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Shirabu Kenjirou is flying. The scene is dream-like: on stage, nothing but bright spotlights shining on him, the glimmer of sequins on his person sharp in his periphery. He takes a deep breath and lets the music guide him. He recognizes this tune— recognizes the handsome figure making its way towards him, recognizes the pattern of his steps, the movement of his arms. Suddenly, the figure twists menacingly, trapping Kenjirou in its awful dance, cloaking him with darkness, and then— And then, he emerges, tears running down his face. He faces the light, agony fixed on his features as he flies, flies, flies away. He has become the White Swan, he thinks triumphantly. He is perfect. The brightness consumes him.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“Every lake belongs to the quietness desired by the swans.”
When the light doesn’t fade, Kenjirou blinks awake, the last of sleep’s cobwebs clinging to his lashes. He pats around his sheets for his phone with a yawn—7:44 AM. Lovely. He could laze around for another 15 minutes, or he could start his day early. He settles back under his covers, only to be woken up by the rude sound of X Gon’ Give It To Ya. Damn Satori and his ridiculous meddling; he’d been perfectly content with Pachelbel’s Canon in D before the redheaded fucker stole his phone. Speaking of: “Who the fuck,” he mutters, angrily unlocking his phone and pressing it to his ear. “Hello?” “Good morning, Kenji-kun!” A familiar voice chirps through the tinny speakers. Kenjirou pinches the bridge of his nose, then throws the blankets off his legs. He might as well be productive, because this call is going to take a while. “With all due respect, please fuck off, Tendou,” he says, putting the other man on speaker before getting up to stretch.
“That’s no way to talk to your dear senpai and esteemed colleague, Shirabu!”
Sighing, Kenjirou arches his feet, watching as the corns, blisters, and bunions on his skin shift with every movement. “It’s great that you’re neither of those, then.”
“Rude! My kouhai is so rude!”
Kenjirou rubs his knees to warm them up slightly. “What were you calling about?” There’s a pause on the other end: probably Satori trying to guess what has Kenjirou prickly and impatient this time. (For the record, he really was looking forward to 15 more minutes of shut-eye, if not to be lazy, then to see that vivid dreamscape again.) “Well, one thing! Or, now it’s two things— I mean, it WAS just going to be one thing, but then something so wild happened on the morning commute that I just have to spill the tea somewhere,” Satori begins yammering on about who-knows-what, and Kenjirou promptly tunes him out to focus on stretching his feet. The monotonous movements are comforting to him, and he won’t lie and say the pain doesn’t feel good. Reon always said he was a bit of a masochist, but what does he know? (A lot, actually. The guy got his psych degree even with the time he put into ballet, and Kenjirou always feels a stab of jealousy for the life he missed out on.) “That’s crazy,” he says, once Satori has stopped to gather a breath.
“Right? Absolutely insane, I didn’t think anybody would have the guts to be racist on public transport, of all the places. Anyways! That other thing—we’ve got a newbie coming!”
“Wild, man, that’s craz—” Kenjirou unfolds himself and stares at his phone. “Wait. What?”
“Yeah! According to ‘Toshi, he’s moved here from Paris! Paris Opera Ballet, Kenjirou—this guy’s probably better than you!”
Scoffing, Kenjirou bends back over to stretch out the kinks in his back. “Probably better than you too, Tendou,” He nearly groans in relief as something clicks satisfyingly in his spine.
“Well, that’s a given! But I’m not one of Washijou’s favourites, you know— ‘Toshi is the only one I’d bet doesn’t have anything to worry about.”
Kenjirou straightens up, shaking out his limbs in front of the mirror. Silently, he observes the muscles of his legs, the curves of his arms, the imperfections. He frowns and abruptly spins on his heels, grabbing his phone off the ground and stalking off towards the bathroom. “I had a dream last night,” he muses aloud, pushing thoughts of the Newbie From France from his mind and placing his phone on the vanity.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I was dancing the prologue to Lake of Swans, that part where Rothbart basically says, ‘fuck bird rights.’” Kenjirou keeps talking as he drops his pants. “It was weird; I’d never danced that specific choreography, but I knew it like the back of my hand.”
“The brain is weird. And you’re weird too, who pisses on the phone?”
Snorting, Kenjirou flushes the toilet, avoids looking at himself in the mirror, and pulls out his toothbrush. “Fuck off. Anyways, as I was saying,”
“You’re just gonna ignore the new guy thing?”
“What is there to say?” He starts brushing his teeth, talking around the bristles. “I haven’t even met him yet.” Satori hums on the other end, the sound cut off by an excited, “hey, babe!” Rolling his eyes, Kenjirou takes his cue and hits the disconnect button. He’ll see everybody later, anyways. -X- “Somebody’s in a good mood,” Taichi sarcastically calls over his shoulder as he pours tea. Kenjirou walks towards the kitchen island. “I’m in a good mood to kick someone’s ass today. Would you like it to be yours?” Taichi sets down their breakfast in front of them and has the audacity to look undeterred. “Didn’t know you were into that kinda stuff, Shirabu.” Glaring, Kenjirou stabs his chopsticks into his bowl. “For the love of all that is holy, Kawanishi Taichi, shut up.” Breakfast like this is almost a tradition for the two—Kenjirou has lost count of how many times he’s started the day with the awful snarking of his childhood friend. It’s almost comforting to know that no matter how much Kenjirou wishes it isn’t so, Taichi will continue to remain a thorn in his side. A thorn that he can’t imagine life without and loves like a brother, but a thorn nonetheless. “I’ll be back late tonight, got a date with Haruka-chan,” Taichi says after a comfortable silence has settled between the two. “It’s Monday, but okay,” Kenjirou picks at his breakfast, numbers racing through his head. The other man lets out an indignant hum, scarfing down the last of his rice. “We’re both busy for the rest of the week. I’ve got night classes, and she’s got experiments to run.” There’s a beat while Kenjirou finishes his tea. “Hm. Have fun, I guess.” As always, concern is written all over Taichi’s face as Kenjirou slides off his stool and takes their plates, his portions still largely unfinished. He’s not in the mood for another fight about his health, though, and Taichi’s known him long enough to know when and when not to push. Silently, he scrapes the remaining food into the organics bin, then starts washing the dishes. Taichi settles beside him with a towel, and together, they clean up. “You know, you’re hot,” Taichi dries off a cup, “and you could find a date anytime, right?” Kenjirou shrugs, rubbing the plate in his hands with a sponge. “Sure, but Washijou wouldn’t be happy with that.” “Oh my God, we’ve been over this, fuck Washijou, you deserve to be happy,” Taichi glares at the plate handed to him. “It’s not as simple as that,” Kenjirou says, softly enough that the other man almost doesn’t hear him. “But I don’t want to talk about that now.” Before he can get a word in, Kenjirou continues. “It’s a new season today. We can talk about shit after things kick off for me, okay?” Taichi frowns, but he doesn’t press further. -X- On the train, Kenjirou tries to catch up on his lost 15 minutes of sleep, his head lightly hitting the protective glass of the advertisement behind him with every bump in the tracks. It is decidedly uncomfortable after 5 minutes or so, and Kenjirou angrily glares out the window across from him. A train on the opposite track races by, illuminating his reflection in the window. His mouth is turned in a scowl, his nose scrunched in irritation. Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes and tries to relax his features, frowning when he realizes they were never tensed at all. Then, opening his eyes, he finds his smirking reflection blocked by a man standing in front of him, absent-mindedly scrolling through something on his phone. Kenjirou almost does a double-take—the man is gorgeous. With grey-tipped, ash-blonde hair, hazel eyes with flecks of gold, a button nose, delicate, thin lips, and a broad chest, he looks like he’s stepped right out of a Vogue photoshoot, strange fashion and all. Kenjirou is going to combust. He thanks the heavens that his stop is the next one, because any longer with this stranger and— — Oh, fuck the heavens. As he stands, the man glances up from his phone at the electronic sign on the ceiling and promptly moves towards the doors. Just his luck that they’d get off at the same stop. And exit through the same stairs up onto the street. And walk in the same direction. And enter Sendai Center for Performing Arts and Music together. The man wordlessly holds open the door for Kenjirou, then instantly looks like a lost puppy as he takes in the building’s interior. At this point, Kenjirou is this close to exploding on the spot from self-consciousness, but before he can make a mad dash for the changing rooms, the stranger taps him on the shoulder. “Eh ben, pardon—?” He starts, voice quietly nervous. Then, in broken Japanese, “Do… do you know where can I, ah, trouver, Monsieur Washijou?” Kenjirou doesn’t know a word of French—hasn’t ever, likely never will, and though he gets the gist of the man’s request, he has no idea how to respond. The guy is looking at him with the world’s cutest puppy dog eyes right now, though, and damn if Kenjirou hadn’t already been weak in the knees from the commute. “Washijou! Right. His office is over there,” he points in the general direction of the administrative wing, but quickly realizes that the other man is hopelessly confused. “Actually, let me just,” he slaps himself mentally and gestures for him to follow. “This way.” Approaching Washijou’s office is always a nerve-wracking event, but Kenjirou hopes the other man will take the brunt of his potential fury. Warily, he knocks on the door, and together, they wait. -X- If you had to ask Kenjirou how to describe himself, ‘dumb’ would not be among any of the descriptors used. Shirabu Kenjirou is not dumb. In this moment, though, as he witnesses Washijou and the other man speak in rapid French (where did he learn it, anyhow?), Kenjirou feels dumb. Scratch that, actually—he feels beyond dumb, he