rechording
Jun. 9th, 2015 02:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hananapeel“FUCK YOU, KAMASAKI!” Futakuchi calls in greeting. The man across the coffee shop flips the bird in response, and Ennoshita gapes as a laughing Futakuchi mirrors the sentiment.
“Ah, sorry, Ennoshita-san,” he says mildly, turning back towards Ennoshita with a calm smile, as if he hadn’t just yelled obscenities above the whir of coffee machines and the low chatter of other caffeine-deficient college students. “My sincere apologies. Please continue.”
He’s back in character, apparently; Futakuchi Kenji’s growing local following know him for his smooth vocals, acoustic guitar, and gentle personality, the last of which Ennoshita is quickly learning is a pretty big damn lie.
“Ah– well,” Ennoshita says, glancing down at his notebook, “what are you thinking in terms of time frame?”
Futakuchi sips a bit of his latte, and as the singer rests his chin daintily on his hand, Ennoshita idly wonders who the fuck he thinks he’s fooling. “Well, I just wanted a little music video to promote the new album, so,”—a soft sigh—“I don’t want it to take too long. Could we get it filmed by the end of this week and edited by the end of the month?”
“Yeah, we can work out the schedule for when neither of us have class. Did you have any ideas for scenes or settings you want to shoot in?”
Futakuchi’s eyes take on a sudden gleam, and he starts pulling things out of his backpack to show Ennoshita ideas scribbled in the margins of notebooks and in the corners of coffee-stained napkins. “Okay, so for this one scene I had this idea for–”
He pauses abruptly, digs vigorously through the mess of candy wrappers, discarded receipts, and loose guitar picks in his pants pockets. How he fits so much trash in those tight skinny jeans, Ennoshita will never know, but Futakuchi finally extracts a beat-up iPod with triumph. “Wait, no, first listen to the song with me.”
He shoves an earbud in each of their ears. “In my dreams…” the song plays, and Futakuchi hums along for a brief moment before ripping off a vigorous bite of his cheese danish and spreading his ideas across the table. Sifting through the pile, he snatches out an old envelope he’d scribbled on.
“So,” he says enthusiastically, spraying danish crumbs across the table, “I was thinking that the camera’ll cut to my face right as I say, ‘I close my eyes and hope you’ll find me sleeping,’ and I’ll have my eyes all fluttering closed, you know? And the stars are bright and there’s a breeze in my hair, and it’ll totally look awesome…”
As Futakuchi impatiently brushes the crumbs off the table mid-sentence, Ennoshita discovers another facet of Futakuchi Kenji: earnest and hardworking, honestly endearing. This Futakuchi spreads his arms wide in gesturing and is oblivious to his surroundings, voice growing in volume the more he talks. They agree on meeting on Wednesday at the park Ennoshita suggested, and the Sunday after that in Futakuchi’s dorm room, to film the scenes that excite them the most: the first, Futakuchi playing his guitar on a bench next to a street lamp, and the second, Futakuchi sitting alone on his bed, surrounded by tousled blankets.
When they finish, Futakuchi takes Ennoshita’s hand in a warm, strong grip and shakes it excitedly with both hands. “See you tomorrow!” he says, grinning, and Ennoshita’s just wondering if he’d imagined the first five minutes of their meeting when he sees Futakuchi impishly knocking over Kamasaki’s coffee and snickering uncontrollably as the waitress makes his fuming friend pay for the broken mug.
–
It’s about midnight when Futakuchi finally comes running up. He drops his guitar case on the grass and flops down next to Ennoshita on the park bench. “Sorry I’m late, man,” he pants, “chem lab ran late and then I had to run back to my dorm and get my case.”
“It’s okay,” Ennoshita says, slipping his phone in his pocket and resisting the urge to fix Futakuchi’s sweaty hair, which is sticking up oddly from his run to the park. “How was chem lab?” he asks, starting to set up the camera stand and equipment as Futakuchi digs through his wallet to find his guitar pick.
“Well, I mean, it’s Nekomata-sensei,” Futakuchi says around the pick clasped between his teeth, setting the guitar on his lap and adjusting the strap. “He farts and blames the god-awful smell on sulfur that we aren’t even using.”
Ennoshita snorts. “Yeah, I had him for Chem 122 last year, and people stopped sitting in the front three rows. Like one of those splash zones at the park.”
Futakuchi snickers and they exchange easy, thoughtless conversation while preparing their respective equipment. The park is empty and quiet besides the occasional start-up beep from Ennoshita and a few warm-up strums and notes from Futakuchi. Finally, Futakuchi coughs and dips his head, bangs falling forward and hiding his eyes. “Um, yeah. You can start when you’re ready.”
Ennoshita nods and hits play on the speakers he brought, the first strum of the recorded guitar loud and startling in the midnight silence. Futakuchi quickly picks up the chords and Ennoshita scoots back with the camera to fully capture the circle of yellow lamplight that bathes Futakuchi in artificial brightness. A sharp line marks the stark and lonely contrast between his spotlight and the dark field around him, the sky surrounding the scene in dull, light-polluted gray.
A barely audible inhale and Futakuchi begins singing. “‘Cause in my dreams, we can spend a little time just talking,” Futakuchi croons, his characteristically raspy and soulful voice scratching pleasantly. With Futakuchi’s mischievous eyes closed and dark shadows playing under his eyes and cheekbones, Ennoshita can see how he pulls off his sensitive stage persona.
“In my dreams...”
Futakuchi opens his eyes halfway and gazes pensively into the shadow-laden distance. Maybe it isn’t so much an act as another part of his personality, Ennoshita wonders as Futakuchi furrows his brow and frowns a little in concentration, rocking backwards in the rhythm.
“... we’re side by side just walking,” he sings, head tipped up and tinted dull yellow by lamplight. The shadows shift, expanding and retracting with the bob of Futakuchi’s head. Ennoshita slowly circles around him for more angles, making sure to capture the slow wave of dark trees and the sparkle of stars above them, and then returning to the lone silhouette on a dark park bench singing so longingly.
Finally, Futakuchi gently strums one last time and lets his voice fade into a low hum. And like a switch flipped, he opens his eyes and he’s back to the Futakuchi that friends and strangers alike are simultaneously entertained and exasperated by. “How was that, Ennoshita?” he asks, grinning. “I have to say, one of my better performances. That one high note in the middle was exquisite, if I could say so myself.”
“You know that all of your singing now is going to be replaced by the studio version, right?”
“Well, yeah.” Futakuchi shrugs and laughs. “Still doesn’t change the fact that I fucking killed it.” Ignoring Ennoshita’s look, he grins and leans back, strums lazily. “Is that it then? Can I go home now?”
And Ennoshita would be lying if he said he didn’t feel the slightest pleasure at the sight of Futakuchi’s fallen face when he replies, “Not even close.”
For the next takes, Ennoshita focuses on close-ups of Futakuchi, of the subtle flex of muscle when he strums, of the tap of his shoe against the pavement, of the unnatural yellow gleam of his guitar and his hair, of his blunt fingernails rapping against the strings and the shadowed hollow of his eye socket.
