Gift Fic For astrangerenters

[santa_johnny]

To: astrangerenters
From: santa_johnny

Title: Sugar and Salt
Pairing/Group: Sho/Ohno
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Nothing graphic or triggering, just a cliché rapper Sho, if you hate that kind of thing?
Notes: Hi astrangerenters, I hope this floats your boat. Happy Holidays!
Summary Sho is a rap idol who raps about things he doesn’t care about and also has to deal with a neighbor who makes him question his sanity.



It’s 4am and there’s no relief just quite like toeing away his shoes in the entryway, removing his snapbacks, and dumping his duffel bag on the kitchen counter. He is exhausted and looking forward to his impending two-day break like never before. Two actual days, he thinks giddily.

No crowds, no stage lights, no manager buzzing over him for the next thing to do, the next place to be. After he says goodbye to the audience on the last leg of his tour, he wants to be away from the glitz and fanfare as humanly possible.

For Sakurai Sho, his secretly most-treasured luxury is normalcy-next to travel, that is. But after a one month of being away, he is in no mood to go on his frequent last-minute jaunts abroad. After all, he’s been away from Tokyo for a month.

Home. Bed. Sleep. Just for once, he would like to feel tethered to one place. To feel like himself.

He shuffles over to his bathroom and draws a hot bath he can’t wait to sink his tired bones into. The water cascading down the tub becomes a calming melody on his ears. Sho sits on the side, already daydreaming about his clean sheets and the wonderful oblivion awaiting him.

*

There is no mistaking it. Barking.

Sho feels around for his mobile phone and groans when he reads that it’s only 8am-he’s only been asleep for a little over than three hours. So much for oblivion. He kicks the duvet that’s already slinked to his ankles anyway, feeling a little grumpy and out of sorts. Unfortunately, he’s never been the type that’s been able to go back to sleep, so that is out of the question.

He stays still, willing the world to let him fall asleep again. After five minutes, the barking still doesn’t stop. Sho groans. Surely the new-pooch-in-town isn’t Mrs. Ebihara’s, he deducts. From what he has gleaned from their warm, if brief, elevator exchanges, the immaculately dressed sexegenarian would never live with anything remotely furry.

That leaves only one unit left on their mansion’s top-floor, which, as far as Sho knows, has been unoccupied for a year. A new tenant with a dog who likes to bark all the time? Sho already feels a headache coming on at just the mere prospect. His feelings about pets are ambivalent, but his feelings on barking when he’s getting some well-deserved slumbers are pretty clear-no. Just, no.

He is about to get up and perhaps exchange a few terse with his new neighbor, except the barking stops right at that moment. After a couple of minutes pass and he is again surrounded by his treasured silence, he lets out a sigh of relief.

Nothing can quite ruin his day, though. He freshens up and thinks of his next goal for the day: breakfast. The thought of something to do instantly makes him feel even better. Goals, schedules, food-Sakurai Sho couldn’t deny the pull of those things, even on his day-off. He opens his curtains, allowing the light to stream in.

*

Back then, I lost something
This short distance is slightly bitter
Dull colors, words, sounds, vows,
I want to see a future with you in it again

*

He pulls his hood down snug around his face, wondering if he’s calling more attention to himself this way. Not that anyone would expect seeing him, at 9am, in an anonymous convenience store anyway; nor would any of his fans be awake this early on a Sunday, he thinks. He loosens up a bit, surveying his options among the starkly lit rows of packaged food. The illusion of choice always cheers him up, even if he always gets the same thing.

He pushes his purchases at the counter, waiting for the clerk to snap to attention.

“Oh! Um, one cucumber-cheese sandwich. Will that be all, sir?” the cashier says. Sho nudges his yoghurt impatiently at him. “Ah yes, with one yoghurt. Will that be all?”

Sho nods, digging through his wallet for some loose change.

“Ah, you’re him,” the cashier says, his eyes knowing.

Sho blusters as he places the payment on the tray. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, I’m not-”

“No, Ninomiya-san told me to watch for you. You’re our 9am costumer who likes to buy yoghurt and sandwiches,” he says, smiling.

“Ah,” Sho says, now realizing his friend, Nino, isn’t there when it’s supposed to be his shift. Come to think of it, he’s been looking forward to seeing him. “Where is he?”

The cashier bags up his purchases with deft hands. “We swapped shifts. I’m new here.”

“I see.” With his askew blue apron and unruly brown hair, Sho has already figured that out for himself.

“Thank you for your patronage! Those cucumber sandwiches are really good. With ketchup.”

Sho smiles politely and grabs his purchases. When he steps out of the store, the sun is pleasant. He strolls to his car, wondering about how other people lead their lives, especially when he encounters people who just seem so content. So…normal. How does that feel like?

He chuckles grimly to himself. Condescending as hell, Sakurai, he thinks. There is always that sense of great distance after finishing a massive tour, a distance that he always struggles to bridge. It’s a sensation similar to being stretched beyond his limits, a surreal comedy. He is just about to tuck in to his breakfast inside his car when his mobile phone alerts him to a new message.

“Don’t do this to me, Aiba-chan.”

His phone vibrates again-apparently, he can’t have just one day of radio-silence from his career. What he reads gets his hopes up, though.

*

He tries hard not to let his emotions show under the warm lighting in the studio. The headphones are tight on his ears, embracing and suffocating him both.

“You like it?” Aiba asks, anxiety etched on his face.

“Let me listen to it one more time, please.”

It’s been ten years of running after his dreams, ten years of hard work. In a nutshell, Sakurai Sho had defied everything his parents wanted for him-a cushy elite job, marriage, kids-in pursuit of a hobby that eventually became his life. The way his father winces when he sees him in person still guts him, but he won’t exchange anything in the world for his career.

Except, maybe, he does. He’s doing what he loves, but not in the way he’s always imagined it. The over-stylized blaring in his ears serves as a proof. Again and again, he hopes. Again and again, he falters.