feels so stupid, so idiotic—Satori had told him about the newcomer, told him that he was from Paris, and still, Kenjirou didn’t connect the dots. He’s going to spontaneously combust one day from his idiocy, he swears. “Ouais— Shirabu,” Washijou turns his attention to Kenjirou. “This is Semi Eita. Get him settled.” “Me?” Kenjirou almost yelps in abject terror, but the older man’s gaze pins him down. “I don’t see any other Shirabu Kenjirou around, do you?” This is it—Kenjirou’s death sentence, he’s sure. “But sir, I don’t know French—?” “Google Translate. See you in 30.” -X- Semi Eita, as it turns out, isn’t actually terrible at Japanese— he just lacks basic grammar and vocabulary and can’t understand it when Kenjirou speaks quickly. However, they find common ground in English and supplement unknown vocabulary with whatever they can. It’s not ideal, but it works, and Kenjirou almost feels comfortable as he leads the man to the dressing room. “I am born here, actually,” Eita chuckles as he puts on his ballet shoes. “Move to Québec when I am two, France when I am five.” Kenjirou rather likes the way Eita pronounces his Rs—they’re soft, distinct, and so different from Japanese. “Both your parents… is… are?” Eita smiles. “Non—ma mère, mother, Japanese, my father, French.” Kenjirou lets out a noncommittal sound of understanding. “Why Shiratorizawa?” At that, Eita’s smile falls. “My mother is… very head sick,” he says slowly, parsing out the words in his head. “She wants… come back home.” “Ah—sorry,” Kenjirou stammers, hastily stuffing his clothes into his duffel bag. “No, no, pas de problème!” Eita goes red, waving his hands wildly. They stare at each other awkwardly before Kenjirou clears his throat and packs his things in the locker behind him. Eita does the same, then waits patiently for the brunet to lead the way to the rehearsal space. And lead the way he does—but not before internally shriveling up into an embarrassed mess. -X- They walk in slightly late for warm-up, but Kenjirou quickly spots Tendou’s flaming red hair, Ushijima’s large build, and the rest of his friends. He motions for Eita to follow and takes a spot by the bar. “To the back, fondu, to the back, plie. Fourth, fourth,” ballet mistress Shimizu walks around, correcting postures as the company warms up. Satori makes an inquisitive humming noise, quiet enough for only Kenjirou to hear, and he throws a glare over his shoulder. Shimizu taps his outstretched thigh. “Looser, Shirabu. Relax.” She breezes past Satori, glances approvingly at Ushijima, then at Eita, who seems comfortable and in his element. Suddenly, the air in the room seems heavier, harder to breathe, and Kenjirou recognizes the familiar feeling of jealousy spike in his gut before getting distracted by Washijou’s entrance. The older man stalks down the stairs, gaze sweeping incriminatingly over the sea of dancers. After an acknowledging nod at the ballet mistress, Washijou begins his seasonal prowl, examining every dancer with a critical eye. He usually picks fourteen or fifteen favourite soloists a season—so far, along with Ushijima, Oikawa, Sugawara, and Kageyama, Kenjirou is usually one of them. He wonders if Eita will make the list. “Lake of the Swans will be our opening show this season,” the director says as he makes his way through the line of soloists. He taps Aone on the shoulder. Moniwa. Futakuchi. “Overdone, I know, but we’re changing things for this show.” Oikawa. Yahaba. Hanamaki. Matsukawa. “We’re going to make it visceral,” Sugawara. Kageyama. Tsukishima. “Raw,” Ushijima. Reon. Kenjirou himself, thank God. Finally, Washijou comes to a stop at Eita, taking in the latter’s physique. “Vous, seize heure, Studio B.” Then, in Japanese, voice projected loudly into every available corner of the room: “If I have not chosen you, then you are to attend this afternoon’s rehearsal schedule as planned—those I have chosen: come to Studio B at four.” Kenjirou eyes the artistic director warily. “Today, we determine the duality of dancer—the white and black of morality, the true Swan and star of our production.” Oikawa has a vicious smile on his face, one that makes Kenjirou flush with the anticipation of competition. He doesn’t know what Washijou said to Eita, but with how the man is smirking proudly, he doesn’t doubt that he’ll see the true caliber of a soloist from the Paris Opera Ballet soon. Bring it on, he wants to say to the company. Show me what you’ve got. -X- Kenjirou is not a passionate dancer. He may not be the most level-headed of individuals, but he loves structure above all. Dancing the White Swan—this is something he can do. With perfect technique, he demonstrates a quiet innocence, moving with a precision he has put his entire life’s training into. Washijou nods approvingly. “So, you want to be our star, Shirabu?” “It’s been my dream, sir.” Smirking, Washijou leans in close, his breath ghosting against the shell of Shirabu’s ear. “If I had separated the roles of White and Black Swan, the White Swan would be yours, without a doubt,” he whispers, almost conspiratorially. Kenjirou feels a nervous rush of victory— but what did he mean by the first part? The director pulls away and turns, nodding at the maestro. “Your Black Swan, if you will, Shirabu.” Kenjirou purses his lips and exhales as the music starts, taking that first step, two, three, then—the fouettes. “Not so controlled,” Washijou groans, exasperated. “Put some passion into it! Seduce us! Attack it!”
The door squeaks open and shuts loudly behind a confused-looking Eita, and Kenjirou can’t help it— he’s been blowing it, he knows he’s been blowing it, and he trips mid-spin. “Bienvenue,” Washijou deadpans, then turns to the soloists. “Men, this is Semi Eita. He’s a newcomer this season from the Paris Opera Ballet. Speak slowly.” Turning to face the now-flustered Eita, he continues, “l’échauffement?” “Ah, non, ça va,” Eita crosses the room, putting his stuff down beside Kenjirou’s. Washijou regards the blond coolly, and Kenjirou feels a pang of indignation. “Should I do it again?” He calls, getting up and reaching for Washijou’s attention. Unfortunately, the director keeps looking at Eita, something dark and indecipherable in his eyes. “No, I’ve seen quite enough, thank you.” Kenjirou feels his temper rising, and Reon eyes him warily as he marches over to the group of soloists. He stuffs his water bottle back, shoves his head through his hoodie, and swings his duffle bag over his shoulder, shoulder-checking Eita as he storms out. Distantly, he hears Washijou call for Oikawa. Kenjirou lets out a string of expletives and untangles his headphones, thinking of heading back home to rant to Taichi about the unfairness of the ballet company and how he should have just done volleyball or something normal with his life, when he remembers that Taichi won’t be home. Good Fucking Lord, he thinks as he loops around the exterior of the building and enters again through the front door. Fuck me. -X- Waiting for Reon and Ushijima (and not Semi Eita, thank you very much!) is an exercise in patience, but one that he supposes will do his forehead vein some semblance of good. If he’s left alone in his stupid apartment for the next few hours, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. He texts the group chat a simple, meet me at the front when you’re done, and spends the next twenty or so minutes cooling off against a wall with Angry Birds. Imagine his surprise when a now-familiar fashion disaster shows up sheepishly in front of him, an embarrassed flush on his face. “Sorry for…interruption,” he mumbles in his broken Japanese. Kenjirou doesn’t even deign to cross the language gap. “How did you find me?” Eita’s face twists in concentration. “I.. wanted say sorry, Ushijima say entrance, I trying my best.” Ushijima, that bitch. “Well, fuck off, I don’t accept your apology,” he scowls, narrowing his eyes. Eita’s beauty hasn’t diminished in any fashion, to Kenjirou’s chagrin. Holding a grudge would be easier if the other man wasn’t drop dead gorgeous. “Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve well and fucked me over, you… you fuckwad!” “You do that enough good without me… interruption—interrupting.” Eita’s eyes are aflame with fury. “Ta gueule, qu’est-ce que tu as? Hein? Tu veux que je m’humilie?” “Was that a question? I don’t know even know what that means!”
“Va te faire foutre, putain d'espèce d'enculé,” “Ah, Shirabu-kun,” Ushijima smoothly steps between Kenjirou and Eita, Satori and Reon at his side. “I was wondering where you were.” Kenjirou swears he’s going to snap any second now. Between this stuck-up foreigner and his traitor of a friend, he’d rather just not. “Fuck it, I’m out,” he snaps, grabbing his bag off the floor and stomping towards the door. -X- After he recalls the day’s events to an unwitting Taichi, he feels rejuvenated. Ranting does wonders for him. They’re lying on the floor of their living room after having re-enacted the movie poster for The Fault In Our Stars (that’s 1500 yen, Satori), and Shirabu’s too sore to get up, and he can’t help it that he’s grumpy and needs to bitch— Taichi is right there, after all. On the other hand, Taichi also sucks, and though he seems more concerned than usual, if not a little confused, his amusement seems to take precedence. “So, what you’re telling me is you have the worst temper in the whole prefecture, but you still can’t dance like it? And that you got distracted by Sex On Legs, so you’re blaming your failing career on him?” Shirabu snorts. “Do you wanna go, Kawanishi?” “You’re 5’8, what are you gonna do?” “Kick your mutant height down with my fouettes, for one.” “Oh, I’m so scared.” Kenjirou sits up. Perhaps there’s merit to that thought. “No, really, I’m gonna practice those shitty ass fouettes and get a Washijou-approved stamp.” Taichi sits up too, turning to face him with a frown on his features. “You’ve really got an unhealthy obsession with this guy’s approval, don’t you?” “You can kindly shut up now.” -X- He splits his toenail. There’s blood in his shoe, blood on the floor, blood on his fingers, and still, Kenjirou keep spinning in front of the mirror. Twenty-nine. Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Kenjirou stumbles, pressing himself against his reflection and ignoring the throbbing in his foot with a smile. Thirty-two fouettes, injured—he can easily visualize thirty-two fouettes without the splitting pain. Fuck you, Semi Eita, he thinks triumphantly, smirking at himself. His hands leave bloody fingerprints on the glass, framing the reflection of his face where he usually stands.