“Jesus,” Futakuchi pants after the tenth or so take, “should have known that you were such an obsessive perfectionist when I saw your hair.”
“What’s wrong with my hair?” Ennoshita asks, and he’s not offended. At all. Especially coming from Mr. Side Bang over there.
“Wellll,” Futakuchi drawls, setting his guitar on the bench and stretching his now free arms behind his head, “do you use a ruler to make your part that straight?”
“What?!” Ennoshita yelps. “No! Do you use a hair straightener on your bangs?”
“No. Shut up.”
“Ooh, have we found Kenji-chan’s sensitive spot?” Ennoshita teases, enjoying this more and more as Futakuchi splutters. “Is that why you were so late today?”
Futakuchi’s face is sullen and flushed. “Fuck you. Just start the goddamn music again.”
Ennoshita puts up his hands and backs away, still snickering. “Okay, okay. Anything for Ken-chan.”
It takes a few more takes and some scolding (and apologizing) from Ennoshita to get Futakuchi back in the mood, but they finally finish shooting, enough to satisfy even Ennoshita. He sits on the bench next to Futakuchi and reviews some of the footage on his camera, checking that the shots were well-lit and composed correctly. During Take 6 Futakuchi kept feeling like he was about to sneeze, so he couldn’t use any of that footage, but there’s a certain bit from Take 7 that the lamp flickered a bit and the shadows danced nicely. He would have to remember to put that in. He fiddles with settings and modes on his camera, engrossed in the play of color and light, subtle movement and stark stillness that brought the song to life. And in the center of all that, Futakuchi: unintentionally lovely, with his eyes shadowed dark and his hair gleaming smooth as honey, and hmm, where were these thoughts goin–
A sudden clunk breaks Ennoshita’s concentration, and he remembers that Futakuchi is still next to him. He’s now asleep, limp hand flopping over the dropped guitar. “Shit,” Ennoshita says, hurriedly examining the guitar for scratches and, finding none, slips it back in its case to hide the evidence.
“Futakuchi. Futakuchi.” Ennoshita shakes his shoulders and, in a fit of sadistic desperation, slaps his cheek a couple of times. But of course Futakuchi sleeps like the dead. Of course. Not surprising considering the energy with which he snarks through life.
With his normal smirk now relaxed and drooling, and the surprisingly lush bloom of eyelashes shadowing his cheekbones, he looks... kind of cute, actually. He guesses that wouldn’t hate those lips, drool and all, beneath his own, or the fan of those dark lashes brushing his skin. And he wouldn’t exactly be averse to the rasp of his voice against his ear or the scrape of his callused thumb across his cheek. Hm. Well. Shit. Ennoshita tucks the thoughts away into that dusty corner of his brain that houses bad, post-midnight ideas.
He packs up his own equipment and slings the bag over his shoulder. Gripping Futakuchi’s guitar in one hand, he lugs Futakuchi’s dead weight onto his back and arranges his arms over Ennoshita’s shoulders and his legs around his waist. It’s a little awkward because of the bag of Ennoshita’s equipment now pressed between them and the handle of the guitar case digging into Futakuchi’s left thigh, but really, Ennoshita thinks a bit bitterly as he trods with his heavy, excessively warm load back to his dorm, he better be grateful.
It’s a short walk back, and Ennoshita had never been so grateful for his single dorm on the outskirts of campus. He drops the equipment along with Futakuchi heavily on his bed, everything bouncing for a second on the mattress before settling. Ennoshita marvels once again at how Futakuchi sleeps as deep as the ninth circle of Hell before sighing and flipping the lights on. He changes into sweatpants and brushes his hair and is his side part really that straight?
He frowns at his reflection and ignores the twinge of insecurity that makes him want to look nice for this kind-of-crush who is currently his kind-of-employer, who is kind-of-hot and kind-of-funny, and whose voice kind-of-makes-him-want-to-take-off-his-clothes.
Ennoshita’s frown deepens into a scowl at his own thoughts, but he runs a hand through his hair anyway and brushes it into a more jagged part. He has a Japanese Indie Film class tomorrow morning, but he’s too excited for this music video project and too nervous that the subject of said project is currently snoring on the very same bed that Ennoshita himself lays on every night. Does it still smell like pickled ginger from when Kinoshita came over and spilled pickle juice all over his comforter? Is Futakuchi nicely settled in the Ennoshita-shaped dent in the mattress? Is the bed a little too short for his goddamn legs?
Ennoshita rubs a hand through his hair and does the only thing one can do in these types of situations of ill-timed adrenaline due to a long-limbed, side-banged, sexy-voiced crush in one’s bed: he pulls out his laptop and watches the 2004 American adventure/heist classic, National Treasure, starring Nicolas Cage.
It’s really the only thing one can do.
Five minutes later, halfway into the opening credits, Futakuchi somehow awakes, rubbing his eyes and squinting at Ennoshita before exploding into energy. “Is that National Treasure?”
Ennoshita narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Convenient for you to wake up now after I carried you for ten minutes from the park and dropped you face-first on the bed.”
He is duly ignored in the face of Futakuchi’s surprising liveliness, given that he was stone-cold asleep half a minute ago. “Man,” he grins, digging out a half-eaten bag of sour gummies from his guitar case, “would have thought that a fancy film major like you would look down on such plebeian-pleasing blockbusters.”
Actually, Ennoshita had written his final last year on its themes of conspiracy and mystery, and he still didn’t know himself if it was bullshit or not.
“Anyway, look, are you watching or not?”
They look at each other in silence for a minute, Futakuchi glaring and patting the spot next to him on the bed, and Ennoshita gesturing towards the extra chair he has by his desk. “Fine,” Ennoshita finally huffs, and it was only because the bed’s more comfortable anyway, and not at all the prospect of sitting so close to Futakuchi that their arms or fingers could accidentally brush.
He settles next to Futakuchi and they watch National Treasure, which soon turns into (at Futakuchi’s insistence) National Treasure 2: Book of Secrets and (at Ennoshita’s insistence) Titanic. Time passes easily and quickly, measured not by such impersonal measures as minutes or hours but rather by the number of Futakuchi’s jokes or the frequency of Ennoshita’s snickers, the increasing ease with which they brushed fingers passing the bag of sour gummies or the growing heaviness of their pressed shoulders.
They have just finished Titanic when Ennoshita’s 8 AM alarm goes off, and wiping the remaining tears from his eyes, he peels his shoulder away from Futakuchi’s and starts moving to pack his bag. He’s already thrown it over his shoulder and started munching on a granola bar when he sneaks a look at Futakuchi, who in the meantime has slid down the wall and is now watching him, eyes half-closed and unfocused, and dark bags forming beneath them.
Ennoshita snorts. “You look like shit.”
“You...” Futakuchi squints at him and flops a heavy arm over his eyes. “You look exactly the same as you normally do. No wonder you look so sleepy all the time, you freak of nature.”
Ennoshita laughs and steps out the door. “See you Sunday, Futakuchi.”