He takes off the headphones.

“I think it sounds great, you know, it’s a good single! It’s even grittier than-”

“Aiba-san,” Sho says, hating having to cut off his manager and long-time friend in front of all the staff. “Let’s step outside?” His face crumples.

The summer air at the balcony feels even more stifling. Before he even starts to explain, Aiba only says, “I know.”

There have been many nights when Aiba listened to him, drunkenly or not, droning on and on about wanting to write his own songs. Something tells him that rapping about “the good life” and “Tokyo swag” and women won’t hold water the deeper in his 30s he gets. The females may still be screaming for him now, but that can all go away in a snap.

His agency doesn’t see it his way-he is still selling out venues all over Asia, his face is still occasionally flashed on the coolest magazines in town, women are still forking out cash to buy his records. What’s there to change?

Most of the songs he raps are not him-it’s not his life. Sure, his earring, his undercut, and his clothes, which he likes, might say otherwise, but in reality, he’s not half the “thug” he’s projecting to be. Aiba has choked on his laughter a few times every time he mentions the “not half the thug” part. The best, and worst, part about your manager also being your friend, Sho thinks, is that they have your best interests in mind but are also entitled to laugh at your expense without repercussions.

This afternoon is different though. Aiba is not laughing at all, in fact, his somber look is serious enough to upset Sho even further.

“I know it’s not your fault, Masaki,” he says, looking out at a rather calm, sun-drenched Roponggi. He takes a deep breath. “It was too much to hope for.”

“Sho-chan, I promise you, I defended your original arrangement to the agency, with all I had,” he says, voice soft. “I thought it was a great mix. It sounded like, well-it sounded like you.”

Sho takes off his cap and ruffles his hair into submission. “Except they apparently don’t give a crap. There’s no use.”

He almost takes it back when he sees Aiba’s wounded expression. But he doesn’t care, not now. He’ll just throw that song to the bin, just like the countless others that came before it. And Aiba, Aiba will understand that he never meant it personally. He always does.

But what Sho can’t reconcile is that he doesn’t even know why he tries sometimes. What does he truly want?

*

The elevator dings open. Jun, another artist Aiba manages, steps aside to let him enter. “Congratulations on your successful tour, Sakurai-kun,” he says. “Heard you sold out all the venues again!”

Sho smiles at his fellow artist, not wanting to be rude. “Thank you.”

Gravity pulls at them. “Seriously, you’re great,” Jun says, hands suavely clutching on to his bag. “I watched your last DVD release, and, really, your stage presence is amazing.”

The sound of his own laughter is bitter, but he can’t be the senior who’s become rude and disillusioned. At the very least, he can’t stomach becoming that person. “Not really, Matsumoto. You’re way better than I am.”

Sho’s always liked Jun, even admired him, even though he was a couple of years younger. He’s an assistant chef by day who moonlights as a DJ at night. Even though he juggles two completely different things, he looks like someone who never compromises with what he wants. Unlike Sho.

Jun laughs rather shyly. “No way! I’d never fill out a dome, and girls never scream at me like that during my DJ sets.”

Not all it’s cracked up to be, Sho thinks.

Ground floor.

*

After a night of binge drinking with his college buddies, his head is murdering him. It’s 6am, barely a couple of hours after he stumbled home, and he’s already up. Again, his neighbor’s dog is barking.

He knows he looks like trash in his slept-in clothes from the night (just hours, really) before, but this is one of those instances where self-control is overrated. He’s entitled to some peace and quiet in his own home, yes?

Across the hallway, a grown man is crouched in front of the door, clutching onto the wooden panel for some reason. The barking goes up a notch.

“Please Rufus,” the man begs. “Just one more day, please.” More barking. Was this man actually talking to his dog through the door?

“Rufus~” he singsongs mournfully. A whine comes from the other side. “Rufuuuuuus.”

Sho has seen enough. “Excuse me, hi, but,” Sho starts, when the man turns around.

“It’s you again,” the man says, startling Sho. As if his voice is a cognitive switch, he instantly recognizes the convenience store uniform.

“You’re my new neighbor?” Sho asks rudely, incredulous.

The barking picks up again, making the other man wince and stand up. “I just moved in last week.”

“Well, welcome, I guess. But the barking has to stop,” Sho says, temples pounding in like a discordant melody. “Especially in the mornings. I can’t deal with it.”

“I know.” The man sighs and slots his key in. A furry, long-eared dog jumps to his arms when the door opens. Sho wonders how such a tiny thing can have so much bark in it. Well, at least it stopped, Sho thinks.

“He only barks when I leave the house,” his new neighbor explains, scratching the dog’s ears. “Finally found a dog-friendly job. I start tomorrow. Right, Rufus?”

“That’s nice,” Sho says, already feeling tired of the conversation. “Can’t you just bring him to work today too?”

The man’s mobile phone rings. “Shit, the boss is going to kill me. Late on my last day. Here,” he says, pushing the offending pooch to Sho.

“Excuse me?” It’s either he’s still drunk, or his reflexes are really useless. The dog simpers in Sho’s arms.

“I just fed him, he only needs water. I’ll bring you guys food later!” The man waves jovially as he jogs away to the fire exit.

“Wait!” He’s about to run after him, but he remembers that he’s actually barefoot and in no condition to chase after anyone. In no condition to protest.

In no condition.

*

The wrapped up days gave off a radiance
Time colored them with light

*

“What kind of a name for a dog is Rufus, anyway?” Sho whines into the phone. On the other end of the phone, Nino chuckles.

“That dog followed Oh-chan around for a week before he took pity on him,” Nino explains. “He’s smitten. Like, he’s gotten kicked out of a couple of buildings because he won’t stop barking, but he doesn’t care and moves around anyway. I mean, he’s even gone to the lengths of living at your fancy, overpriced mansion.”

“You’d say that.”

“Ah well, he can afford it, you know. He may look like that, but he can.”