The Swan is mine.
-X- Washijou is not your typically handsome man—he is of short stature, hot-tempered, and greying with age. However, he is dominant in ways that Kenjirou can’t find it in himself to describe. Around Washijou, Kenjirou becomes—dare he say it—shy. That’s probably why he’s among the favourites. He knocks on the door to the director’s office, speech prepared in his mind, when the man himself appears behind him. “Shirabu?” He prompts. Suddenly, the Japanese language fails him, and the words die on his tongue. “I, ah, do—do you have a moment?” Washijou raises an eyebrow, but moves past him to unlock the door and gestures in. “I mean, if now isn’t a good time, or if you’re too busy,” Kenjirou curses himself internally. “Now is fine,” the director squints, setting his briefcase down on his desk before turning. “What do you want?” Kenjirou breathes, willing his deserted wits to return. “I’m here to ask for the part.” Snorting, Washijou makes his way to the door and opens it, pointing out into the hallway. “You know why you can’t have it. Besides, I’ve already casted Oikawa for the role.” “Oh.” Something inside his gut crushes at the news— it wasn’t Eita? Kenjirou deflates. Losing to Oikawa, of all people... “Thank you for your time,” he says almost robotically, bowing his head and turning to the door— — when Washijou slams it in his face. “That’s it? You’re not even going to fight for it?” Kenjirou freezes, eyes flitting up nervously. “Well, I—?” “I know you’ve got more in you than that,” Washijou barks, walking back to his desk. “I’ve seen you: you think you hide it well, but these past four years, you’ve let slip more than you know.” Slowly, Kenjirou turns away from the door, his old anger beginning to broil over in his chest. “What are you implying?” Washijou stalks up to him angrily, the same dark look in his eyes as when he looked at Eita present. “I mean,” he backs the brunet into the wall. “You have everything it takes to be the Black Swan. So why don’t you dance like it?” Kenjirou can feel the director’s hand moving down the line of his hip, and it takes all of his effort not to slap it away. “I want to be perfect,” he grits out. Washijou’s hand is wandering closer to a place Kenjirou would really rather it didn’t. “Perfection isn’t always about control,” he breathes against sensitive skin of Kenjirou’s neck. “It’s can be about letting go, succumbing to your desires—” With a growl, Kenjirou shoves the director off him and slaps him in the face. “I’m not your whore,” he hisses. “Give Oikawa the role if you want, but don’t you dare touch me like that again.” Fuming, he spins on his heel and runs out into the hall, biting furiously at his lip. He can hear Washijou’s distant laugh of amazement behind him, mocking howls of, “the kid finally fought back!” He only prays he doesn’t cry. -X- “You okay, Kenji-kun?” Damn Satori and his awfully good intuition. Kenjirou had thought for sure he was acting normal. He continues packing up his stuff in the dressing room, throwing his coat over his arm. “I’m fine, why?” Satori blinks owlishly at him, as if to say, yain’t subtle, kid, then smiles easily. “No particular reason! You seem tense, is all.” Kenjirou snorts. “It’s because you’re annoying me now.” “Me, annoying? Well, I never—!” It’s then that Ushijima appears out of nowhere (and what is it with people here and sneaking up on others, anyhow?), a hand on Satori’s shoulder. “The roles are posted, Shirabu,” he says. Kenjirou stiffens. He’s lucky he didn’t get fired on the spot for his misdemeanor—it’d be awful to look at the cast list and only see his name in the corps. Oikawa saunters by, his boyfriend at his side. Iwaizumi Hajime always looks irritated by the dancer, Kenjirou thinks, but apparently they’ve been together since the end of junior high, so God knows what the two see in each other. A familiar pang of resentment burns deep in his gut. Oikawa’s always been so elegant, so graceful, and it stings to know that someone so pretentious was casted as the Swan. He inhales, counts to three, and exhales in an attempt to cool his temper, when a loud shriek of dismay nearly bursts his eardrums. “Shirabu-KUUUUNN?” Several things happen at once that Kenjirou doesn’t think he can make sense of. First, there’s Oikawa marching towards him with vengeance in his eyes, a helpless Iwaizumi dragged along behind him. There’s Ushijima, squaring his shoulders, ready to throw hands. There’s Satori rolling with it, and he steps in front of Kenjirou too, a vicious sneer on his face. “Is this some sort of joke?” The soloist seethes, jabbing an accusing finger in Kenjirou’s direction. “Calm down, Oikawa,” Ushijima says, grounding and firm. Oikawa lets out another inhuman shriek. “Calm down? I’d take it if you got the role, but Shirabu Kenjirou can’t dance to save his life!” “What the fuck,” Kenjirou starts slowly as he tries to understand. “Are you even talking about?” Perhaps it’s with the worst timing that Sugawara passes by the group, waving at Kenjirou with a smile and a light-hearted “congratulations, Shirabu-kun!” “Congratulations?” Surprisingly, it’s Iwaizumi that clamps a hand over Oikawa’s mouth and drops the bomb: “You’re the Swan, Shirabu.” Kenjirou blinks, then promptly passes out on the spot.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“Ce qu'on appelle une raison de vivre est en même temps une excellente raison de mourir.”
(That which we call a reason to live is, at the same time, an excellent reason to die.)
Kenjirou examines the piece of paper taped to a mirror like his life depends on it. (And, well, his paycheck depends on it, which he can probably chalk up to his life, so yes, like his life depends on it.) THE SWAN ………………………………………………………………… Shirabu KenjirouTHE PRINCE ...…………………………………………………………………Oikawa Tooru (understudy, Semi Eita)THE SORCERER ………………………………………………………Ushijima Wakatoshi (understudy, Kageyama Tobio)THE SOVEREIGN…………………………………………………………. Sugawara Koushi (understudy, Yahaba Shigeru) He’s certain that Washijou made a mistake, except Washijou doesn’t make mistakes. “You know, reading it isn’t going to change it,” Satori pokes him in the cheek. “You might as well go home.” Kenjirou hushes the other man and strokes the side of the paper in awe. “I’m the Swan,” he breathes, giddiness settling into every fibre of his being. “A sincere congratulations again, Shirabu,” Ushijima nods, linking arms with Satori. “We have a bus to catch, so we’ll see you tomorrow.” “Bye, Kenji-kun!” Tendou crows over his shoulder as the two exit the room. Kenjirou mutters a distracted see ya, eyes fixed to the list. Oikawa is going to be the Prince, which, while gag-worthy to imagine the two of them in love, is a comfort over the alternative: Semi Eita, an understudy to one of the major roles for their opening show this season. He hasn’t seen the man actually dance yet, but he must be good if Washijou trusts him to understudy Oikawa. He must have been standing still for too long, because the lights go out above him. Damn motion sensors. Frowning, he turns his attention back to the casting list, and his half-hidden reflection smiles back at him in the darkness. Kenjirou’s blood goes cold. He’s not smiling. Shocked, but curious all the same, Kenjirou raises his fingers to the glass. His reflection moves in tandem and continues to smile at him. Kenjirou exhales, pressing his index finger to the mirror, where it— “Holy fuck—!” The glass cracks beneath his finger, fragmenting into a web of sharp edges. Kenjirou’s shattered eyes stare back at him in terror, but his reflection’s splintered mouth twists up in a deranged smirk, partially hidden by the cast list. “Shirabu?” The lights flick on, and Kenjirou whirls around to see Eita in the doorway. “What are you doing in dark?” The man walks in and heads towards his vanity, pulling one of the drawers out with a dull bang. Wildly, Kenjirou glances over his shoulder, where he sees his reflection in an unbroken, plain mirror. “What…” he breathes heavily, then nearly gets whiplash turning his head to see Eita. The blond is staring at him, his head tilted to the side in confusion. “Are you… okay?” Kenjirou’s vocal cords don’t seem to work anymore, so he wheezes out an inaudible yeahfuckbye and books it out the door. -X- “Well, this should be fun,” Oikawa sniffs disdainfully once Kenjirou finishes stretching. Overnight, Kenjirou had tossed and turned, wondering how exactly his reflection had come to be so weird, and how he imagined a mirror breaking beneath his touch. He had pinned it on the low visibility of the room and his minor fear of the dark, but coming in this morning and crossing the threshold into the well-lit room had sent all manners of chills up his spine. “What do you have against me, Oikawa-san?” Kenjirou asks, dreading the day’s rehearsal. “You’re also a lead.” Oikawa’s eye twitches. “I’ve worked my ass off and been in this company longer than you have. I deserve your role.” Sighing, Kenjirou starts walking to the other end of the room. “Take it up with Washijou, then.” “I did!” Oikawa speed-walks to catch up with him. “I did, you brat—” “Some of us have better things to do than petty fighting,” Washijou sweeps into the room, nodding at the maestro. “Either you’re with us or you’re not, Oikawa. Nobody is indispensable.” Oikawa goes a shade of red that clashes awfully with his teal shirt, and he huffs before getting into his starting position. The music begins. With a calming breath, Kenjirou stretches out his arms, visualizing his transformation into a swan. Oikawa dances around with an imaginary bow and arrow. The two play a choreographed game of cat and mouse, Kenjirou gracefully undulating his arms as he flies away. Then, Oikawa takes his hand, prompting Kenjirou to twirl in closer, closer, so close that he can see the tiny pores in the other man’s flawless skin. “Good,” Washijou calls out over the music, and the scene halts, allowing Kenjirou and Oikawa to jump away from one another. “Very good,” the director approaches the two, a victorious glint in his eyes. “You’re both so good at pretending you like each other, it’s surprising.” Oikawa sticks out his bottom lip in a pout. Kenjirou’s eyebrows furrow, but he refuses to say anything. “Again.” -X- Kenjirou leans over, open-mouthed and panting over the hallway water fountain. Washijou had drilled the routine into them with biting comments towards Kenjirou for the entire duration.
