He inclines his head slightly. “Kuroki-san, I don’t mean to be forward...”
He does, Meisa knows. He does indeed mean to be forward.
“...but if you’re at all free the rest of the afternoon, there’s a rather charming coffee shop a few blocks from here. We could talk more. Without the script, I mean.”
He’s good looking, but he only sees her as long legs and hair he can probably yank while he’s getting intimate with his first model. “It was nice to meet with you,” she says, shouldering her bag, “but I’m afraid I have another interview.”
She knows he’s watching her leave.
--
The agency’s set this one up. More like her manager’s confused by her lack of interest in dating at all. Matsumoto Jun’s in another agency, and Meisa knows he has a spotless reputation. But he’s as aware that she is that this is just a set-up in hopes of the paparazzi giving both of their careers a boost.
He spends most of their dinner hiding behind the menu or leaning to hide his face. He’s career driven. All he talks about is himself. He even sets his bag on the table while they’re waiting for dessert. She sips her wine and watches him take out bottle after bottle, jar after tiny jar.
“Kuroki-san,” he says politely, holding up one of the bottles. “This is great for elbows. I know you do a lot of beach shoots. With all the sand, it’s understandable. Dryness.”
She takes it and looks at it, unscrewing the lid. A medicinal smell, almost overpowering. Regular lotion’s just fine for her elbows and elsewhere. She’s only 23. He thrusts another tub under her nose.
“Cuticles.”
She doesn’t offer him her phone number, and he doesn’t ask for it either.
--
Aiba’s a nice guy. He’s a comedian, on lots of variety shows. He lives down the hall, and they’ve met in the laundry room a few times.
He’s a nice guy, but he doesn’t know how to talk to her. He tries to make up for it by staring at her chest instead of her eyes. “I was hoping you’d like to go to a movie sometime,” he explains shyly, eyes darting up and down and staying down for most of it. “As neighbors of course.”
Her manager’s curious what went wrong with Matsumoto. Her manager doesn’t want her to get a frigid reputation, even though cool glances and serious eyes have gotten her pretty far in her career. So she agrees, half-heartedly, to the date with Aiba. As neighbors. She should have known right away that was a lie. Or a joke. Meisa’s never really paid attention to Aiba’s gags on television.
The shyness dims along with the cinema lights, and his fingers find her knee and squeeze. “You aren’t really going to watch the movie, are you?” he asks, breath warm against her ear.
Perhaps Aiba-san has assumed too much after Meisa’s let him borrow laundry detergent here and there. It’s been a long time since someone’s come so close and not for a photoshoot. Maybe since she’s come to Tokyo. She doesn’t necessarily dislike the attention, but she doesn’t know him. He’s probably just like everyone else - having fantasies about Kuroki Meisa, the model.
She hates to break it to him, but she doesn’t move this fast. Her fingers curl around his where they’re trying to work up her thigh. “Aiba-san,” she whispers as the previews start. “I’d like to watch the movie.”
He doesn’t touch her again. He also, thankfully, doesn’t mention her by name on one of the programs he’s on the following week when he admits to being rejected by a famous model. The other panelists have a good laugh at his expense, and she switches the channel.
--
She’s not feeling well at all. Jet lag from New York and a head cold, and her manager’s trying to get her to go to the hospital. She’s not that ill and tells the woman off. Kuroki Meisa the model is flawless and airbrushed, but Kuroki Meisa the person dresses in sweatpants and a t-shirt when she’s ill.
Instead of going to the hospital or some specialist doctor, she’s perfectly capable of going to the convenience store around the corner for cold medicine. The man behind the counter is reading a magazine when she walks in, wearing glasses as her only means of disguise. She’s sick - there’s no motivation to try when she just needs something to knock her out.
She shuffles through the store in her sweats, grabbing the first box she sees in the medicine aisle. The employee looks up from his magazine, and there’s none of the usual recognition in his eyes. In fact, he looks at the box she’s set down instead.
“Oh. I hope you feel better soon,” he says. “But are you sure you want this one?”
She’s already got her wallet open. “Of course, just ring it up.”
He smiles, and it’s genuine. It’s not the smile of someone trying to get something from her or trying to impress her. “Well, this is the kids’ dosage.” He sets it back down and comes out from behind the counter. “Stay here.”
She wonders if the glasses really are that effective. She’s on the cover of at least half a dozen magazines that the employee walks by on his way back to the medicine aisle. He returns, shaking the box a bit. She notices how tan he is - it’s almost like being back home, living near the sea.
“This is the adult dosage. I think it’ll help you,” he says. “Although I’m sure the kids’ kind tastes better.”
“Thank you,” she tells him as he puts it in a bag for her. “Guess I’m in a hurry, not reading things.”
He just nods and hands over the change. “Thank you. Please come again.”
--
Maybe it’s the cold medication or the fact that he didn’t recognize her, but Meisa dreams about the guy at the convenience store. She wakes with the oddest urge to see him again.
But it passes.
She gets back to work, smiles, poses, answers interviewer questions. She even shows up for a variety show or two - her manager says it’s good public relations, makes her seem more approachable.