It’s a good thing Sho’s migraine is calming down. Having admitted defeat after ten minutes of wondering if he should just leave the dog outside, he’s now stuck on his couch with Rufus sleeping peacefully on the rug. He calls up Nino, who explains a bit about his new neighbor, apparently named Ohno.

“Where does he get off, though, leaving his dog with me? We’ve only talked once before. Once!”

“Well, if he’s left his beloved dog with you after only talking once, then he must trust you,” Nino says, already bored with the conversation.

“I’m a mess, Nino,” Sho blurts out.

A brief silence wafts in the air. “What do you mean?”

It’s like the past month has caught up on him. Nino listens silently to all his frustrations at work, his general dissatisfaction. They’ve known each other since they were young, and Sho has always confided in him. If anyone knows what he’s truly like, it’s Nino.

“But you know what to do,” Nino says, his tone confident and challenging. That’s what Sho is afraid of.

*

The next week had him polishing his moves for his new single, “To All The Haters”, and appearing on a handful of music shows. In a sense, when he’s that level of busy, he can forget about a lot of things. They may not be the perfect songs, but when he’s in front of the camera, in front of a crowd, he just wants to put on the best show possible.

“So what is a ‘hater’?” Tamori asks. Okay, so maybe it’s really a terrible song, Sho admits silently. His rage about his original song being murdered fills up his head again.

But yes, smile. Swagger. He tries not to feel like a soulless hack as he explains to Tamori and the rest of the studio audience that his song is a message to everyone who “doesn’t understand or like what he does”, and that he’s just living his life the way he wants to.

The bright studio lights can and will show any form of weakness. He smirks as a punctuation, so, so used to it. So tired of it.

“It’s a good message then,” Tamori says. The female announcer introduces his song. It’s his turn to play up the charade again. He’s a pro, isn’t he?

*

He walks out of the elevator just in time to see Ohno standing in front of his door.

“Ohno-san?”

“Ah, I just wanted to give you this,” he says, holding out a brown paper bag. Rufus is sitting down at his feet, merrily wagging his tail. “Bought two, just in case you were hungry.”

Sho walks towards him, stomach grumbling traitorously. It’s right about time for dinner. “What for?” He crouches down to give Rufus a scratch behind the ear.

“For looking over Rufus the other week,” Ohno says. It’s the first time Sho’s seen him in regular clothes-jeans and a random black shirt-and it makes him consider the man closely for the first time. “Take it,” Ohno reiterates, shaking the bag towards him.

He does. And says something before thinking about it. “Come inside, let’s split it.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Ohno, apparently, isn’t shy. He follows Sho into his apartment. When Ohno unwraps the cucumber and cheese sandwiches from a well-known bakery in Aoyama, Sho has to giggle. “A fancier version of my staple?”

Ohno smiles sheepishly. “Thought you could live a little. Those convenience store ones are good, but not this good.”

They dig into the sandwiches in companionable silence. Rufus is splayed comfortably at their feet, in a canine daydream of his own devising. Sho notices his neighbor’s graceful hands, maneuvering his croissant sandwich in a way that Sho could never.

“Hm?” Ohno asks, chewing on a mouthful. Sho shakes his head, almost embarrassed to be caught staring at another man’s hands. He coughs. “The bread is ridiculously good. Seriously.”

Ohno hums around his food, nodding happily.

Sho decides then and there that Ohno Satoshi is not such a bad guy. Anyone who looks like that while eating is someone Sho can understand. “You want a beer?” Sho asks, chair scratching on the wooden floor.

“Why not,” Ohno says, wiping his mouth.

They spend the better part of an hour enjoying their ice-cold Kirins, talking about whatever came into their minds. Ohno doesn’t talk much, but he seems to laugh easily, Sho observes.

“So what do you do, Ohno-san?”

His eyes brighten up as he tells Sho about being an apprentice under “a master baker” in Aoyama from the very same bakery where the sandwiches were from.

“He’s like the Son Goku of baking and desserts,” Ohno says, taking a huge gulp of beer. Sho laughs-man, it feels good to laugh.

“His hair turns blonde when he places the baguettes in the oven?”

Ohno laughs. “Almost.”

They talk about the weather, about Rufus being the clingiest dog alive, about Mrs. Ebihara’s elaborate fashion-“The first time I bumped into her in the elevator, she was wearing a white beehive-like thing and I got scared, thinking it was a ghost”-about anything and nothing.

“How do you and Nino know each other, anyway?”

“Just did some part-time before, not the convenience store, and I met him there,” he says, looking for the most part unconcerned.

They down another beer each, just relaxing and hanging out. Sho wishes everyone around him treated him like Ohno does-as no one special. Because he isn’t.

*

The next time he brings the fancy croissant sandwiches to his door, Sho’s smile is genuine. “I don’t think I watched over Rufus recently?”

“My treat,” Ohno says, shrugging, Rufus in tow. “I baked the croissants myself.”

How could Sho not let him in after that?

Somehow, those visits became a regular Thursday night habit. Sandwiches and beer. Conversations that didn’t mean anything. Rufus claiming a corner in Sho’s living room to the point that he’s considering buying a dog bed for the pooch. At some point, Sho just can’t help but burst out, after taking a big breath-he has to get his off his chest.

“You know who I am, right?” Sho says.

His thin brows knitted together carefully. “Sakurai-san?”

“And?”

Ohno looks stunned. “Neighbor?”

Sho would laugh hysterically-he feels like he’s just inhaled a gallon of laughing gas but also a serving of humble pie-except he’s on his feet, already digging through his DVD collection. “Promise me you’ll still bring me sandwiches?”

The confused look on Ohno’s face doesn’t evaporate, until Sho presses play and a look of bemusement slowly, but surely, replaces it. Ohno’s mouth twitches as they watch the footage in silence. For some time, Sho will remember that as one of the more excruciating moments in his life.

“So you rap.”