“I knew the White Swan wouldn’t be a problem.”
“Your walls are up so high, Shirabu.”
“What’s with that mask you put on?”
Suppressing a growl, Kenjirou takes a few gulps of water and leans back, wiping at his mouth. ‘Pretend,’ his ass. He knows what Washijou is playing at, but it doesn’t prepare him any more for the inevitable train wreck that’ll be his Black Swan rehearsal. In the other room, he can hear peals of laughter and music from the first act. He stands straight, fills his water bottle, then makes his way towards the sound of music, peering inconspicuously into the room. There’s a curtain obscuring most of his view, but he sees enough. Eita dances like he owns the place, spinning and stretching effortlessly in time with the music. A crowd of the other dancers surrounds him, everyone rapt with attention. He dances with agony in his step, hope in the movement of his arms, and seduction in every defined muscle of his. “See how he moves?” Washijou’s whisper takes Kenjirou by surprise, but he manages to stifle his yelp. “Look at how effortless he is. How imprecise. How beautiful.” Washijou runs a hand along Kenjirou’s lower back, leaning in closer. Repulsed by the hand, but compelled by the words, Kenjirou’s stab of attraction towards Eita immediately flares up once more. “And he’s not pretending.” The attraction sours with jealousy, and spitefully, he allows the director’s hand to cup the curve of his ass. -X- Weeks pass by in a blur of insults, unwanted touches, and jealousy. Kenjirou wouldn’t call himself weak, but that’s certainly how he feels now, having botched his most recent attempt at the Black Swan. “Do you even want this role?” Washijou barks, his voice echoing in the studio. Oikawa snorts, and Kenjirou decides to ignore him, instead retorting with an angry, “of course I want it.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, the director sighs, looking as though he shoulders the heaviest burdens of the world. “Alright. It’s late— go home. Thank you for your time,” he glares at Kenjirou. “Except you. You’re going to practice with me.” Kenjirou swallows nervously, and Oikawa throws him a pitying glance before gathering his things. Dread slowly builds in his stomach as he watches the other dancer and the musicians leave, drowning out his senses such that he doesn’t notice when Washijou’s hand caresses his waist. After nearly jumping out of his own skin at the contact, Kenjirou takes a deep breath to steady himself. “Sir, please,” he wants to shove the older man off, but his body feels trapped. Washijou seems to take the comment as permission, though, and he slides his hand lower. “I’ll lead,” he murmurs low in Kenjirou’s ear, and the two begin to dance. Washijou takes him through the steps, but he touches him far more than Oikawa ever did and would. Helpless, Kenjirou bears the discomfort of having the older man’s hands all over him, and he does his best to emulate the passionate steps of the Black Swan. Suddenly, the director spins him in the wrong direction— not out, but in— and fuck, those are lips, Washijou’s lips, viciously pressing against his own. Kenjirou can’t even find the words to describe the disgust he feels, and he presses his lips together as tightly as he can. “Come on,” Washijou pulls back slightly for air before leaning in again. “Come on, come on,” he growls against Kenjirou’s lips, harsh, biting. Reluctantly, Kenjirou relaxes marginally, and the older man takes full advantage of the opportunity. His mouth is forced open by an intruding tongue, his senses flooded with the smell of wet warmth and Washijou and it’s too overwhelming and too everything and he just wants it to stop please stop stop stop— Washijou releases him, and he drops in a heap to the floor, trembling. “You’re more useless than a sex doll,” the man wipes at his mouth. Kenjirou lets out a pitiful whine of protest. “No, you are. You’ll never be the Black Swan at this rate.” Before he can say anything coherent in his defense, he’s assaulted by the sound of the door slamming and its resounding echo in an empty studio. -X- “Is he taking advantage of you?” Kenjirou startles alert as he walks into his apartment, taking in Taichi’s somber figure alone at the kitchen table. “How do you mean?” Sighing, Taichi slides off the stool, unlocking his phone and showing the homescreen to him. “Read that.” “9:32 PM. What,” Kenjirou trails off, slipping off his shoes and brushing past his friend to set his bag down. “Exactly.” Taichi pockets his phone. “What?” “You’ve been coming back late, and even later, every night for the past—I don’t know, two, nearly three weeks since you got that god-awful role. For ‘rehearsal.’ And you look so goddamn miserable.” Frowning, Kenjirou takes off his coat, hanging it up neatly. “He’s not taking advantage of me.” “See, that’s what you say, but I know you, and you—” “—the Hell do you know?” Kenjirou spits out. Taichi looks thrown for a second, but his eyes quickly narrow. “What do I know? What do you know? When was the last time we had a conversation, huh? Did you know Haruka and I are engaged? That I’ve got a job offer after graduation?” As quickly as it comes, Kenjirou’s anger dissipates. It must show on his face, because Taichi’s features soften, but he continues. “After May, I’m moving to Tokyo with her. Which means you need to either find another roommate or move somewhere else.” A thousand different thoughts spiral through Kenjirou’s mind, culminating in a choked out, “congrats, Taichi.” Sighing, Taichi envelops Kenjirou in a tight hug. “I have a right to be concerned, you know.” “I’m all too aware of that.” “I just need you to be okay,” Taichi’s hug becomes impossibly tighter. “Okay?” Kenjirou sighs and leans into the other man’s embrace. “Okay.” He supposes this is the part where he tells his best friend that he’s failing as a dancer, where he gets on the path to healthy success. But the words don’t come, and Taichi releases him, giving him a long look before patting him on the shoulders. “Get some rest, Kenjirou.” -X- Oikawa seems to have become even more insufferable, any lingering pity for the situation gone. As well, every interaction with the Washijou drains Kenjirou beyond what words can express, and he’s tired of being touched perversely. “I don’t know why he doesn’t just give up,” Oikawa grumbles, getting into starting position for the umpteenth time. “You’re never going to get it right.” Washijou appears to be seething. “Stop hiding, you fucking pussy, and dance!” With another resigned sigh, Kenjirou focuses on making his muscles as pliant as they can be in Oikawa’s arms, twirling around in what he hopes exudes sex. After another annoyed grunt from the Prince, he can’t take it anymore. “Stop, stop, stop,” he bites out, whirling to face the wall of mirrors where Washijou sits. His reflection looks manic, but he doesn’t find it in himself to care, waiting for the music to splutter to a halt. “Do you have any useful advice? Anything feasible I can do?” Washijou’s lips curl into a snarl. “You should be able to artistically interpret the concepts I throw out, Shirabu.” “There’s a difference between artistic concepts and getting on my case,” he snaps. “There’s also a difference between premier danseur and the corps,” Washijou retorts. “Which you seem to be forgetting. You’re fucking done with us for today, do you understand?” “Fucking— good!” “Studio A, then. Get out.” Kenjirou storms towards the wall, hastily grabbing his water bottle and phone before shoulder-checking Oikawa as hard as he can on the way out. -X- Entering Studio A without the need to be inconspicuous is a new experience for Kenjirou, but he shrugs off the feeling and sets his stuff down beside Yahaba’s. “His highness finally decided to grace us with his presence, I see!” Satori announces, sauntering up to him. “And to what do we owe this pleasure?” Kenjirou refrains from rolling his eyes and flops down to sit against the wall. “Lost my temper and got sent here to rehearse with you guys.” Satori’s eyes widen almost comically, and he gestures wildly to Eita before snapping his attention back. Kenjirou is too tired to protest, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling his old annoyance and jealousy as he watches the man approach. “You