–
It’s only Saturday, and yet Ennoshita’s hidden behind large sunglasses and a Hollywood cap he’d borrowed from a kouhai in costume design. Honestly, he could have never predicted himself stooping so low. Yet, here he is, skulking behind his two best friends as they walk into the coffee shop, holding his breath and tiptoeing as they slowly move past the slightly risen stage. “Ah,” Narita says dryly when he sees who, exactly, is warming up on that particular stage. “I was wondering why you dragged us here disguised as Justin Bieber.”
Kinoshita pauses and gives Ennoshita a considering look. “To be honest, you have the side bang for it.”
Narita snorts. “So does he.”
“No wonder you two like each other!” Kinoshita coos, and this time Narita almost doubles over in laughter, leaning on an empty coffee table for support.
“Ah, yes,” Narita manages between snickers, “hair compatability. The most important factor.”
Ennoshita scowls darkly at them, but his friends are too busy laughing at their own jokes to notice or even care, and they never really listen to him like Tanaka and Noya do, anyway. All he can do now is turn away from the stage and slouch down inconspicuously.
Finally, they settle down with some final self-congratulatory chortles, and Ennoshita’s able to push them towards the line. They buy steaming mugs of coffee and grab a table in the back, Ennoshita situating himself so that he’s perfectly hidden behind his friends’ shoulders. By this time, Futakuchi is warmed up already, smiling that warm, calm smile that he has when performing in front of his fans, who are pretty numerous today and crowd the seats in front of the stage, armed with their own coffees.
He starts off with an easy one, the first song of his that became popular, and was played on a lot of local indie radio stations for a while. Compared to “In My Dreams,” it’s lively and upbeat, guitar chords bright under the easy rasp of his voice. It’s one of Ennoshita’s favorites off of the album he bought online, which he’s taken to listening while walking to class. Sometimes his pockets are so warm and Futakuchi’s voice so clear in his ear that Ennoshita can almost imagine him walking next to him, holding his hand.
But watching Futakuchi live is even better, for it’s his onstage energy and graceful movement that bring life to simple words and notes. Each vibration, each slow hum, each rap of nails against strings, tugs against him, pulling him inevitably closer, closer, to Futakuchi. Even Narita and Kinoshita, who only came along because they just finished their programming exam and because Ennoshita confessed his kind-of-maybe-crush to them, seem momentarily speechless, caught up in the motion and energy of the music.
And, thoughts swept away in the rush of the melody, Ennoshita feels himself fumbling for the camera in his backpack, the movements unbidden yet so instinctively natural. It’s natural to want to capture Futakuchi, so beautifully at ease, forehead gleaming slightly with sweat and brow furrowed in emotion, as if he himself was lost in song. It’s right to remember this very moment, with afternoon sunlight streaming in long rays through the window and coffee steam curling in fragrant puffs. And it’s fitting, Ennoshita thinks as his heart thumps off-rhythm, that this precise moment in which he finally, relievedly accepts his overwhelming crush, is recorded on his very own camera.
Futakuchi finishes the song with a slow strum, with each slowly plucked string Ennoshita feels the tempo of his heartbeat slowly return to normal. Kinoshita turns slowly back around and, seeing Ennoshita holding his camera sheepishly, almost snorts his coffee out. “Oh man, this keeps getting better and better.”
“It’s for research!” Ennoshita says defensively. “Theres so many layers of him, you know? One second he’s making weird fart jokes with this friend of his, and the next he’s singing these really sensitive lyrics. I’m just… you know.” Ennoshita clutches the camera tighter to his chest. “Researching.”
His best friends level him identical looks, perfected over the years: right eyebrow raised slightly, lids lowered and mouth skeptical. Ennoshita’s delivered a fair share of them himself, but being on the receiving end is always unnerving.
“Do you really think you can get by us with your bullshit,” Narita finally says, face still settled into that awful expression, just because he knows how much Ennoshita hates it.
“Look,” Kinoshita sighs, taking a gulp of coffee as if for strength. “We know that you like him. You know that you like him. Hell, he probably knows that you like him, unless he’s as dense as my dear grandmother’s rock-hard fruitcake. Just tell him, already, and give that stupid hat back to Kageyama.”
Ennoshita slumps forward onto the table. “But what if he doesn’t like me backkkk,” he whines, hearing the 13-year-old in his voice but not really caring to hide it.
Kinoshita opens his eyes wide in mock surprise. “Wait. Like? Or like-like?”
“Should you leave him a secret admirer note in his locker during lunch-time?” Narita adds with false enthusiasm, his voice pitched unnaturally high.
Ennoshita groans into the pillow of his arms. “I hate you guys.”
“Well.” Kinoshita huffs. “It’s the only way to know if he like-likes you.”
“You could make him a bento,” Narita muses. “Make it super cute, Ennoshita.”
They continue exchanging ideas pulled out of shoujo middle-school manga before Narita finally drops the charade and bops Ennoshita on the head. “He pulled an all nighter with you to watch your trash movies,” he sighs, not unkindly. “Ennoshita, are you the dense one?”
“Besides,” Kinoshita adds, poking Ennoshita’s forehead hard through the cap before his friend could argue the merits of the National Treasure franchise. “What did we say to each other about never giving up on things we really like?”
“We were talking about volleyball,” Ennoshita grumbles, “but fine.”
–
It’s the last day of shooting, and as Ennoshita fluffs Futakuchi’s sheets into artful rumpledness (how it would look if Futakuchi actually slept like a normal person instead of a log), he thinks about how exactly, to bring up the topic of possibly... going on a date... together... possibly.
Yeah.
He adjusts the blanket corner into the exact right position and ignores Futakuchi’s muttering about perfectionism, lost in simulations and conversations playing out like movie scenes. John Cusack with a boombox overhead, or something like that. Ennoshita eyes his speakers and regretfully decides that they’re too expensive to risk breaking; he would have to make up his own script, preferably:
[Enter Ennoshita, stage right]
Ennoshita: Hey
Futakuchi (shirtless): Hey let’s go out
Futakuchi strums impatiently, three sharp chords breaking the thread of Ennoshita’s anxious musings. From his perch on his bed he kicks a socked foot into Ennoshita’s stomach. “Come on, lets start already!”
Mumbling an apology and ignoring the blush creeping up his neck, Ennoshita scrambles off Futakuchi’s bed and sets up behind the camera. He hits play and Futakuchi’s song fills the tiny room. Futakuchi himself fills Ennoshita’s vision, overwhelming and breathtaking. Inescapable, for Futakuchi is in all his senses: his smell, clean and easy, ingrained in his sheets and his room; his sound, voice low and yearning, each word scraping like fingernails across Ennoshita’s skin; his look, dust motes dancing around him in a romantic halo, the window beside him painting half his face with pinkish sunset; his touch, a remembered press of shoulders, warm and firm, with the sour taste of gummies in their mouths.
“In my dreams...” Futakuchi sings, and Ennoshita’s stomach curls deep in longing, fingers gripping tightly around the camera lens.