After showing him a video that reveal him dancing and rapping to the screams of thousands of girls in the middle of Tokyo Dome as the chart-topping SakuSho, that is all Ohno Satoshi has to say-“so you rap”.

Sho laughs. “Screw you.”

“I don’t really know much about rapping,” Ohno says, a tinge of repentance in his voice. “Are you sort of an idol?”

Sho snorts. “The worst kind. Never mind about that, I’ll get us another round,” he says, feeling rather fond of his neighbor.

*

The heat on his legs is unmistakably furry.

“Rufus,” he groans. When he pries his eyelids open, he sees Rufus, in bed with him, draped artlessly over his legs. You’ve crossed another boundary, Sho thinks.

He nudges the dog with his toes-he gets hot easily. Rufus only scoots towards a comfier, Sho-less patch of comforter, ignoring all his admonitions. Sho tries to place him on the rug, but Rufus has the audacity to jump back up and resume his slumber. Sho is maybe a little in love with him already.

And then he remembers.

In his living room, Ohno is sleeping in a superhuman tangle of limbs on Sho’s leather two-seater. Sho winces at the beer cans strewn haphazardly on the table-Ohno was in a jovial mood after being praised by his senior and brought over an extra six-pack, on top of usual two cans and a pair of sandwiches.

Sho quickly learns that an inebriated Ohno-and when was Ohno never inebriated even to a slight degree on Thursday nights-was a lively Ohno. At least, far from the sleepy neighbor he encounters on the mansion elevator.

“And Sho-kun,” he says, “the bread rose! I kneaded it just right! Viron-san says I could improve it and maybe we’ll sell it!”

“You should let me taste it, Ohno-san,” he says. Sho is really happy for Ohno about his pizza dome creation, but Sho-kun unleashes a wash of sweet feeling in his mouth.

“Aren’t we already at the ‘-kun’ level, Sho-kun?”

Sho takes a long drag of his beer, looking at the bleary eyed Ohno. “Ohno-kun?”

“Satoshi-kun.” He drains his can of beer and burps. “Yes, Satoshi-kun is good.”

“You’re drunk.”

“No,” Ohno chuckles, “not drunk. Drink more, Sho-kun.”

Sho’s forgotten how simple things like that could feel so pleasant. In his world where there is increasingly only SakuSho, there is also Sho-kun. Sho-kun who is increasingly smitten with Rufus. Sho-kun who could loosen up and forget about being a celebrity. Sho-kun who could let people in.

Sho-kun who could drink in his boxers with his neighbor on Thursday nights.

He remembers, and tries it on for size. “Satoshi-kun,” he whispers at first. “Satoshi-kun.” He nudges him on the shoulder, trying to wake him up. His nose wrinkles and Sho is suddenly reminded of a stubborn alley cat.

Sho sighs. After throwing a blanket lightly on top of Ohno, he crawls back into bed, curling around Rufus’ heaving mass of fur. Technically, it isn’t a Thursday anymore. But at four in the morning on a Friday, Sho allows it to be.

He doesn’t feel so alone.

*

It’s a Thursday night, and they’re in his apartment again. Ohno is flipping idly through channels, legs hanging from the side of the couch. Sho is about to tuck in to a second round of beer, when he hears a startlingly familiar beat.

Could they have fit more scantily clad girls into the crook of his arms if they tried? The verse is flaccid in the air, strung on a beat that is all the rage across the oceans-“listen to the flow of this era, I am the master, they all crowd to me, come and swallow the evidence”-and Sho suddenly feels drained.

Something in him snaps.

“Do you really want to watch that,” he manages to say, hiding the crack in his voice with a gulp of amber sanity.

“But you look good.”

Ohno says off-kilter things all the time, he thinks, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it. Especially not now. “Please.”

Ohno takes a tepid sip and changes the channel. Sho’s allows his eyes to stray to his throat and to the graceful line of beer swilling down, down, down.

“I don’t want you to see me like that,” he says, and when it’s out in the air, it sounds even more defensive than he expects it to be. “I’m not like that.”

“So what are you?” Ohno asks, not unkindly.

On most nights, it’s Ohno who lacks for words. This night, it isn’t him. What’s being asked, what to make of what he answers back silently in his head-he’s not too sure if they are on the same page.

“I’m just-I’m not like that.”

Ohno looks away, not giving in an inch. “It’s okay.”

*

“So when am I going to meet this special friend of yours?” Aiba teases.

“Who are you talking about?” Shibuya blurs into gray as he speeds through the traffic. He’s excited-the agency finally agreed to have him write and arrange one song on his own for the new album. Just one song, but it gives him a sick glimmer of hope that no amount of rationalization can tamp down. It’s his chance to prove himself.

The man on his passenger seat titters. “Your neighbor, who else? You’ve been hanging out with him a lot, right?”

“Never mind him,” Sho says, strangely feeling like he’s brushing away something important. “You’re finally meeting Nino.”

Aiba’s eyes grow wide. “He’s producing your song? I thought he didn’t have any big-label experience?”

Sho smiles. “Exactly. He’s above that.”

Sho will never be able to articulate it right to his friend’s face, but he’s always admired how Nino never sold out, how Nino has always stuck to his guns and stayed true to his passions. In high school, they spent many hours in his bedroom, Sho practicing his rap while Nino beatboxed or tinkered around with his guitar. Maybe it was the flavor of youth, but music made Sho feel infinite, then. Free.

He pulls up in a subdued neighborhood, with none of the flash and bang that Aiba’s used to. “Are you sure his studio’s here?”

It’s unusual to see Aiba so discomfited, and Sho had to pat him on the back with a chuckle. “This is going to be fun.”

What Sho didn’t expect that Nino and Aiba would hit it off well. They represent two equally important but drastically different parts of his life, of himself, two different colors, almost-colors that have normally have nothing to do with each other but complement the other anyway.

“How could you afford all these equipment if you just work in a convenience store?” Aiba asks, a teasing tone to his voice.