lost your temper at Washijou? Who are you and what have you done with our Kenji-kun?” “I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner,” Eita chimes in, offering his hand to help Kenjirou up once he meets the two. Kenjirou’s mouth pulls into a thin line, but he takes the offered hand nonetheless and stands. “When did you get so good at Japanese, huh?” Eita smiles. “It’s been a month, you’d think I would have learned most of the basics.” “I mean, yeah, I guess,” Kenjirou blinks. “I think I liked you better when you couldn’t smartass me.” The group is silent for a moment before Eita bursts out laughing (in that deep, gorgeous timber, and Kenjirou is once again reminded of his—crush(?) and fuck him, honestly). “So, I think I get why you’re here and not with Oikawa!” Groaning, Kenjirou leans back against the wall. “I think Washijou just wanted me gone so that Oikawa could practice my part.” Eita tchs, shaking his head. “No, no, don’t think like that. Think like,” he scrunches his nose, deep in thought, then lights up with a small a-ha. “He sent you here to practice with me!” It takes all of Kenjirou’s willpower not to die on the spot. “If you gentlemen are quite done,” Shimizu glares at them, hands on her hips. The three of them let out nervous ‘hai’s, calming down only after the ballet mistress focuses her attention elsewhere. Eita turns to Kenjirou again, cocking his head towards the center of the room. “Well? Dance the Black Swan parts with me. I’m your Prince, after all.” “You might be my Prince,” Kenjirou corrects, but takes Eita’s hand in his. It’s warm from exercise, not too sweaty, and seems to engulf Kenjirou’s with its size. After nodding at Shimizu, Eita guides Kenjirou to an empty space. “Et un, deux, trois,” he counts in, and off they go, the blond breathily humming the first bars of the score. It’s a little shocking to Kenjirou, how easy Eita makes dancing. They lift, they spin, and Eita’s presence envelops him everywhere. He lets his body move, lets the other man take the lead, and falls into his touch a little more every time. Finally, they end, faces all too close to one another, and if Kenjirou cranes his neck, tilts his chin, he’s sure to catch Eita’s lips in his— “Where was this energy half an hour ago?” Fucking Washijou. “Monsieur directeur, je m’excuse,” Eita steps away, flushing with embarrassment, but Washijou waves him off. “That is exactly how you should be dancing,” the older man viciously snaps, jabbing an accusing finger at Kenjirou. His gaze flits between the two men. Then, “Studio B. Kenjirou. Now.” -X- “Again.” Kenjirou grits his teeth and steps back into Oikawa’s arms. They repeat the sequence again, each step more tedious than the last. “Again.” Frustrated, Oikawa lets out a petulant groan. “Why can’t I just dance the part? He’s never going to get it right.” Washijou shoots him a glare. “Because he did get it right, weeks ago with Eita.” “But he’s not getting it right now,” Oikawa snipes. “This isn’t productive for either of us.” Kenjirou glares at the taller man with as much venom as he can muster. “You want my part so badly, Oikawa? Fucking dance for it, then.” “I might just,” he hisses, then whips around to face the musicians. “The Black Swan’s Pas de deux, Adagio, please.” While Kenjirou balks, the director looks on at the scene with thinly veiled amusement. The piano begins, and much to Kenjirou’s chagrin, Oikawa nails it. He dances smoothly, every step the perfect amount of uncontrolled, every movement exuding attractiveness; his body screams, look at me, and Kenjirou can’t keep his eyes away as he fills in the role of the Prince. It’s a stunning performance, and it hurts. Washijou is silent for a moment, eyebrows drawn together as he thinks. “That was good.” Oikawa smirks triumphantly. “Really good, actually,” the older man mutters, quietly enough that Kenjirou almost doesn’t catch it. “Got it out of your system?” He snarls instead, sidestepping away. Oikawa’s smirk drops into a cold smile. “Never. I—” “—Alright, take ten.” The director interrupts. “We’ll reconvene after you two take a break from each other.” Kenjirou is just about ready to punch somebody. -X- The music to the Pas de deux plays out of Kenjirou’s phone, tinny and quiet within the space of the studio. Rehearsal has long since finished, and the near-silence is deafening. Facing one of the mirrored walls, Kenjirou flicks the sweat off his forehead and gets back into starting position, waiting for his cue. He gets en pointe, arms undulating as he pretends to fly, eyes critical of any imperfections in his movements. His reflection stops moving, which he supposes is one of said imperfections. It drops to the flats of its feet, arms coming to rest on its hips as it smirks at a still-moving Kenjirou. Kenjirou stumbles out of the position, backing away as far as possible from the mirror. It doesn’t change, doesn’t blink, and has an odd, ashen expression as it stares at him. Eyes glued to his double, he hits the other wall of mirrors. Shirabu… “What…” A soft puff of air hits the nape of his neck, and Kenjirou slowly turns his head to glimpse another of his reflections pressed up against the glass. Then, in perhaps worse timing than Suga’s entrance a month ago, the lights snap off. Damn motion sensors. Except—hadn’t he only been still for a few seconds? The lights were programmed to shut off after five minutes without movement, weren’t they? He tries waving his arm around to trigger the lights. When nothing happens, Kenjirou books it for the hallway, grabbing his phone and bag off the floor in a frenzied rush. He stumbles out the door, crashing into the opposite wall—when did that even get there?— with a confused yelp, and he runs down the winding hall as fast as his feet can take him. The dressing room is full of odd mirrors and vanities, and it takes everything in him to look down as he hurriedly stuffs his ballet shoes in his bag, shoves his feet into his boots, and throws his jacket over his shoulders. He doesn’t know how any of this is possible— either the Center is haunted, or something’s wrong with him. As he shoulders his way through the front doors, he shakes his head to try and physically throw off the thoughts. He can’t have something wrong with him. He’s been living just fine until now— what gives? The fresh air calms him down somewhat, and he takes a few moments to breathe, pausing to clear his mind. Once the blood stops roaring in his ears, he hears the faint and familiar, comforting sounds of X Gon’ Give It To Ya. The tune becomes more audible while he rummages through his bag, and he swipes right as he brings his phone up to his ear. “Hello?”
“Kenjirou! Christ, I thought you were dead!”
“Taichi?” Kenjirou sets his bag down and leans against the wall of the building. “Yeah, where the fuck are you?” Kenjirou frowns. His best friend’s response is much more aggressive than it needs to be. He rolls his eyes minutely, praying the other man can’t sense it on the other end. “I just got off extra practice, what?”
“You mean to tell me that you practiced for more than twenty-four hours straight?”
His frown deepens. “What do you mean?"
“What do I— Kenjirou, you’ve been missing for over a day, you haven’t picked up any of my or anybody’s calls, and I know for a fact you weren’t at rehearsal today, because Ushijima fucking Wakatoshi called ME and said you’re nowhere to be found.”
Kenjirou suddenly feels very, very faint. “What…”
“Hold on, can you text me your location? Stay right where you are— I’m gonna come to you, okay?”
Numbly, he lowers his arm, opening his messages and quickly sending his location to Taichi. Google Maps says he’s somehow wandered back to Shiratorizawa Academy, his old high school— but how could that be? He turns around, expecting to see Sendai Center behind him, or even just the advertisement banners with his face on them. Instead, he’s greeted by the intimidating sight of the Shiratorizawa Athletic Quad and the sounds of some sport happening within the gymnasium next to him. Volleyball, he thinks distantly, judging by the yells. “Taichi?” He lifts the receiver back up. “I think I’m at Shiratorizawa.”
“I fucking know you’re at Shiratorizawa, that’s nearly at the other end of the city! What the fuck are you doing there?”