“In my dreams...” Futakuchi sings, and Ennoshita feels it everywhere: from the hotness of his ears to the loud pounding of his heart, every cell in his body aching, yearning for Futakuchi, to be touched and kissed and made to laugh with dumb jokes whispered in his ear. And he doesn’t know if it’s his overactive imagination or if Futakuchi is actually trying to tell him something, but he’s looking straight at him through the lens of the camera, eyes dark and intense, rasping voice low and meaningful.
“In my dreams...” Futakuchi sings, and Ennoshita jumps him.
"In my dreams," the speaker sings, as Futakuchi drops his guitar and wraps his arms around Ennoshita, the tripod camera obediently recording their breathless kiss before Ennoshita, lids heavy and lips flushed, reaches over and clicks it off.
–
“Get your feet out from under my butt, Kenji.”
Futakuchi wiggles his toes and giggles as his boyfriend frowns at him sternly, the work glasses that are slipping down his nose ruining the effect. “But my toes are so cold... and your butt is so warm...”
Ennoshita sighs and puts his laptop on the floor by the bed. Futakuchi grins triumphantly. Finally he’s distracted Ennoshita from editing videos enough to maybe watch a movie and make out for a bit, which has been his plan all along. And which is also why he is so taken aback when Ennoshita suddenly makes his move, kicking his foot out and slipping it under Futakuchi’s butt in one smooth motion. “Cold!” Futakuchi laughs, and they kick at each other for a while, legs windmilling in midair, until they are both panting with exertion and laughter and Ennoshita finally crawls over into Futakuchi’s lap where he belongs.
“Hm,” he hums against Futakuchi’s neck, bangs brushing his ear as warm, strong arms sneak around to encircle his waist. “Wanna watch a movie or something?”
“Mm,” Futakuchi kisses into his boyfriend’s soft hair and curls his arms around his back, enjoying the heat that seeps between them. “Since you didn’t like Shrek 4… Titanic, maybe? Should I get a box of tissues for you?”
“... Kenji, you’ve used that joke for months now, it’s not funny anymore.”
“Shh, it’s okay little Chikara, don’t cry!”
Ennoshita pushes on Futakuchi’s chest, laughing. “You cried, too, you asshole!”
“Hm? Sorry I can’t hear you, babe. I’m going through a tunnel and the signal is going bad!”
Ennoshita drops his head back onto his boyfriend’s shoulder, defeated. “You fucking dumbass,” he moans, hiding a quiet smile in the crook of Futakuchi’s neck.
Futakuchi imitates crackling static into his hand-slash-phone and looks around Ennoshita’s room with wide eyes. “Say that again? Chikara? Chikara? Hello? Can you hear me?”
“You know what...” Ennoshita mutters, shoving the heel of his hand into Futakuchi’s cheek as he extricates himself from his boyfriend’s arms to lean over the edge of the bed and retrieve his laptop. Futakuchi watches as he scrolls quickly and, face lighting in triumph and anticipation, climbs back into Futakuchi’s lap and presses play on a video. The first thing Futakuchi sees is Ennoshita’s face, dark in the unlighted room, the flickering of the movie playing with the shadows on his face. Then, over “My Heart Will Go On” in the background, his own giggling voice, embarrassingly high-pitched in the presence of his crush: “A rare sight tonight, folks. A rare Ennoshita Chikara, crying like a baby!”
In his arms, Futakuchi feels Ennoshita shift in embarrassment at the red eyes and dripping nose so lovingly blown up in full screen, and leans down to kiss his boyfriend’s reddening ears. “Hey, you brought this on yourself, idiot. I didn’t even know you saved this video.”
The sound crackles as the video Ennoshita– glowing red in the darkness– scowls and grabs the camera to point it towards Futakuchi, whose face is also gleaming suspiciously with tears and who may or may not be sniffling into a tissue hidden in his fist. The real Ennoshita snorts and leans his head back to grin up at his face. “That’s why, you clown.”
“And I... will always love you...” Celine Dion belts out in the background, and they watch as video Futakuchi’s face slowly grows redder and redder the longer Ennoshita focuses the camera on him. “God, you can practically feel my pining,” real Futakuchi groans, dropping his face into the crook of Ennoshita’s neck to avoid looking at those wide eyes, too open and vulnerable. “This is embarrassing. Turn it off, Chikara,” he mumbles.
Ennoshita’s shoulders shake with laughter. “Why do you think I was filming you for so long, hmm?”
“Mmm, I don’t know. You enjoy my pain, maybe.”
“That’s true,” Ennoshita laughs, twisting around to peck Futakuchi’s lips. “Like I always get a kick out of this,” he says, pulling up a prime picture of Futakuchi mid-howl, drenched in chocolate syrup, after accidentally triggering his own prank on Ennoshita.
“You told me you deleted this, asshole!” Futakuchi yells, but Ennoshita is cracking up too much for Futakuchi to exact any revenge other than reaching up under his shirt and tickling that soft spot under his ribs that makes him double over in laughter. “Stop, stop–” Ennoshita gasps in between giggles. “I’m– hah– sorry!!”
“What else do you have on your laptop, you sadist?” Futakuchi asks, and while his boyfriend is laughing and vulnerable, seizes possession of his laptop. He clicks on the folder simply titled “Kenji” and freezes. Hundreds of pictures and videos, each carefully named, tagged, and organized; row after row of neat thumbnails.
There’s pictures from when they picnicked on a sunny day in the park, of Futakuchi testing how many grapes he can shove in his cheeks and of Ennoshita leaning against a tree and closing his eyes in the shade. And from Ennoshita’s birthday, clumsy one-handed snapshots of frosting-sweet kisses and hands curled together. There’s that video that Futakuchi himself took when he tried to wake up Ennoshita one morning and got hit in the face by a pillow.
But most of them are taken by Ennoshita, secretly in early sunrises, kisses pressed into sleep-soft skin and a snoring Futakuchi leaning instinctively into the brush of his hand, close-up shots of the jut of Futakuchi’s knee, the arch of his foot, the shell of his ear, the pout of his lips, all illuminated by soft morning light. Each picture feels like a whisper-light caress, and Futakuchi shivers at each brush. He feels worshipped by the camera. By the cameraman. By Chikara.
“Hmm, I liked this picture a lot,” Ennoshita says as he pulls himself up to curl against Futakuchi’s side, as if nothing was different. As if he hadn’t just confessed his love in a thousand pictures of a thousand words.
“Chi–”
“No really, look at this,” Ennoshita laughs, avoiding Futakuchi’s gaze and clicking on a thumbnail. It’s of a guilty-looking Futakuchi caught red-handed trying to hide ten bags of sour gummies by shoving them into a box of Raisin Bran.
“Jesus, Kenji,” Ennoshita shakes his head, still not looking at him. “You can be so ridiculous sometimes. Who do you think you’re fooling, no one likes Raisin Bran. It’s still amazing to me that they’re still in business; I mean unless you have bowel movement problems, for which I suppose the fiber can be useful, but you go to the bathroom pretty regularly so I don’t really– ”
“Chikara!” Futakuchi pushes the laptop off to the side and pulls Ennoshita to face him. “Shut up. Listen. I love you. And I will always love you.”