“How could you manage top idols with nothing but fluff in your head?” Nino says, grinning as he adjusts the sound levels.

“I resent what that implies!”

“You just called me poor.”

“Guys, some civility please,” Sho says, watching the repartee through the window with a smile. He wonders why he never thought about introducing them to each other before.

“I’m ready when you are, Sho-chan.” Nino’s voice through the speakers is familiar and comforting. He can see Aiba, through the glass, smiling and expectant.

*

It’s the same yesterday and today and today-
today, I’ll do something about today

*

“Welcome to Viron!”

Even just entering the white-walled, checkered-tiled simplicity of Viron is seduction itself. The smell of freshly baked baguettes wafts in the air like fingers summoning one to inhale deeply. Sho doesn’t take the invitation to do so lightly and fills up his lungs with it. The array of artisanal bread lines up the small but elegant shop, and Sho can understand a little of what Ohno says when he says that “bakeries are magic.”

He figures that as long as he’s in the neighborhood, then he might as well drop in.

That, and for some reason, Thursday just seems so far away. He cranes his neck at the glass wall separating the main area from the kitchen behind. There are five people there, all in pristine white, rolling, molding, mixing, absorbed in their own worlds. And then he spots Ohno-almost unrecognizable with his hat and the serious look on his face. Ohno, brows furrowing with concentration…and a patch of flour on his nose.

“Can I help you with anything?” a crisply attired woman asks. “Would you like to hear about today’s recommendations?”

Sho recoils to himself and touches his shades to makes sure it’s still there. “No-I’ll just, I’m just looking around.”

Thankfully, the woman walks away. He walks through the aisle of baguettes, tarts, pain de mie, croissants, and other varieties of bread and pastries that he can barely wrap his head around. A row of sumptuous-looking eclairs grab his attention. He ponders whether to get just one or two.

“I’m never just satisfied with one,” a voice whispers behind him.

Sho wheels around and suddenly, Ohno is barely an inch away from him. “Satoshi-kun,” he enthuses, as he stumbles back.

“Whoa, there.” Ohno grips into his arm, strong and sure.

“Sorry,” Sho blusters.

“You’re here,” he says, not seeming to notice Sho’s distress.

He tries to smile away the clumsy moment. “I was in the neighborhood.”

Ohno points to a barely visible bench on the park across Viron. “Meet me there in five minutes, I’ll just check on my madeleines.”

“Oh. Okay.”

A feeling of dazed confusion settles with Sho as he waits for Ohno on the bench. He feels a little stupid to be waiting there, alone, with a delicate mint green box filigreed with gold balancing on his knees. Man, the paparazzi would have a field day with that, he thinks. Badass rapper sitting in a park with a tiny box of pastries. He feels a little thankful for the dense copse of trees hiding him away from the world, in general.

He hears the bark before he sees them. Rufus trots happily towards Sho, nosing at his legs for a scratch.

“Hi,” Ohno breathes, still in patissier-white.

“Hi,” Sho says, picking up Rufus. “I forgot you could bring him to work.”

Ohno smiles and plops down beside him. “Viron-san likes him.”

“Is that so?”

Ohno nods, and settles into the bench, unbuttoning the top of his uniform.

“Um, you have flour on your nose,” Sho says, wondering how anyone can be so oblivious. Ohno touches his index finger to his nose and sniffs it. “Confectioner’s sugar.” He licks it.

“Have other people told you that you’re a little…unusual?” Sho says.

Ohno shrugs. “Maybe, why?”

Sho shakes his head. He opens the box of eclairs and holds it out to Ohno. “I’m sorry I’m treating you to something you probably worked on,” he says, suddenly flustered. “Didn’t really mean to disturb you.”

Ohno simply grabs one and bites into it. “An éclair is an éclair.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Sho releases a breath he doesn’t know he’s been holding and takes an éclair for himself. He doesn’t even attempt to stop himself from closing his eyes.

“Do you guys sprinkle fairy dust or something on this? God,” he says, mouth full of cream.

He opens his eyes to Ohno watching him, mid-chew, with something that Sho can almost mistake for fondness. “I say a lot of stupid things, sorry,” Sho says, surprised at the look on his friend’s face.

“Stop worrying, Sho-kun,” Ohno says, as he licks the cream off his lips in satisfaction, a small smile on his face.

The summer heat doesn’t feel as sweltering, and a slight breeze makes the trees sway in a rhythm that Sho usually doesn’t have time to observe. He waits for the compulsion to tell Ohno about how excited he is about how things have been going for the past couple of weeks, how great the recording is going for his song, how, maybe, he isn’t a lost cause after all. But he doesn’t feel the need to. Stop worrying, he thinks.

Something about the two of them sitting together, just staring at the vista of dancing trees under a blue sky, is enough. They sit there, no words spoken, just enjoying the soft lap of breeze on their cheeks and eating quietly.

Ohno never asks why, and Sho feels comforted by it.

*

The recording sessions go smoothly. Apart from history, there is symmetry in the way Sho and Nino work together. The untitled track, while still rough and not in any way halfway done, makes something unnamed bloom inside Sho’s heart.

Thankfully, Aiba is more vocal about his feelings. He shakes Nino by the shoulders. “You guys are magic together!”

“Get off me, you weepy sheep-dog,” Nino complains. The way the corner of his eyes are slanted up tell a different story, and Sho could tell.

“But the track is already so amazing!” Aiba enthuses.

“Not yet,” Nino says. “But we’re getting pretty close.” Even Nino can’t hide his excitement.

Over lunch at a nearby tonkatsu place, Nino’s excitement shapeshifts into a finicky kind of anxiety. He ignores his food in favor of tapping his pencil on a piece of paper in an irregular beat.

“Um, can I have this piece?” Aiba asks, aiming for the succulent piece of untouched rosu on Nino’s bowl.

“Aiba-chan,” Sho admonishes him in the middle of chuckles. Nino dismisses Aiba with a nod.