Kenjirou can’t seem to process anything anymore— this night has been too insane, and he has no idea what’s happening to him. “I don’t know,” he looks around confused before picking up his bag and heading for the main gates of the school. “I don’t fucking know.” “Okay, okay, just,” Taichi, though breathless from running (?), sounds as though he’s struggling to keep the panic out of his voice. “Stay calm. I’m almost at the car. I’m on my way.” “Don’t use your phone and drive,” Kenjirou stops at the gates, still familiar with the area years after graduation. Taichi snorts on the other end. “I’m really glad to know your smartassery is still fully intact,” he deadpans, but seems relieved nonetheless. Kenjirou crosses the property line and sits on the curb, listening to the noise of the early evening. The line goes dead. -X- “You are absolutely insane, do you have any idea how worried we all were? My God,” Taichi explodes once they’re seated at the kitchen island. The ride back was fraught with tension, Taichi nearly vibrating in his seat with lingering anxiety and Kenjirou silently trying to remember the past day’s events. His roommate was like a slowly-filling balloon— each thought threatening to make him pop. Kenjirou had showered upon arriving home and marveled at the dirt and dried blood swirling down the drain. He had changed into his street clothes slowly, relieved to wear something clean, and sulkily padded towards the kitchen to talk with an expectant, pissed-off Taichi. “I can’t remember,” Kenjirou says quietly, undercutting the other’s rant. “That’s bad, right? I can’t remember.” Taichi squints. “What can’t you remember?” “The past day, I guess…” he trails off, rubbing at his eyes. “I can’t remember anything past ending rehearsal with Oikawa.” Sighing, his best friend almost visibly deflates. “So, you finished rehearsal, then you transported magically to Shiratorizawa and did God-knows-what for the next day?” That sounds about right, but it doesn’t make Kenjirou feel any better. He can’t say, ‘it be like that sometimes,’ and leave it at that. He doesn’t have any idea what to do, or who might have drugged or done something to him— “— There was another guy,” he blurts out before his filter can stop him. Taichi regards him warily. “He looked a lot like me, but he looked sick, or something, and he was stalking me.” “Are you sure you weren’t just looking in the mirror?” Suddenly, Kenjirou feels a wave of nausea, and his stomach roils. “The mirror?” Taichi gestures towards him. “You look like shit, man, when was the last time you ate something?” “What?” Kenjirou looks down at his body. He’s always been on the chubbier side of slender, and he sees no difference now. “You’re a walking skeleton,” the other man snaps tiredly. “I make us breakfast every damn morning and you never have more than a single bite. Our friends— mutual ones, mind you, I went to Shiratorizawa with Tendou and Ushijima too— say they never see you eat anything at lunch. And then you come back hours after dinner and sleep as soon as your head hits the pillow.” “That’s not true, I—” “— Like hell it’s not true, you want proof? I’m dragging you to the doctor’s after tomorrow’s show.” “You’ve got classes,” “How much do you think those classes will mean to me if you’re dead, huh?” Kenjirou slams his fists on the counter. “I’m not going to die from this,” he snarls, the madness of the night finally catching up to him. “Yes, you fucking are! Don’t you get it? This role is killing you!” “The only way I’ll die is if that stalker catches up to me,” Kenjirou pauses, his mind racing. “Kawanishi, you fucking genius, you,” he lets out a breathy laugh. “What?” He laughs hard, harder, curling over the countertop as the giggles start to wrack his body. “He’s going to kill me!” Taichi looks dismayed at the sight, but before he can speak, the sound of knocking cuts him off. He bites his lip, then slides off the stool and makes his way to their door, where he opens it enough to poke his head out. “Can I help you?” standing outside their door is a supermodel of sorts, with weird blond hair and a weirder outfit. The supermodel goes red. “Ah, hi, I’m Semi Eita,” he curses in some foreign language under his breath. “Is Shirabu around?” Nervously, Taichi looks back over his shoulder at the still-giggling Kenjirou. “No, sorry,” he faces the stranger again. “He’s not.” “Oh,” Eita frowns. “Well, when he’s around, can you tell him I was looking for him?” Taichi nods wordlessly and closes the door, only to be pulled back by the nape of his shirt by Kenjirou. “Semi?” He calls out almost frantically as he yanks the door open and dashes into the foyer. Surprised, the man in question stops in his tracks and turns. “Shirabu?” “What are you doing here?” Kenjirou feels an odd amalgamation of relieved and tense at the sight of the other dancer in his apartment building. Eita flushes and fiddles with the end of his scarf. “I just,” he pauses, as if to collect his thoughts, and Taichi clears his throat loudly behind the two of them. “Christ, fuck off, Kawanishi,” Kenjirou throws a glare over his shoulder, squinting as the man closes the door again. “I just wanted to invite you out,” Eita blurts out. “I don’t know, but you weren’t at rehearsal today, so I...” he falters, losing his nerve. Slowly, the cogs turn in Kenjirou’s brain. “You want to take me out…?” The other man just nods encouragingly. “I was worried about you, and since it’s dinner time, why not?” Kenjirou feels the beginnings of a no form on his tongue when he hears Taichi open the door again. “Sure, let’s go,” he says instead. Taichi’s confusion is palpable. “Where are you going?” “Away from you!” -X- They end up eating at some Italian restaurant a few blocks down. Kenjirou had only recognized it because Reon had his birthday dinner there, and Eita had eaten there before, so in they went. Silently, they sit across from each other, listening to the jazz and looking out through the window at Sendai’s nightlife. Kenjirou’s reflection stares back at him with dead eyes and a knowing smile. He lets Eita order— he’s not familiar with the cuisine, and the words swim on the page unsettlingly. “Do you miss France?” He hears himself ask after a long beat. Eita chuckles lightly, a finger tracing the rim of his wine glass. “I miss it enough. The culture here is…” his nose scrunches slightly as he thinks of the right word. “Different, to say the least.” “Oh,” Kenjirou takes a sip of his water. “Just the culture?” The blond gives him a flat look. “I had friends, of course. I grew up there— France is almost all I know.” “The risotto?” Their waitress arrives, carrying a dish in each hand. Eita gestures towards Kenjirou, who eyes the plate with curiosity as it’s set down in front of him. “The gnocchi,” she places Eita’s plate on the table and looks at him eagerly. “Can I get anything else for you gentlemen tonight?” The smooth fucker that he is, Eita takes her now-free hand and presses a light kiss to her knuckles. “A lovely mademoiselle’s company, perhaps?” The waitress blushes tomato-red and gapes at the blond before stammering out a quick excuse (“I, my job, I’m sorry,”) and hightailing it to the back of the restaurant. Kenjirou feels a stab of jealousy again, but it’s slightly off-center for reasons he doesn’t particularly want to think about. “Imagine if she knew you pranced around in tights for a living,” he deadpans and quirks up an eyebrow. “Has anybody ever told you that you’re not cute, Shirabu?” Eita volleys back, amused. Kenjirou shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m fantastic, lovely, wonderful, an absolute gem—” “— Alright, alright, eat your damn food,” Eita tries and fails to suppress a fond grin, and Kenjirou’s heart may as well have stopped beating. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, he lives to take a bite of the creamy rice. “This tastes like it’s going to clog my veins,” he comments, taking another bite. Snorting, Eita starts tucking into his own meal. “You’d be surprised.” “I am surprised. How are you still so thin?” The blond drinks his wine, eyeing the other man critically. “Says the thinnest person in the company.” “No,” Kenjirou says automatically, then flushes as Eita squints at him. “I just mean, how, uhm,” Eita laughs again (he laughs easily, Kenjirou notes, and his laugh sounds more melodic than it should be allowed to be). “Relax, Shirabu, I was joking.” If it’s possible, Kenjirou goes even redder. “Sorry.” “No, no, don’t apologize,” Eita waves him off. “You’re so high strung, how have you survived this long?” “I’m high strung?” He nearly yelps with indignation, and okay, he can admit his flaws when he sees them. “I mean, I guess.” Eita laughs again, softer this time, and the rest of the meal passes by with relative quiet; he’ll occasionally make comments about the food, but otherwise, they lapse into a comfortable silence. “I’ve got an idea,” Eita snaps his fingers. “To help you relax.” Kenjirou frowns and dabs at his mouth with a napkin. “I should probably head back soon, though.” “It’s only,” the blond checks his watch. “10:47. We’ll just be out for a few hours more, then you can go back and live your high-strung life after.” He gives Kenjirou his puppy dog eyes, the ones he gave the day they met. “Please?” Damn if Kenjirou wasn’t already weak when it came to the other man. “Okay,” he says, drinking the last of his water in resignation. “Sure. What do you have in mind?” -X- The club they enter is packed, and Kenjirou has to hold Eita’s hand to avoid getting swept up in the wave of people. Once they’re at the bar, the other man orders something Kenjirou can’t hear over the vibrations of the bass. “It’s smaller than it looks, don’t worry,” Eita says low in his ear to be heard, and the heat of his breath on Kenjirou’s neck sends tingles down his spine. “There’s just mirrors everywhere.” The idea of being surrounded by mirrors sends Kenjirou’s anxiety skyrocketing. “Isn’t that dangerous?” He leans back into Eita, craning his neck to speak in the other man’s ear. Eita’s hands almost automatically grip his hips to steady him, and Kenjirou feels a sudden surge of excitement at the sensation. If Eita hears his question, he doesn’t bother answering. “Think it’s time for a round,” he smirks against Kenjirou’s jaw and steps away. Kenjirou isn’t an avid drinker by any means, but as Eita pushes a drink in his hands, his only thought is to take the edge of fear off. He has no idea what the drink is. It burns on the way down, though, and he hacks out a few coughs, setting the empty glass on the counter. “Wow,” Eita stares at him with blown pupils, the whites of his eyes barely visible in the dark of the club. “Didn’t think you’d be one to knock them back.” Kenjirou wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Lot of things you don’t take me for.” The blond smiles thinly at that and pats the counter, getting the bartender’s attention again. Kenjirou stares out at the dance floor, watching the sea of people move in tandem with the beat. He