After their smiling lips pull reluctantly apart, Ennoshita shakes his head and snickers into Futakuchi’s ear. “Careful, before Celine Dion sues your ass for plagiarism.”
“Ah, sorry, Ennoshita-san,” he says mildly, turning back towards Ennoshita with a calm smile, as if he hadn’t just yelled obscenities above the whir of coffee machines and the low chatter of other caffeine-deficient college students. “My sincere apologies. Please continue.”
He’s back in character, apparently; Futakuchi Kenji’s growing local following know him for his smooth vocals, acoustic guitar, and gentle personality, the last of which Ennoshita is quickly learning is a pretty big damn lie.
“Ah– well,” Ennoshita says, glancing down at his notebook, “what are you thinking in terms of time frame?”
Futakuchi sips a bit of his latte, and as the singer rests his chin daintily on his hand, Ennoshita idly wonders who the fuck he thinks he’s fooling. “Well, I just wanted a little music video to promote the new album, so,”—a soft sigh—“I don’t want it to take too long. Could we get it filmed by the end of this week and edited by the end of the month?”
“Yeah, we can work out the schedule for when neither of us have class. Did you have any ideas for scenes or settings you want to shoot in?”
Futakuchi’s eyes take on a sudden gleam, and he starts pulling things out of his backpack to show Ennoshita ideas scribbled in the margins of notebooks and in the corners of coffee-stained napkins. “Okay, so for this one scene I had this idea for–”
He pauses abruptly, digs vigorously through the mess of candy wrappers, discarded receipts, and loose guitar picks in his pants pockets. How he fits so much trash in those tight skinny jeans, Ennoshita will never know, but Futakuchi finally extracts a beat-up iPod with triumph. “Wait, no, first listen to the song with me.”
He shoves an earbud in each of their ears. “In my dreams…” the song plays, and Futakuchi hums along for a brief moment before ripping off a vigorous bite of his cheese danish and spreading his ideas across the table. Sifting through the pile, he snatches out an old envelope he’d scribbled on.
“So,” he says enthusiastically, spraying danish crumbs across the table, “I was thinking that the camera’ll cut to my face right as I say, ‘I close my eyes and hope you’ll find me sleeping,’ and I’ll have my eyes all fluttering closed, you know? And the stars are bright and there’s a breeze in my hair, and it’ll totally look awesome…”
As Futakuchi impatiently brushes the crumbs off the table mid-sentence, Ennoshita discovers another facet of Futakuchi Kenji: earnest and hardworking, honestly endearing. This Futakuchi spreads his arms wide in gesturing and is oblivious to his surroundings, voice growing in volume the more he talks. They agree on meeting on Wednesday at the park Ennoshita suggested, and the Sunday after that in Futakuchi’s dorm room, to film the scenes that excite them the most: the first, Futakuchi playing his guitar on a bench next to a street lamp, and the second, Futakuchi sitting alone on his bed, surrounded by tousled blankets.
When they finish, Futakuchi takes Ennoshita’s hand in a warm, strong grip and shakes it excitedly with both hands. “See you tomorrow!” he says, grinning, and Ennoshita’s just wondering if he’d imagined the first five minutes of their meeting when he sees Futakuchi impishly knocking over Kamasaki’s coffee and snickering uncontrollably as the waitress makes his fuming friend pay for the broken mug.
–
It’s about midnight when Futakuchi finally comes running up. He drops his guitar case on the grass and flops down next to Ennoshita on the park bench. “Sorry I’m late, man,” he pants, “chem lab ran late and then I had to run back to my dorm and get my case.”
“It’s okay,” Ennoshita says, slipping his phone in his pocket and resisting the urge to fix Futakuchi’s sweaty hair, which is sticking up oddly from his run to the park. “How was chem lab?” he asks, starting to set up the camera stand and equipment as Futakuchi digs through his wallet to find his guitar pick.
“Well, I mean, it’s Nekomata-sensei,” Futakuchi says around the pick clasped between his teeth, setting the guitar on his lap and adjusting the strap. “He farts and blames the god-awful smell on sulfur that we aren’t even using.”
Ennoshita snorts. “Yeah, I had him for Chem 122 last year, and people stopped sitting in the front three rows. Like one of those splash zones at the park.”
Futakuchi snickers and they exchange easy, thoughtless conversation while preparing their respective equipment. The park is empty and quiet besides the occasional start-up beep from Ennoshita and a few warm-up strums and notes from Futakuchi. Finally, Futakuchi coughs and dips his head, bangs falling forward and hiding his eyes. “Um, yeah. You can start when you’re ready.”
Ennoshita nods and hits play on the speakers he brought, the first strum of the recorded guitar loud and startling in the midnight silence. Futakuchi quickly picks up the chords and Ennoshita scoots back with the camera to fully capture the circle of yellow lamplight that bathes Futakuchi in artificial brightness. A sharp line marks the stark and lonely contrast between his spotlight and the dark field around him, the sky surrounding the scene in dull, light-polluted gray.
A barely audible inhale and Futakuchi begins singing. “‘Cause in my dreams, we can spend a little time just talking,” Futakuchi croons, his characteristically raspy and soulful voice scratching pleasantly. With Futakuchi’s mischievous eyes closed and dark shadows playing under his eyes and cheekbones, Ennoshita can see how he pulls off his sensitive stage persona.
“In my dreams...”
Futakuchi opens his eyes halfway and gazes pensively into the shadow-laden distance. Maybe it isn’t so much an act as another part of his personality, Ennoshita wonders as Futakuchi furrows his brow and frowns a little in concentration, rocking backwards in the rhythm.
“... we’re side by side just walking,” he sings, head tipped up and tinted dull yellow by lamplight. The shadows shift, expanding and retracting with the bob of Futakuchi’s head. Ennoshita slowly circles around him for more angles, making sure to capture the slow wave of dark trees and the sparkle of stars above them, and then returning to the lone silhouette on a dark park bench singing so longingly.
Finally, Futakuchi gently strums one last time and lets his voice fade into a low hum. And like a switch flipped, he opens his eyes and he’s back to the Futakuchi that friends and strangers alike are simultaneously entertained and exasperated by. “How was that, Ennoshita?” he asks, grinning. “I have to say, one of my better performances. That one high note in the middle was exquisite, if I could say so myself.”
“You know that all of your singing now is going to be replaced by the studio version, right?”
“Well, yeah.” Futakuchi shrugs and laughs. “Still doesn’t change the fact that I fucking killed it.” Ignoring Ennoshita’s look, he grins and leans back, strums lazily. “Is that it then? Can I go home now?”
And Ennoshita would be lying if he said he didn’t feel the slightest pleasure at the sight of Futakuchi’s fallen face when he replies, “Not even close.”
For the next takes, Ennoshita focuses on close-ups of Futakuchi, of the subtle flex of muscle when he strums, of the tap of his shoe against the pavement, of the unnatural yellow gleam of his guitar and his hair, of his blunt fingernails rapping against the strings and the shadowed hollow of his eye socket.
“Jesus,” Futakuchi pants after the tenth or so take, “should have known that you were such an obsessive perfectionist when I saw your hair.”