Sho would ask Nino which part of the song he’s working on exactly, but just like Aiba, it’s food first, work later for him too. Maybe the reason why they work well together as a manager-talent is because of that fundamental understanding.

They’re through to the middle of the meal when Nino gasps.

“A touch of EDM. Nothing crazy, not through the entire song. Just enough to go with the percussion.”

This gets Sho’s attention. “I thought we were going for a more old-school kind of sound, though?”

“We are, but it’s going to be even more mind-blowing with some samples mixed in and a subtle beat. I can do something rudimentary to that effect, I’m not the greatest at it, but I can try? Maybe almost bordering on funk? We can have an outrageous b-melody, then after that, a clean break, just your rapping.” Nino furiously scribbles on the scrap of paper.

“You lost me at ‘rudimentary’, but I know just the person!” Aiba enthuses.

“Who?” Sho and Nino say at the same time.

When they get back to the studio, Matsumoto Jun is already there, waiting for them. In situations like this, Sho really thinks that Aiba is a genius-Jun would be able to deliver on what Nino rambled about earlier.

Sho could see that Nino tries his very best not to notice out loud that Jun is dressed to the nines, like he was going out to party. He slaps Nino’s back.

“Meet Matsumoto Jun. He’s in the same agency as I am. He also happens to be an awesome DJ.”

Jun is obviously pleased and embarrassed at the introduction. “Nice to meet you. And please, Sakurai-san’s just being very generous. I’m just starting out.”

Nino amiably shakes his hand and leads him to the area of his studio where he can set up. When they get everything going and Jun starts to smoothly improvise alongside the tracks they’ve already laid, the curl on Nino’s lips is unmistakable-it’s a mix of awe and glee that Sho has rarely seen.

“He still dresses like a pansy, though,” Nino whispers to Sho, when they pack up. Sho laughs, but feels guilty immediately and coughs instead.

Later, they listen to the track again. It is nothing like any of the work Sho has released so far-it’s introspective yet catchy, dark but not “dirty”. The subtle electronica that Jun worked in adds a hypnotic quality to the track.

But most of all, it sounds like him. It is his own words, his thoughts-him.

He catches Nino looking at him. “I know,” Nino says.

*

Right now I won’t wait for a miracle,
I ‘ll just follow the light
Follow the light

*

Vulnerability-it’s one word that doesn’t seem to be in his vocabulary. Somehow, all his life, Sho has charged through everything with a plan in mind. His best-laid plans of the past, though, have yielded nothing like he quite imagined. He had followed his heart, but never enough to see it raw and gasping in pursuit of what he knows ring true deep inside.

Sometimes, he’s the master of deluding himself. When the investment has been too high, how do you cut your losses?

The twilight streams into the car, bathing Ohno’s profile in mild orange. He’s still in his white work clothes, lending to him an otherworldly, sunset-tinged glow.

Sho could count it down to the seconds, to talk and blurt out an inconsequential detail. But he dares himself to stay put. To cloak himself with the awkward warmth of having Ohno beside him, listening.

He tries to breathe in his friend’s assured, calm silence, allowing the syncopated beats and bass lines to come into the forefront. His voice is all around them, words from then, words that could mean something, if allowed to breathe its own life. When the track finishes, Ohno gazes at him, eyes in shades of wakening bright.

“Wow,” Ohno says, brevity in the face of Sho’s intense need for-well, he’s not very sure either. He doesn’t know what he wants from Ohno, doesn’t know what he expected when he brought a copy of his demo tape, freshly rendered from the studio, to him.

He just knows that he wants to be listened to, and maybe Ohno-Ohno is the first one he thinks of.

Ohno reaches out to Sho’s player. “May I?”

Sho lets go, and relearns a child-like trust he has forgotten. They listen to it again, together, in silence. It’s bits and parts of Sho’s truth floating around them in intense bursts and passages of thoughts he hasn’t allowed anyone else to listen to, not yet. Ohno closes his eyes and leans back on the car seat.

Sho feels the slide of Ohno’s hand on his before he registers what’s happening.

It is nothing. It is overwhelming. He is out of his depth. Their hands interlace together, Ohno warmly grasping at his knuckles.

“This is good,” he murmurs, and Sho doesn’t need to ask what he means.

*

The two of us should hide away somewhere soon
Slowly, you gently close your eyelashes

*

He ends up driving the two of them home, in silence. Ohno doesn’t say anything, is assured in his silence, and Sho wills himself to be the same way. The streets look different, and there is a lush realization blooming inside him, one so obvious and unrelenting.

The elevator ride to their floor is quiet, even though the thoughts thrumming in Sho’s head are violent, alive with wonder. When. Where. How.

Of course.

He is talented, after all, at ignoring the most obvious things-tunnel vision, ignorance, determination, folly in different names. When they reach his door, he murmurs his good night, wondering at how raw he feels. Ohno reaches out softly to his wrist.

“Come with me,” he says simply.

There is nowhere Sho can go to hide from him, and he realizes that maybe he doesn’t want to. Ohno’s unit is spacious, but almost bare in its monastic simplicity. He follows after him, unsure. Ohno looks behind him and tugging his hand, smiling warmly.

“I’ve something to show you,” he says.

Sho allows himself to be seated down on Ohno’s weathered couch. Ohno fidgets in front of his TV screen, slotting in a DVD. When the video plays, Sho feels like he has been dropped in another dimension.

The limbs are the same, lithe. The face, though, is younger. Hair, blonde. Onstage, he leaps high, turning with a grace that Sho could only have guessed at before, gravity unheeded. He catches the girl in his arms and sings.

Far beyond the distant horizon.
The image of the me I wanted to become is waiting
I don’t care if my body turns to ashes
If I can hear your voice, see your eyes, just one more time

Sho’s heart aches. The voice is crystalline, almost familiar, but not enough for him to suspend his disbelief. Ohno is still beside him, even as the footage runs on and on. Celluloid Ohno flies, pirouettes, has the voice of an angel.