sees the vague outline of his reflection from across the room and waits for the alcohol to kick in, because Christ, that’s terrifying. Lost in his thoughts, he almost doesn’t feel Eita snaking a hand around his waist, holding the straw of another drink up to his lips with another. “Since you seem eager tonight.” His voice rumbles against Kenjirou’s skin, where it sends ripples of heat through his entire body. Or maybe that’s the alcohol talking— somehow, he’s already got his lips around the straw of the second glass, and he feels good. Giddy. Very, very hot. He steps out of Eita’s grip and throws his arms around the other man’s shoulders. “Dance with me,” he breathes. Eita takes a gulp of his own drink, then blindly throws a wad of cash on the counter, nodding at the bartender before maneuvering Kenjirou to his side and leading him to the strobe lights. At the center of the dance floor, the quick flashes of colour are nearly blinding, and the music deafening. Kenjirou moves through touch, running his hands along Eita’s broad chest and muscled arms as they sway with the slower beat. Eita, to his credit, has made his hands familiar with the shape of Kenjirou’s lower back, hips, and oh, he didn’t think hands on his ass could ever feel good, but here they are. They’re surrounded by people, but Kenjirou could be invisible for all he cares, opening his eyes to see his reflection over Eita’s shoulder. His reflection is always smirking with murder in its eyes, why does it do that? “You’re so fucking hot,” Eita says against his ear. They’re grinding against each other, and though it’s admittedly very sexy, Kenjirou’s arousal feels muted. He hums and bites lightly at Eita’s earlobe though, marveling at the feeling of the earring stud on his tongue. Kenjirou leans back to look at the other man, probably to admire him, or something— he doesn’t remember why— when he sees his reflection standing behind the Eita with a shard of glass in its bloody hand. He screams, the sound ringing over the music (was that glass breaking?), and shoves Eita aside, gripping his hand tightly and booking it for the exit. Coat check is a blur, then they’re running out onto the open street. “Where are we going?” Eita pants, confusion etched in his features. Kenjirou doesn’t bother with a coherent reply, instead rounding the corner and yelling, “he’s after me!” They end up at his apartment much faster than anticipated, but Kenjirou can’t really complain, exhilarated from the chase and giggling breathlessly as he closes the door behind them. “Kenjirou?” Taichi steps out of the shadows. “Christ, do you even know what time it is?” “Mmmm,” he hums, kicking off his shoes. “Past your bedtime?” Jaw clenched like that, Taichi looks pissed. “You hate drinking.” “Not with cute boys!” Kenjirou is attacked by another fit of maniacal laughter. “Drinking with cute boys is fun!” “You need to drink water and sleep, Kenjirou.” His best friend sighs, then makes his way to the cupboards, where he gets an empty glass. Kenjirou suddenly feels a flash of unbridled loathing towards his Taichi’s fussing. “You’re not my fucking mom,” he says coldly, and nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears the sound of glass breaking. Taichi’s staring at him with wide eyes, his arm up and hand splayed with huge gashes across his palm and fingers. “I can’t believe you just did that,” Taichi breathes, flinching as he turns to look at his mutilated hand. “What the fuck,” Tears start streaming down his face, and he grabs the wrist of his injured hand with his other to stop the shaking. “Kenjirou, what the fuck!” “I,” Kenjirou’s throat dries. “I didn’t,” he can’t think of anything to say. He didn’t attack Taichi, he was standing right— “Get the fuck away!” Taichi screams, anguished. He fumbles with the phone, and Kenjirou is frozen in place. “GO AWAY!” — his reflection. Kenjirou lets out a panicked yelp and grabs Eita’s hand (why had the other man been so quiet?), sprinting down the hallway to his room, where he slams the door shut, closes his eyes, and tries to get his breathing under control. Distantly, he hears the front door slam, and almost immediately, Eita’s lips are on his, insistent and needy. He can barely breathe, but he kisses back just as desperately. Mouths slide against each other, hands wander, there’s teeth involved, and somehow, Kenjirou’s on his bed, legs spread, clothes off. Eita kneels between his legs, still weirdly silent, or maybe just admiring, and he kisses Kenjirou again. This time, it’s almost sweet, how slow they take things. Kenjirou kisses with reverence, as if Eita is something to be worshipped (because he is) and lets out a soft moan at the feeling of the other man’s lips on his neck. Eita mouths his way down, sucking at the skin of Kenjirou’s collarbones before moving to roll one of his nipples between his teeth. Kenjirou nearly dies on the spot, goosebumps erupting all over at the contact. He feels his other nipple being pinched with ghostly-light fingers, and he writhes beneath them, canting his hips up for attention. Eita huffs a laugh against his ribs and grips his sides to push him further up the bed. “Please, please,” he exhales sharply, mind scrambling to find some modicum of speaking ability. “I need to— please,” Eita responds by biting the soft skin of his inner thigh, then kissing away the shock. The pain gives way to pleasure, and Kenjirou leans on his elbows to look down at the sight of the other man’s mouth around his dick. If this is how Kenjirou dies, he doesn’t think it’s such a bad way to go. Eita gives head the way he dances; smoothly, surely, elegantly. Kenjirou tilts his head back, riding out the sensation as best he can. There’s a soft pop as Eita pulls away, and Kenjirou looks down again, greeted by the obscene sight of the other man’s sinful lips, shiny with spit, mouthing at the underside of his cock, his eyes half-lidded with desire. Eita kisses a wet trail down his length, then takes one of his balls in his mouth, sucking lightly and rolling it with his tongue. Squirming, Kenjirou hears himself let out the most embarrassing moans, and it’s almost enough to turn him off, except his dick has disappeared inside Eita’s mouth again, and the other man’s eyes are so dark and strangely glassy, and no, Kenjirou can’t look at this anymore— he collapses flat on his back, feeling his orgasm build. “Eita,” he breathes, and the man in question growls, dragging his teeth against the skin of his length as he lifts his head. He kisses the head of Kenjirou’s cock in lieu of an apology, then surges up, capturing Kenjirou’s lips in his. Kenjirou doesn’t know when Eita lost the pants, but he’s not complaining, relishing in the feeling of their dicks against each other as the other man grinds his hips down. Somehow, he manages to get his hand between them and around both of their lengths, feeling Eita’s size and distantly wondering how he hides it beneath his tights when he dances. Then, almost out of nowhere, his orgasm hits, and he rides it out between them, spurts of come painting his fingers and their stomachs. Eita has stopped kissing him, and his breaths come harsh against Kenjirou’s cheek as he wraps his hand around Kenjirou’s and works himself over the edge with a choked moan. They’re a messy tangle of limbs, sweat, and come, but Kenjirou can’t really find it in himself to complain. Eita rolls to the side, and Kenjirou wills the blood in his ears to stop roaring so that he can face his lover— — when he turns his head, only to be greeted by the sight of his reflection holding a shard of glass to his throat.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
His own image; no longer a dark, gray bird, ugly and disagreeable to look at, but a graceful and beautiful swan.
Kenjirou yelps and flails away, landing painfully on the floor in a heap of blankets. Scrambling, he kicks the covers away and grabs the nearest clothes he can get his hands on before stumbling out of his room as fast as his legs can take him. The hallway is full of mirrors and reflections from the paintings on the wall, and he doesn’t know when or how they got there, only that they are there, and they’re terrifying. He ducks into the bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind him in a frenzied rush. The only danger is the vanity mirror, which shatters once he makes eye contact with his reflection. “Eita!” He cries out, avoiding the glass on the floor and grabbing a wad of tissues to wipe off the mess on his stomach. “Taichi, anybody…” In a strange twist he has yet to comprehend, there’s hardly anything on his skin, and he quickly throws the tissues in the toilet, as if any further contact with them would burn him. He takes a second to marvel at how he managed to grab only his clothes on the way out of his room, then shakes his head and pulls his jeans on, careful not to step on the— — there’s nothing on the floor. His head snaps up, and he sees himself in the mirror, but it’s not him. He’d know if he looked to be on death’s door. The reflection before him is pale and gaunt, with sunken cheeks and large eyes. He looks awful. Breathing heavily, he wills himself to focus and shoves his shirt over his head. He tries to steady himself against the vanity, hands shaking as they grip the cold granite. Somehow, the world stops rocking enough for him to shake himself out of his stupor, and he takes a deep breath, turning to face the door with one hand on the knob. Here goes, he thinks. He turns the knob and whips the door open, then sprints out of his apartment, barely pausing to grab his phone, coat, and keys on the way. He takes the stairs down two at a time, lurching dangerously every few jumps or so, but makes it to the first floor otherwise unscathed. The lobby is unsettlingly quiet, and the security guard is nowhere in sight. Kenjirou shoves his hands in his pockets and tries to act nonchalant nonetheless, trotting out the automatic doors with a nervous twitch in his step. Even though he doesn’t know where he’s going, anywhere is better than home, or the damned Center, or Shiratorizawa. Surprisingly, he ends up in front of the Italian restaurant, struggling to catch his breath and avoiding his reflection in the window. One look at his phone affirms that it is either extremely late or extremely early, and he weighs his options. He could wander around and wait the night out, or he could try and find Eita, or he could find somebody else’s couch to crash on. The latter option would be fantastic, if not for the untimely hour. Also, there’s nobody who— oh. Reon lives a block away. Ohira Reon, brilliant Reon, Reon with a psychology degree who can probably help him out with whatever is going on in his head, lives a block away. It’s a no-brainer kind of decision. -X- Kenjirou only ends up pressing Reon’s buzzer twice before the man picks up, yawn audible through the speakers.
“Hello?”
“Ohira-san? Ohira-san, it’s me, Shirabu,” he says to the panel, more frantic than he would have liked.
“Shirabu-kun, what are you doing?”