“What’s wrong with my hair?” Ennoshita asks, and he’s not offended. At all. Especially coming from Mr. Side Bang over there.
“Wellll,” Futakuchi drawls, setting his guitar on the bench and stretching his now free arms behind his head, “do you use a ruler to make your part that straight?”
“What?!” Ennoshita yelps. “No! Do you use a hair straightener on your bangs?”
“No. Shut up.”
“Ooh, have we found Kenji-chan’s sensitive spot?” Ennoshita teases, enjoying this more and more as Futakuchi splutters. “Is that why you were so late today?”
Futakuchi’s face is sullen and flushed. “Fuck you. Just start the goddamn music again.”
Ennoshita puts up his hands and backs away, still snickering. “Okay, okay. Anything for Ken-chan.”
It takes a few more takes and some scolding (and apologizing) from Ennoshita to get Futakuchi back in the mood, but they finally finish shooting, enough to satisfy even Ennoshita. He sits on the bench next to Futakuchi and reviews some of the footage on his camera, checking that the shots were well-lit and composed correctly. During Take 6 Futakuchi kept feeling like he was about to sneeze, so he couldn’t use any of that footage, but there’s a certain bit from Take 7 that the lamp flickered a bit and the shadows danced nicely. He would have to remember to put that in. He fiddles with settings and modes on his camera, engrossed in the play of color and light, subtle movement and stark stillness that brought the song to life. And in the center of all that, Futakuchi: unintentionally lovely, with his eyes shadowed dark and his hair gleaming smooth as honey, and hmm, where were these thoughts goin–
A sudden clunk breaks Ennoshita’s concentration, and he remembers that Futakuchi is still next to him. He’s now asleep, limp hand flopping over the dropped guitar. “Shit,” Ennoshita says, hurriedly examining the guitar for scratches and, finding none, slips it back in its case to hide the evidence.
“Futakuchi. Futakuchi.” Ennoshita shakes his shoulders and, in a fit of sadistic desperation, slaps his cheek a couple of times. But of course Futakuchi sleeps like the dead. Of course. Not surprising considering the energy with which he snarks through life.
With his normal smirk now relaxed and drooling, and the surprisingly lush bloom of eyelashes shadowing his cheekbones, he looks... kind of cute, actually. He guesses that wouldn’t hate those lips, drool and all, beneath his own, or the fan of those dark lashes brushing his skin. And he wouldn’t exactly be averse to the rasp of his voice against his ear or the scrape of his callused thumb across his cheek. Hm. Well. Shit. Ennoshita tucks the thoughts away into that dusty corner of his brain that houses bad, post-midnight ideas.
He packs up his own equipment and slings the bag over his shoulder. Gripping Futakuchi’s guitar in one hand, he lugs Futakuchi’s dead weight onto his back and arranges his arms over Ennoshita’s shoulders and his legs around his waist. It’s a little awkward because of the bag of Ennoshita’s equipment now pressed between them and the handle of the guitar case digging into Futakuchi’s left thigh, but really, Ennoshita thinks a bit bitterly as he trods with his heavy, excessively warm load back to his dorm, he better be grateful.
It’s a short walk back, and Ennoshita had never been so grateful for his single dorm on the outskirts of campus. He drops the equipment along with Futakuchi heavily on his bed, everything bouncing for a second on the mattress before settling. Ennoshita marvels once again at how Futakuchi sleeps as deep as the ninth circle of Hell before sighing and flipping the lights on. He changes into sweatpants and brushes his hair and is his side part really that straight?
He frowns at his reflection and ignores the twinge of insecurity that makes him want to look nice for this kind-of-crush who is currently his kind-of-employer, who is kind-of-hot and kind-of-funny, and whose voice kind-of-makes-him-want-to-take-off-his-clothes.
Ennoshita’s frown deepens into a scowl at his own thoughts, but he runs a hand through his hair anyway and brushes it into a more jagged part. He has a Japanese Indie Film class tomorrow morning, but he’s too excited for this music video project and too nervous that the subject of said project is currently snoring on the very same bed that Ennoshita himself lays on every night. Does it still smell like pickled ginger from when Kinoshita came over and spilled pickle juice all over his comforter? Is Futakuchi nicely settled in the Ennoshita-shaped dent in the mattress? Is the bed a little too short for his goddamn legs?
Ennoshita rubs a hand through his hair and does the only thing one can do in these types of situations of ill-timed adrenaline due to a long-limbed, side-banged, sexy-voiced crush in one’s bed: he pulls out his laptop and watches the 2004 American adventure/heist classic, National Treasure, starring Nicolas Cage.
It’s really the only thing one can do.
Five minutes later, halfway into the opening credits, Futakuchi somehow awakes, rubbing his eyes and squinting at Ennoshita before exploding into energy. “Is that National Treasure?”
Ennoshita narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Convenient for you to wake up now after I carried you for ten minutes from the park and dropped you face-first on the bed.”
He is duly ignored in the face of Futakuchi’s surprising liveliness, given that he was stone-cold asleep half a minute ago. “Man,” he grins, digging out a half-eaten bag of sour gummies from his guitar case, “would have thought that a fancy film major like you would look down on such plebeian-pleasing blockbusters.”
Actually, Ennoshita had written his final last year on its themes of conspiracy and mystery, and he still didn’t know himself if it was bullshit or not.
“Anyway, look, are you watching or not?”
They look at each other in silence for a minute, Futakuchi glaring and patting the spot next to him on the bed, and Ennoshita gesturing towards the extra chair he has by his desk. “Fine,” Ennoshita finally huffs, and it was only because the bed’s more comfortable anyway, and not at all the prospect of sitting so close to Futakuchi that their arms or fingers could accidentally brush.
He settles next to Futakuchi and they watch National Treasure, which soon turns into (at Futakuchi’s insistence) National Treasure 2: Book of Secrets and (at Ennoshita’s insistence) Titanic. Time passes easily and quickly, measured not by such impersonal measures as minutes or hours but rather by the number of Futakuchi’s jokes or the frequency of Ennoshita’s snickers, the increasing ease with which they brushed fingers passing the bag of sour gummies or the growing heaviness of their pressed shoulders.
They have just finished Titanic when Ennoshita’s 8 AM alarm goes off, and wiping the remaining tears from his eyes, he peels his shoulder away from Futakuchi’s and starts moving to pack his bag. He’s already thrown it over his shoulder and started munching on a granola bar when he sneaks a look at Futakuchi, who in the meantime has slid down the wall and is now watching him, eyes half-closed and unfocused, and dark bags forming beneath them.
Ennoshita snorts. “You look like shit.”
“You...” Futakuchi squints at him and flops a heavy arm over his eyes. “You look exactly the same as you normally do. No wonder you look so sleepy all the time, you freak of nature.”
Ennoshita laughs and steps out the door. “See you Sunday, Futakuchi.”