It takes more courage than he wants to admit to turn towards him, even if he wants to do nothing more than look at him, in the flesh. He hugs the pillow harder to his stomach, as if bracing himself for something. What that is, he doesn’t know yet. Ohno holds his hand again, worming his way deeper.

The stage lights fade to black. Ohno presses pause. “Is this okay?”

Sho nods. He gathers everything he has in him and faces him. “You’re a dancer. I mean, you do everything. You’re...amazing. Broadway,” he says, almost a reverent whisper. It’s not his scene, not his thing, but he knows, with just a short footage, that he can never compare to the heights Ohno has reached.

He shakes his head. “It was a long time ago.”

“Why did you stop?”

He rubs soothing circles on Sho’s palm. “Because I wanted to make pizza toast everyday.”

“Pizza toast?” he says, voice hoarse. Sho would laugh, but he only feels the unending warmth ebbing back and forth, his heart a shore and Ohno the waves lapping against him, soft and present. The heat of their thighs, aligned, is using his every available brain cell.

“Sho-kun,” Ohno says, in a moment of unexpected conviction, enough to reach through Sho, even then. “You can do anything.”

How can four words cut through him just like that? Sho grips his hand even tighter, holding on. Rufus jumps up the couch and settles in between them. Ohno chuckles, and maybe, it’s the happiest Sho has ever felt.

“I’ll show you,” Ohno says, a universe of meaning in a few words.

In that weathered couch, hands held, and a furry companion wedged between them, it’s ridiculous just how enough it feels. He isn’t overtaken by surprise, it’s like a secret he’s kept from himself because that’s the way he is with himself-severe and unyielding.

Ohno bridges his hesitation quietly. His fingers are breathtakingly delicate. Sho wonders at his strength, wonders at the first day he meets him and barely remembers.

But then, it doesn’t matter. Irrationality, sensation, timing, pride, minute hesitations-nothing matters. He gives in.

*

When he brings Ohno to the next recording session, Nino grins.

“The secret’s out?”

Ohno only smiles and bumps hips with Nino. Sho momentarily feels a surge of jealousy, but it doesn’t last long. Not when he realizes the intentions behind Nino’s words, and the unexpected collusion that happened there-Nino’s suggestion, and Ohno, cleaving.

For Sho. He lets that sink in.

Their history together spills out as they ready the equipment-Nino composed a song for a small independent musical that Ohno acted in, a long time ago. Somehow, through time and distance, they remained friends, even when Ohno was in New York.

“I mean, Oh-chan here was too clingy,” Nino says. “He called all the time, he was so homesick.”

“Nino,” Ohno simpers, as Aiba bursts out. “Sho-chan, I can’t believe you’re neighbors with the Ohno Satoshi and you didn’t tell me!”

Sho could only shrug. Nino snorts. “You’re a fan of musicals?”

“Excuse me. Kadokichi-kun and I love musicals! He’s Elphie and I’m Glenda,” he says. “We listen to it when we clean my apartment!”

“Please tell me Kadokichi-kun is a person,” Nino says.

Sho shakes his head furiously at Nino, not wanting Aiba to take out his mobile phone and show him pictures of Kadokichi-kun-because Kadokichi-kun is terrifying. Sho’s not good with crawly things.

The door creaks. “Hi,” Jun says, lugging his handsome leather case for his equipment. Introductions are made, and somehow, Sho isn’t surprised about the fact that Jun recognized Ohno. He almost guffaws at Jun’s ridiculously low bow upon being introduced to Ohno-and Ohno, Sho curses, is adorable when embarrassed.

They get settled in, rough edges chafing down, natures agreeing with each other. There is a moment, when they’re listening to the song and Jun is scrubbing in additional textures, breathing more life into something already thriving, a moment when Sho hears Ohno hum, voice small and unthinking.

It’s like a thread unspooling inside him.

He’s not the only one who hears it. Nino stares Ohno down.

“What?”

“Just jump right in,” Nino says, and Ohno chuckles, fidgeting with the wires in front of him. “Sorry,” he says.

“I’m not kidding. Jun-kun here won’t mind arranging around your backing, right, Jun-kun,” Nino says, to Jun who just nods, on eggshells, smiling uncertainly at Ohno.

“No, not at all. Please go on,” Ohno mumbles.

“Why not, Oh-chan? You should,” Aiba says brightly. “For fun!”

“Don’t you ‘Oh-chan’ him,” Nino says, amusement curling on his lips. “But yeah, I’m also pretty sure Sho-chan wouldn’t mind.”

An elbow digs at him as he meets the cornered gaze of Ohno. There’s nothing to lose, nothing to hide from. And maybe, he can just use this afternoon as an excuse to listen, and feel. For once.

He grins at him. “Why not,” and his heart simpers a little at the betrayed look on Ohno’s face.

“I’m not bringing you sandwiches anymore,” he says, sullen as he allows himself to be pushed inside the recording booth.

“He brings you sandwiches?” Aiba asks, both indignant and excited, and Sho allows himself to be pulled in to the glee of it all.

He stands on the opposite mic of Ohno, eyes meeting. The beat starts, and Ohno holds on to the headphones, Sho’s voice coming in with Jun’s beat. Sho watches him lick his lips, shooting an unbelieving smile at Sho.

He opens his mouth, hums around Sho’s words, tiny clusters of words in his voice, mirroring Sho in turn. Ohno never overwhelms his verses, just adds the right lilt or accent.

The faces on the other side of the booth are all grinning, and Sho wonders if he has the same expression on his face.

Magic. He doesn’t even have to listen to it again.

*

It’s a quiet Thursday night, and Ohno’s silence takes up more space than it has to. They sit in front of each other, beers growing tepid and ignored.

“Satoshi-kun,” Sho says, unable to take the still air.

His lashes flutter up. “Hm?”

“Nothing.”

They finish their beers in silence. The chair scratches against the wooden floor, deafening in the atmosphere. Sho feels heavy, does not know what to say, and follows Ohno to the door.