She goes from high-rise to high-rise. It feels more and more like she’s disappearing.
--
She’s nearly forgotten the friendly convenience store clerk the next time she visits. The same glasses for a disguise, she’s having a few juniors over for dinner. She’s not a really expert cook - she’d prefer one of her favorite yakiniku places, but the newer girls in the agency are all concerned about their weight and a dinner of meat seems abhorrent to them.
She looks at some packaged vegetarian meals, wondering if the supermarket would have been a better choice. She turns the corner with her basket, nearly colliding with him. The clerk with the out of season tan and an easy smile.
“Ah, it’s you...”
Normally, when Meisa hears that, it’s always followed with “...the model.”
He grins. “...the children’s cough drops.”
She blushes, and she wonders when she last had such a reaction. Does he really not know who she is? It’s invigorating. “Not cough drops,” she reminds him. “Cold medicine.”
He nods, as if remembering, before going back to the pallet of drinks he’s unloading onto the display case. “Let me know if you need help finding anything.”
She lingers in the aisle, noticing that the clerk hums while he works. Maybe it’s because nobody else is in the store but her. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. But his voice is soft, only barely audible over the tinny store radio. She grabs a vegetarian soup stock and decides she’ll throw it in a pot with some vegetables.
“I see you got better.” He starts to ring up her purchases.
“I did, thanks to you,” she says. Is she...flirting? Does she even know how to after so long? After so long being pursued can she actually be the one pursuing?
He shrugs. “You were a little woozy. Didn’t want you to waste your money.”
“You do that for everyone?”
He pauses with the scanner in his hand. “Hmm. No.”
“Just sick people?”
“No.” The scanner beeps. “That’ll be 1423 yen.”
She pays and takes the bag, feeling like a high school girl once more. Then again, she never really acted like a “high school girl” that much even when she was one. Is she really thinking about a convenience store clerk? Someone with messy, spiky hair working part-time at the Lawson around the corner? When she could be with anyone she could ever want?
Meisa’s halfway to the door when she hears him call after her. “Excuse me!” Her heart’s racing until he walks up and opens his hand. “Your change. Sorry.”
--
And yet, she finds more excuses to go to the little store around the corner. She starts buying things she probably won’t even eat. Half the time she goes, and he’s not behind the counter or stocking the shelves. It’s stupid, she realizes. She doesn’t even know his name.
She’s not the type to ask someone out, or even ask to get to know them better. She’s not sure if it’s shyness or just being used to people approaching her first. She can’t think of anything to buy on her next day off, but she goes to the store anyway, wondering if he’ll be there.
Thankfully, he is, but she’s nervous. Maybe this time she’ll at least sneak a glance at his nametag. When she gets to the counter empty-handed, his eyes widen slightly.
“Hi,” she says, glancing at the plastic tag over his left pocket. Ohno.
“Can I help you?”
Yes. No. Well...
“Um, do you like art?” he asks her when she doesn’t reply.
“I’m sorry?”
“Art,” he repeats himself, not at all annoyed with her. At least as far as she can tell. “There’s a new exhibition opening up at the gallery around the corner. I’ve got a day off tomorrow.”
It seems like he’s taking the initiative. Wait. Is he even asking her out? Is he just suggesting they go as...well, not friends. As...convenience store employee and convenience store customer? He’s waiting patiently for an answer. He seems to have eternal patience where she’s concerned.
Instead of a simple yes or no, she bolts from the counter with far less than her usual grace as she disappears behind the magazines. He has to know. She has to tell him. It’s easier if he knows. She returns, and the hurt look on his face changes as she approaches with the latest copy of JJ.
She sets it down, finger tapping her own forehead on the cover. “Before you say anything else, I need you to know that’s me. I’m her. The girl there.”
He leans over the counter until he’s staring at the magazine cover. “Huh.”
“Kuroki Meisa,” she introduces herself, feeling suddenly embarrassed. “I just...I needed you to know that. If you really want me to go to this art gallery. I won’t be upset if you change your mind.” Except she really would be.
“Why would I change my mind? You mean you’d actually go?” he asks curiously, looking up at her. He’s got such a round face that he looks a lot younger than he might actually be.
“Yes.”
He looks back down at the magazine. “It really is you.”
“Yes.”
“Wow.”
“You’re sure? About tomorrow?”
He nods, smiling almost nervously. But he hasn’t become like the others - he’s clearly impressed by her fame, but there’s nothing manipulative in his eyes, no conniving look to him at all. “Yes, I’d like to see you. Oh, and I’m Ohno by the way. Ohno Satoshi.”
They make plans to meet at the gallery at noon the following day. And maybe, Meisa thinks, just maybe things are starting to look up.
--
She’s late. Her photoshoot had been scheduled to end at 10:30, and it was already after noon when she got in the company car to head home. She doesn’t have a phone number or anything, so she’s horrified that she’s going to find him standing outside the gallery thinking she’s ditched him.