–
It’s only Saturday, and yet Ennoshita’s hidden behind large sunglasses and a Hollywood cap he’d borrowed from a kouhai in costume design. Honestly, he could have never predicted himself stooping so low. Yet, here he is, skulking behind his two best friends as they walk into the coffee shop, holding his breath and tiptoeing as they slowly move past the slightly risen stage. “Ah,” Narita says dryly when he sees who, exactly, is warming up on that particular stage. “I was wondering why you dragged us here disguised as Justin Bieber.”
Kinoshita pauses and gives Ennoshita a considering look. “To be honest, you have the side bang for it.”
Narita snorts. “So does he.”
“No wonder you two like each other!” Kinoshita coos, and this time Narita almost doubles over in laughter, leaning on an empty coffee table for support.
“Ah, yes,” Narita manages between snickers, “hair compatability. The most important factor.”
Ennoshita scowls darkly at them, but his friends are too busy laughing at their own jokes to notice or even care, and they never really listen to him like Tanaka and Noya do, anyway. All he can do now is turn away from the stage and slouch down inconspicuously.
Finally, they settle down with some final self-congratulatory chortles, and Ennoshita’s able to push them towards the line. They buy steaming mugs of coffee and grab a table in the back, Ennoshita situating himself so that he’s perfectly hidden behind his friends’ shoulders. By this time, Futakuchi is warmed up already, smiling that warm, calm smile that he has when performing in front of his fans, who are pretty numerous today and crowd the seats in front of the stage, armed with their own coffees.
He starts off with an easy one, the first song of his that became popular, and was played on a lot of local indie radio stations for a while. Compared to “In My Dreams,” it’s lively and upbeat, guitar chords bright under the easy rasp of his voice. It’s one of Ennoshita’s favorites off of the album he bought online, which he’s taken to listening while walking to class. Sometimes his pockets are so warm and Futakuchi’s voice so clear in his ear that Ennoshita can almost imagine him walking next to him, holding his hand.
But watching Futakuchi live is even better, for it’s his onstage energy and graceful movement that bring life to simple words and notes. Each vibration, each slow hum, each rap of nails against strings, tugs against him, pulling him inevitably closer, closer, to Futakuchi. Even Narita and Kinoshita, who only came along because they just finished their programming exam and because Ennoshita confessed his kind-of-maybe-crush to them, seem momentarily speechless, caught up in the motion and energy of the music.
And, thoughts swept away in the rush of the melody, Ennoshita feels himself fumbling for the camera in his backpack, the movements unbidden yet so instinctively natural. It’s natural to want to capture Futakuchi, so beautifully at ease, forehead gleaming slightly with sweat and brow furrowed in emotion, as if he himself was lost in song. It’s right to remember this very moment, with afternoon sunlight streaming in long rays through the window and coffee steam curling in fragrant puffs. And it’s fitting, Ennoshita thinks as his heart thumps off-rhythm, that this precise moment in which he finally, relievedly accepts his overwhelming crush, is recorded on his very own camera.
Futakuchi finishes the song with a slow strum, with each slowly plucked string Ennoshita feels the tempo of his heartbeat slowly return to normal. Kinoshita turns slowly back around and, seeing Ennoshita holding his camera sheepishly, almost snorts his coffee out. “Oh man, this keeps getting better and better.”
“It’s for research!” Ennoshita says defensively. “Theres so many layers of him, you know? One second he’s making weird fart jokes with this friend of his, and the next he’s singing these really sensitive lyrics. I’m just… you know.” Ennoshita clutches the camera tighter to his chest. “Researching.”
His best friends level him identical looks, perfected over the years: right eyebrow raised slightly, lids lowered and mouth skeptical. Ennoshita’s delivered a fair share of them himself, but being on the receiving end is always unnerving.
“Do you really think you can get by us with your bullshit,” Narita finally says, face still settled into that awful expression, just because he knows how much Ennoshita hates it.
“Look,” Kinoshita sighs, taking a gulp of coffee as if for strength. “We know that you like him. You know that you like him. Hell, he probably knows that you like him, unless he’s as dense as my dear grandmother’s rock-hard fruitcake. Just tell him, already, and give that stupid hat back to Kageyama.”
Ennoshita slumps forward onto the table. “But what if he doesn’t like me backkkk,” he whines, hearing the 13-year-old in his voice but not really caring to hide it.
Kinoshita opens his eyes wide in mock surprise. “Wait. Like? Or like-like?”
“Should you leave him a secret admirer note in his locker during lunch-time?” Narita adds with false enthusiasm, his voice pitched unnaturally high.
Ennoshita groans into the pillow of his arms. “I hate you guys.”
“Well.” Kinoshita huffs. “It’s the only way to know if he like-likes you.”
“You could make him a bento,” Narita muses. “Make it super cute, Ennoshita.”
They continue exchanging ideas pulled out of shoujo middle-school manga before Narita finally drops the charade and bops Ennoshita on the head. “He pulled an all nighter with you to watch your trash movies,” he sighs, not unkindly. “Ennoshita, are you the dense one?”
“Besides,” Kinoshita adds, poking Ennoshita’s forehead hard through the cap before his friend could argue the merits of the National Treasure franchise. “What did we say to each other about never giving up on things we really like?”
“We were talking about volleyball,” Ennoshita grumbles, “but fine.”
–
It’s the last day of shooting, and as Ennoshita fluffs Futakuchi’s sheets into artful rumpledness (how it would look if Futakuchi actually slept like a normal person instead of a log), he thinks about how exactly, to bring up the topic of possibly... going on a date... together... possibly.
Yeah.
He adjusts the blanket corner into the exact right position and ignores Futakuchi’s muttering about perfectionism, lost in simulations and conversations playing out like movie scenes. John Cusack with a boombox overhead, or something like that. Ennoshita eyes his speakers and regretfully decides that they’re too expensive to risk breaking; he would have to make up his own script, preferably:
[Enter Ennoshita, stage right]
Ennoshita: Hey
Futakuchi (shirtless): Hey let’s go out
Futakuchi strums impatiently, three sharp chords breaking the thread of Ennoshita’s anxious musings. From his perch on his bed he kicks a socked foot into Ennoshita’s stomach. “Come on, lets start already!”
Mumbling an apology and ignoring the blush creeping up his neck, Ennoshita scrambles off Futakuchi’s bed and sets up behind the camera. He hits play and Futakuchi’s song fills the tiny room. Futakuchi himself fills Ennoshita’s vision, overwhelming and breathtaking. Inescapable, for Futakuchi is in all his senses: his smell, clean and easy, ingrained in his sheets and his room; his sound, voice low and yearning, each word scraping like fingernails across Ennoshita’s skin; his look, dust motes dancing around him in a romantic halo, the window beside him painting half his face with pinkish sunset; his touch, a remembered press of shoulders, warm and firm, with the sour taste of gummies in their mouths.
“In my dreams...” Futakuchi sings, and Ennoshita’s stomach curls deep in longing, fingers gripping tightly around the camera lens.
“In my dreams...” Futakuchi sings, and Ennoshita feels it everywhere: from the hotness of his ears to the loud pounding of his heart, every cell in his body aching, yearning for Futakuchi, to be touched and kissed and made to laugh with dumb jokes whispered in his ear. And he doesn’t know if it’s his overactive imagination or if Futakuchi is actually trying to tell him something, but he’s looking straight at him through the lens of the camera, eyes dark and intense, rasping voice low and meaningful.