He turns around to face Sho. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Sho says, searching Ohno’s face. Unfortunately, his features betray nothing that Sho can latch on to. The door closes on his face, gentle but admonishing. His patience has never been much to speak of, but this time, it feels like a limited resource, tinkering on extinction.

Before he thinks better of it, he marches to Ohno’s door and rings the bell.

Ohno is visibly surprised.

“Satoshi-kun, did I say anything-” and Ohno pulls him inside, closing the door.

“Satoshi-kun,” he breathes. Ohno doesn’t let go of his arm, eyes softer.

“It’s-there’s nothing, nothing that you said,” he says, reaching for something that Sho can’t bridge for him.

“Are you okay?”

Ohno’s hand skate to his, interlacing their fingers in a now familiar dance. He steps into Sho’s space, eyes searching. “Sho-kun.”

And Sho, Sho suddenly understands, and is blown away by what he’s been sidestepping without thinking. Everything clicks, and he knows. He tips Ohno to the wall against the entranceway, hands still held. Their lips meet in a slow burn, and Sho loses all thought the moment he sees Ohno closing his eyes.

It is soft and brief. They look at each other in wonder, and Sho flushes. Ohno hides into his neck when they hear Rufus bark.

Sho knows in that moment that the life he’s led until that moment has changed.

He wrests Ohno’s face from his shoulders, tracing his jaws tenderly. Ohno kisses him again, surer this time, more eloquent, relaying an intensity that has Sho breathless. His hands find their way to Sho’s hips, thumbs pressing on the sliver of skin on his hips. Sho sighs, opens up, and Ohno, Ohno comes in stronger, lips ardent.

When they break apart, Ohno has his hands curving around Sho’s neck, as if framing him, taking hold of him. “It’s simple, isn’t it? It has to be simple.”

“What has to be?” Sho says.

“I was just waiting.”

“Waiting?”

“But not waiting too. I mean, I like you,” Ohno says, and Sho’s heart races, drums up a march. “I like you, and that’s simple, and I like it.”

Sho, overcome, wraps Ohno in an embrace. “Satoshi-kun. Isn’t it obvious?”

“Obvious?”

“I like you too.”

They stay there, in that embrace, for what seems like an eternity, that it almost seems like they could melt together, fuse their appendages as one, siphoning each other’s warmth.

Ohno lets go. “But it’s not simple.”

And Sho, Sho struggles to reach the conclusion first, without knowing any of the facts. “Not simple?”

Ohno steps away. “I won an apprenticeship in Paris,” he says, voice quiet. “Two years.”

Sho lets that sink in, wonders who’ll first ask the question, but in the end, he can’t help it. “What does that mean?”

“Means it not simple,” Ohno says, hand ruffling through his hair. “I tried really hard you know?”

“With what?” Sho asks, heart racing, mind already jumping ponds, going places.

“Not to fall for you.”

Ohno stands there, almost repentant, and Sho is confused. His mind briefly gives him alternatives-doable, rational alternatives. There are video calls. Cheap flights. Promises. He thinks of what Ohno is playing at, what those handful of words implied, thinks of his smoldering lips, thinks of ways out. Too early, or too late.

“Don’t think too badly of me, Sho-kun,” Ohno says, almost in a whisper.

The honesty coating his words maims Sho. With, and for, Ohno, there is no other way.

“I’ll get over it, don’t worry,” he says, voice sounding more brash than he intends, wanting nothing more than to kiss Ohno more but his heavy footsteps leading him away. This time, it’s his turn to close the door.

*

His fans love the song he wrote, clamors for more. He is moved by it, by their reaction, and slowly but surely, his management gives him more leeway. More than any other time in his career, he finally feels like it’s his own, and that he is at the helm.

It is his words, his life.

Sometimes, he lets his defenses down enough to remember the time spent creating that song, the song that is steering him towards where he’s always wanted to be, and it’s almost as if he hears him in person. Alchemy and destiny in one.

He isn’t angry, couldn’t stay angry. It was a beautiful time in his life, he thinks, recites in his heart.

*

“Congratulations on selling one million records,” Aiba shouts, is the rowdiest of the bunch, and Sho smiles from deep within. Everyone clicks their champagne flutes together. “And for selling out all the domes twice over!”

His earlier successes are nothing compared to the one he is now experiencing. He is no longer SakuSho-he is Sakurai Sho, and finally, he is proud to share his view of the world under his own name. It was never about the numbers.

That’s all his been searching for, anyway. He just wanted to be himself. It has taken longer than he would have wanted, but he is finally settled in his skin, ready to work even harder.

The bar is alive and bright with happy, familiar faces, all congratulating him. The champagne gets to his head, and it is wonderful, so wonderful to be at ease about himself in the company of the people he cares about.

“No more singing about hos, Sho-chan,” Nino says, grinning as he clinks glasses with Sho.

He laughs, feeling ridiculous. “No more singing about hos!”

“What is all this talk about hos!” Aiba comes toward them, arms circled around Jun’s hips.

“Can’t you let go of him for one second?” Nino says, nose wrinkling.

“He’s unbearable,” Jun says, face irritated but obviously pleased, to anyone who knows him even just a bit.

“But everyone wants a piece of you now, and I don’t like sharing and double-dipping,” Aiba says, and Sho chokes on his champagne to Nino’s guffawing.

“Aiba,” Jun growls. Sho feels the collective warmth of his worlds coming together, threading loose ends together.

The night ends on an early, but high, note, and Sho is about to leave, a happy pounding in his head. Nino is uncharacteristically drunk and has him in a death grip.

“Sho-chan,” he says, laughing into his ears. “I hope you’re hungry.”

*

The doorbell rings.

Sho smells the freshly baked croissants before his heart understands to race. He knows how to take chances now.

*

It’s Thursday night. Rufus is barking.

*

We continue our voyage toward the sky
You’re my lighthouse that shines on my path