She manages to change into something casual in record time (it helps that she’s used to changing on the fly) and hurries back out, past the convenience store to the art gallery Ohno-san had mentioned. What she doesn’t expect is the crowd. Her convenience store clerk is nowhere to be found, and she worries that he’s left already.
She debates whether or not to go inside and see if he’s waiting, and that’s when she spies the poster outside: OHNO SATOSHI FREESTYLE II.
Wait, this is his exhibition? And sure enough in the corner of the poster there’s a small photograph in black and white. His hair’s styled differently, and he’s got the distant stare of an attractive man who doesn't realize it, but it’s definitely her clerk. She heads inside and buys an admission ticket to the gallery, seeing dozens of well-dressed people walking around and admiring the art.
Ohno-san’s not just a convenience clerk after all - he’s incredibly talented. One wall of the exhibition is lined with stone pedestals and different, intricately-carved wax figurines atop each of them. Another wall has a dozen or more framed sketches in pencil or ink. And then there are the paintings, canvases streaked with bright colors, almost chaotic. Ohno’s work is alive, she thinks. It’s gorgeous.
She hears whispers as she approaches the wall of sketches. People are starting to notice her, but she doesn’t care as one of the inked drawings catches her eye. The eyes are larger behind the glasses she recognizes, and the nose is pink, but it’s the same hairstyle, the same way she carries herself. Beneath the sketch is a tiny card naming the picture as “Under the Weather.” It’s her, the first time she went into his store.
Ohno’s sketched her and added it to his exhibition. And, Meisa thinks, he’s captured her better than any photographer’s lens possibly could.
“Thanks for coming,” she hears behind her, and she turns to see Ohno-san himself standing there, hands shoved in his pockets.
“You drew me?”
“I’m sorry,” he says as visitors to the exhibition continue to mill around and look at his various works. “I should have asked your permission first. I hope you don’t think it’s creepy of me...”
“No,” she says, looking at the picture again. How well he’s captured her at a time when she was feeling so awful, but at the same time, it’s honest. And it’s real. “No, I think it’s wonderful.”
“I’m a little busy right now,” he tells her shyly. “I didn’t think so many people would come. See you again soon?”
“Of course.”
She reads the exhibition booklet. He’s been in dozens of exhibitions, dozens of magazines, and he’s won just as many awards for his work. It turns out that Meisa’s not the only famous one. She’d been so self-absorbed, worrying about him not knowing who she is when at the same time she could have been learning more about him as well. The same fingers and hands that had handed over her change at the store created all these amazing works of art.
When the gallery closes for the night, she’s waiting outside for him. “So why do you work at Lawson if you’re an artist?”
He smiles as they stroll down the emptied street. “Some extra money. Plus, you need to have something to draw, I guess. And I usually draw people. I mean, I could spend my whole day locked in my studio sketching, but then I don’t get to see anyone. I need to see people.”
“You saw me. And you drew me with a stuffy nose.”
“It was cute. It inspired me,” he teases. “Your agency’s not going to sue me for reproducing your image, are they?”
She laughs, blushing. Cute’s not a word many people use to describe her. “I don’t think so, not if you’re as acclaimed as the Ohno Satoshi Freestyle II guide says you are.”
He seems embarrassed. “It’s not a big deal.”
She’s about to correct him, about to tell him just how great his art was, but isn’t that the same thing she wants people to stop doing to her? Isn’t that what she’s trying to escape? Instead she stays quiet, and they manage to make it to her building.
“This is me,” she says awkwardly. His hands have been jammed in his pockets the whole walk back. She thinks that in a Hollywood movie, maybe he’d kiss her, but they’re a long way from Hollywood, and they’re still learning about each other. But she realizes in that moment that she wants him to kiss her. She wants everything with him, and the feeling of it is so new, so intense that she can’t meet his eyes.
“Well, Kuroki-san,” he says politely. “Thanks again for coming.”
“Can I see you again?” she asks.
He almost looks relieved. “I was hoping you’d ask me that.”
--
His head finally pokes around the side of the canvas. “Okay, I think we’re done for today.”
She sighs, getting up from the stool he’s had her sitting on and stretching. “I think I liked it more when you drew me from memory.”
He laughs. “You said it was okay!”
“I’ve been sitting for three hours.” She walks over to stand behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders. The sight on the canvas makes her gasp as it usually does. The entire picture this time is her eyes - he’d had her sitting about five or six feet away, and yet he’s managed to capture so much. Light and shadow, striking color, so much complexity. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s you, so of course it is.”
She blushes deeply at that, giving him a shake. “Embarrassing!”
When she’d stepped into the convenience store months back, she’d never expected to become and never wanted to be anyone’s muse. But, Meisa thinks, it really isn’t so bad as Ohno gets off his stool and takes her hand. By now, she doesn’t mind the roughness of his hands and the small, dried patches of paint that tend to cake them.
“I’m done working for today,” he declares as he leads her out of his new workshop. He slides open the door and lets the sunshine pour in. Palm trees sway as the ocean waves flow up and meet the sandy beach. When he kisses her, it’s a bit like floating.
There isn’t a skyscraper in sight.