“In my dreams...” Futakuchi sings, and Ennoshita jumps him.
"In my dreams," the speaker sings, as Futakuchi drops his guitar and wraps his arms around Ennoshita, the tripod camera obediently recording their breathless kiss before Ennoshita, lids heavy and lips flushed, reaches over and clicks it off.
–
“Get your feet out from under my butt, Kenji.”
Futakuchi wiggles his toes and giggles as his boyfriend frowns at him sternly, the work glasses that are slipping down his nose ruining the effect. “But my toes are so cold... and your butt is so warm...”
Ennoshita sighs and puts his laptop on the floor by the bed. Futakuchi grins triumphantly. Finally he’s distracted Ennoshita from editing videos enough to maybe watch a movie and make out for a bit, which has been his plan all along. And which is also why he is so taken aback when Ennoshita suddenly makes his move, kicking his foot out and slipping it under Futakuchi’s butt in one smooth motion. “Cold!” Futakuchi laughs, and they kick at each other for a while, legs windmilling in midair, until they are both panting with exertion and laughter and Ennoshita finally crawls over into Futakuchi’s lap where he belongs.
“Hm,” he hums against Futakuchi’s neck, bangs brushing his ear as warm, strong arms sneak around to encircle his waist. “Wanna watch a movie or something?”
“Mm,” Futakuchi kisses into his boyfriend’s soft hair and curls his arms around his back, enjoying the heat that seeps between them. “Since you didn’t like Shrek 4… Titanic, maybe? Should I get a box of tissues for you?”
“... Kenji, you’ve used that joke for months now, it’s not funny anymore.”
“Shh, it’s okay little Chikara, don’t cry!”
Ennoshita pushes on Futakuchi’s chest, laughing. “You cried, too, you asshole!”
“Hm? Sorry I can’t hear you, babe. I’m going through a tunnel and the signal is going bad!”
Ennoshita drops his head back onto his boyfriend’s shoulder, defeated. “You fucking dumbass,” he moans, hiding a quiet smile in the crook of Futakuchi’s neck.
Futakuchi imitates crackling static into his hand-slash-phone and looks around Ennoshita’s room with wide eyes. “Say that again? Chikara? Chikara? Hello? Can you hear me?”
“You know what...” Ennoshita mutters, shoving the heel of his hand into Futakuchi’s cheek as he extricates himself from his boyfriend’s arms to lean over the edge of the bed and retrieve his laptop. Futakuchi watches as he scrolls quickly and, face lighting in triumph and anticipation, climbs back into Futakuchi’s lap and presses play on a video. The first thing Futakuchi sees is Ennoshita’s face, dark in the unlighted room, the flickering of the movie playing with the shadows on his face. Then, over “My Heart Will Go On” in the background, his own giggling voice, embarrassingly high-pitched in the presence of his crush: “A rare sight tonight, folks. A rare Ennoshita Chikara, crying like a baby!”
In his arms, Futakuchi feels Ennoshita shift in embarrassment at the red eyes and dripping nose so lovingly blown up in full screen, and leans down to kiss his boyfriend’s reddening ears. “Hey, you brought this on yourself, idiot. I didn’t even know you saved this video.”
The sound crackles as the video Ennoshita– glowing red in the darkness– scowls and grabs the camera to point it towards Futakuchi, whose face is also gleaming suspiciously with tears and who may or may not be sniffling into a tissue hidden in his fist. The real Ennoshita snorts and leans his head back to grin up at his face. “That’s why, you clown.”
“And I... will always love you...” Celine Dion belts out in the background, and they watch as video Futakuchi’s face slowly grows redder and redder the longer Ennoshita focuses the camera on him. “God, you can practically feel my pining,” real Futakuchi groans, dropping his face into the crook of Ennoshita’s neck to avoid looking at those wide eyes, too open and vulnerable. “This is embarrassing. Turn it off, Chikara,” he mumbles.
Ennoshita’s shoulders shake with laughter. “Why do you think I was filming you for so long, hmm?”
“Mmm, I don’t know. You enjoy my pain, maybe.”
“That’s true,” Ennoshita laughs, twisting around to peck Futakuchi’s lips. “Like I always get a kick out of this,” he says, pulling up a prime picture of Futakuchi mid-howl, drenched in chocolate syrup, after accidentally triggering his own prank on Ennoshita.
“You told me you deleted this, asshole!” Futakuchi yells, but Ennoshita is cracking up too much for Futakuchi to exact any revenge other than reaching up under his shirt and tickling that soft spot under his ribs that makes him double over in laughter. “Stop, stop–” Ennoshita gasps in between giggles. “I’m– hah– sorry!!”
“What else do you have on your laptop, you sadist?” Futakuchi asks, and while his boyfriend is laughing and vulnerable, seizes possession of his laptop. He clicks on the folder simply titled “Kenji” and freezes. Hundreds of pictures and videos, each carefully named, tagged, and organized; row after row of neat thumbnails.
There’s pictures from when they picnicked on a sunny day in the park, of Futakuchi testing how many grapes he can shove in his cheeks and of Ennoshita leaning against a tree and closing his eyes in the shade. And from Ennoshita’s birthday, clumsy one-handed snapshots of frosting-sweet kisses and hands curled together. There’s that video that Futakuchi himself took when he tried to wake up Ennoshita one morning and got hit in the face by a pillow.
But most of them are taken by Ennoshita, secretly in early sunrises, kisses pressed into sleep-soft skin and a snoring Futakuchi leaning instinctively into the brush of his hand, close-up shots of the jut of Futakuchi’s knee, the arch of his foot, the shell of his ear, the pout of his lips, all illuminated by soft morning light. Each picture feels like a whisper-light caress, and Futakuchi shivers at each brush. He feels worshipped by the camera. By the cameraman. By Chikara.
“Hmm, I liked this picture a lot,” Ennoshita says as he pulls himself up to curl against Futakuchi’s side, as if nothing was different. As if he hadn’t just confessed his love in a thousand pictures of a thousand words.
“Chi–”
“No really, look at this,” Ennoshita laughs, avoiding Futakuchi’s gaze and clicking on a thumbnail. It’s of a guilty-looking Futakuchi caught red-handed trying to hide ten bags of sour gummies by shoving them into a box of Raisin Bran.
“Jesus, Kenji,” Ennoshita shakes his head, still not looking at him. “You can be so ridiculous sometimes. Who do you think you’re fooling, no one likes Raisin Bran. It’s still amazing to me that they’re still in business; I mean unless you have bowel movement problems, for which I suppose the fiber can be useful, but you go to the bathroom pretty regularly so I don’t really– ”
“Chikara!” Futakuchi pushes the laptop off to the side and pulls Ennoshita to face him. “Shut up. Listen. I love you. And I will always love you.”
After their smiling lips pull reluctantly apart, Ennoshita shakes his head and snickers into Futakuchi’s ear. “Careful, before Celine Dion sues your ass for plagiarism.”