“Please let me in,” he urges, crossing his fingers in his pockets. “I really need to talk to you.” There’s a pause on the other end. Though, something in his voice must convince Reon, because the next thing he hears is the buzz of the door being unlocked. He hastily pulls the door open and drums his fingers against his leg as he waits for the elevator. With a resounding ding, the doors open, only to reveal Kenjirou’s own reflection in the interior. He looks pale, thin, and terrified, and his bangs are far from their usual state of angular perfection. Kenjirou squeaks—honest to God squeaks— and quickly makes his way to the stairs. Reon lives on the fourteenth floor of his apartment building, but Kenjirou couldn’t care less, silently thanking himself for his athletic prowess as he scampers up the stairs. The numbers on the wall seem to swim as he climbs up, up, up, and eventually, he reaches the fourteenth floor, gasping for breath. He pushes through the door more aggressively than he probably should at this hour but manages to catch it by the handle before it crashes into the wall. Flushing, he pads up to Reon’s door and knocks quietly, praying he doesn’t wake the neighbours. The door clicks open, and thank all the deities in the world, Reon’s expression seems unperturbed. “Shirabu-kun,” he greets, and opens the door wider, gesturing for Kenjirou to enter. “I was wondering what the loud banging was.” “Huh?” He blurts out, watching in his periphery as the other man closes the door behind him. Reon regards him warily, but he turns towards his kitchen after shaking his head. “Would you like anything to drink? Tea, perhaps?” Kenjirou takes a deep breath. Tea. He can do tea. He can sit down and have a civil conversation and drink tea. “Yes, please.” He hears the sounds of rummaging through cupboards, and with a pang, remembers the last time somebody tried to prepare a drink for him. Briefly, he wonders where Taichi is, but the sight of Reon holding a tray in his hands distracts him from taking that train of thought. “Let’s sit in there,” he says, leading Kenjirou to the plush sitting room, cozy and warm and all things juxtaposing his current mental state. “What did you want to tell me?” Like a dam breaking, the story pours out of Kenjirou: His disgust towards Washijou, his attraction towards Eita, his fear of his reflection. He recounts the lost time, the confusion, and the events of the past few months as best he can—which, admittedly, isn’t very well. He sounds insane, even to his own ears. “And he’s going to kill me, Reon—!” Kenjirou grips the armrests of his seat with white-knuckled hands. “And you’re the only one I know who can help me.” Reon examines him, features carefully fixed in a semblance of casual concern. “I see,” he says slowly. “Perhaps it’s best if you slept here for the night—we can go to rehearsal tomorrow morning together.” Blanching, the brunet gapes. “You mean you believe me?” “You didn’t expect me to?” Reon looks far too calm for the situation, but perhaps that’s for the both of their benefits. “I,” Kenjirou falters. “I just, it sounds crazy to me.” Features softening, Reon takes the tray of untouched tea and stands. “Had you been any less rational of a person before this, I don’t know if I would have believed you now.” He sidesteps the coffee table and starts to move towards the kitchen. Kenjirou relaxes his grip on the armrests of the chair and sinks back in the cushions. The events of the night are taking their physical toll on his body, and he feels exhausted. “Take the bigger couch tonight,” the older man says. “I’ll be back with some blankets.” Kenjirou only barely manages to stumble out of the loveseat and lie on the adjacent couch before passing out, barely feeling his head hit the hardwood floor below. -X- He wakes up surprisingly comfortable, cocooned in thick blankets that shield him just so from the late morning sun. His head is pounding like a bitch, but given last night’s activities, he’s not surprised. Distantly, he wonders whether or not Taichi has any aspirin left in the— —Wait. This isn’t his bed. These aren’t his sheets. The sun is hitting at the wrong angle—what time is it? “-chi,” he groans out. “Taichi?” When the only response is dead silence, Kenjirou feels the beginnings of panic begin to creep up on him. He throws the sheets off, kicking maniacally when they wrap around his legs, and rolls off the couch in a heap, just narrowly avoiding a collision with the coffee table beside him. The events of the night before play through his mind in a supercut of bright lights and flashing kaleidoscopes of colour, and he curls in on himself, clutching at his forehead. After the images fade to something manageable and the blood stops roaring in his ears, he sits up slowly, gingerly rubbing at his scalp. “Reon, are you there?” He waits for another few seconds before coming to the conclusion that Reon’s apartment is, in fact, empty except for himself, and he’s fucked because— “—oh my God, dress rehearsal—!” Like a switch has been turned on inside him, he wiggles out of the blankets and half crawls, half stumbles his way over to the door, where he throws on his coat, briefly pats his pockets to feel for his phone and keys, and launches himself out of the apartment, mentally sending a quick thank you to whatever deities are above that Reon’s door locks automatically. The sprint back to his apartment is a blur of buildings, the slap of his feet against the pavement a monotonous beat in his ears. He passes by the restaurant from yesterday, hops into the curve as he rounds the corner, and continues running down his street, feeling the sweat drip down the back of his neck. It’s messy, uncomfortable, and yet, he knows he has no time to waste—he rushes up to his floor, struggles with the lock, and kicks open the door, tripping inside and scrambling towards his room with his shoes still on. With reckless abandon, he grabs a change of clothes and shoves his usual things into his duffel bag, haphazardly zipping the thing shut before spinning on his heel, running out the door, and only barely pausing to lock it on his way out. If his hand sting with the feeling of open cuts, well— he’s choosing to ignore that for now. -X- The train ride goes slower than he’d like, but eventually, he makes it to the Centre intact, and it’s— he checks his phone— half past the hour, right on time for lunch break. Like a madman, he pulls open the door and speeds through the familiar halls, skidding to a halt in front of the dressing rooms. The room itself looks relatively the same as its always been, except— “Where’s all my stuff?” He asks aloud to nobody in particular. “I’ll tell you if you explain where you’ve been~” Kenjirou spins around at the sound of the familiar, mocking voice. “Tendou.” The red-head smiles, easy and innocent. “My favourite kouhai! Or,” the smile turns devilish. “It’s sleeping beauty now, right?” Huffing, Kenjirou tries to shoulder his way past the older man. He doesn’t have time for this, he needs to change and get ready for whatever is left of dress rehearsal— “Ah ah ah~” Tendou laughs. “You don’t even know where you’re going.” At the brunet’s raised eyebrow, the mirth slides off Tendou’s face, revealing his natural, calculating expression. It’s a little scary, Kenjirou won’t lie; he keeps his own features as neutral as possible. Tendou’s eyes search him for a long moment, as if he’s mentally mapping out the best course of action. Then, he nods, somber. “Washijou had your things moved to the private rooms. He wanted to show you this morning, but you weren’t here, so,” he says flatly. “By the by, I don’t appreciate your being so aggressive.” Kenjirou blinks. “What do you mean?” “You’ve been skipping out recently, you’ve been a snot-nosed brat,” Tendou counts on his fingers with overexaggerated motion. “Shall I go on? Stardom doesn’t give you the right to be an asshole. I mean, I didn’t think you’d be one to let it get to your head, but I guess we’ve all got our own secrets, huh?” Appalled by the words, Kenjirou weakly starts to stammer out a what, but the other man steps around him and starts walking towards Studio A. “I’m also happy being a ‘fucking nuisance’, not that you’d care,” Tendou calls over his shoulder. Kenjirou just stares at the doorframe, dumbfounded. -X- He stares at a very different doorframe now, feeling equal parts horror and rage. “What the fuck are you doing here,” he spits out, marching up to the slender figure in the chair. Oikawa doesn’t deign to answer, instead continuing to use makeup—is that his? — to make the fair skin around his eyes a stark white. Before Kenjirou can draw in a breath to berate the other dancer, he feels a light tap on his shoulder, and he turns to see none other than— Semi Eita. Oh, no. “Shirabu, I was wondering where you were,” Eita’s expression is pinched with worry. “Listen, do you think we could—?” Kenjirou shakes his head vigorously and drops his duffel bag to the floor with a soft thud. “I’m going to see Washijou, so if you’ll excuse me,” he responds stiffly. With one last glance beside him at— Jesus fuck, what the fuck— In the seat is nothing but his bag, Oikawa nowhere to be found. Kenjirou yelps and shoves Eita to the side as he hurtles himself out of the room. “Hey—!” Eita’s sound of protest registers faintly in the back of his mind as he breaks out into a run towards Washijou’s office. His heart feels as though it’s beating far too erratically for his tastes, but he disregards the creeping fear and turns the corner, only narrowly avoiding a collision with another person. The other person’s short brown hair and tanned skin barely process before Kenjirou hears himself blurting out a harried, “Reon, you motherfucker,” If the man in question hears the insult, he doesn’t choose to acknowledge it, instead placing a steadying hand on Kenjirou’s shoulder. “Whoa there, why are you here?” “Why am I—? You said we were going to leave together!” Reon shakes his head, a frown tugging at the corners of his lips. Suddenly, Kenjirou feels dread build in his stomach, as though acid has somehow decided to burn through his being. “Shirabu, have you ever considered that you might have a mental thing?” “A mental thing?” “Yes. Well—something characterized by— ah, a lot, but if I learned anything from my Bachelor’s, it’s to watch out for these kinds of things.” Kenjirou balks. “What are you talking about?” “Shirabu, you had the biggest mental breakdown I’ve ever seen: You said your reflection was coming to kill you, and you’re seeing things, and you’re genuinely afraid—” “—I’m afraid for good reason, Reon. Don’t you get it? He’s going to kill me,” Kenjirou’s bottom lip quivers, and he feels simultaneously flushed and freezing as he nearly bursts into hysterics again. “He’s going to kill me!” “No, he’s not. Kenjirou, listen to me,” “He is! He’s coming for me! He’s everywhere, he’s on the train, in the dressing room, always stalking me—!” “Nobody is coming for you,” Reon grabs Kenjirou’s wrists. “Are you listening to yourself? Nobody is going to hurt you.” “He wants my part,” Kenjirou twists free and clutches at the lapels of Reon’s coat. “He wants my part, don’t you see? But he’s not going to get it.” Reon looks on with alarm as Kenjirou starts to laugh, first breathily, then maniacally. “He’s not getting my part! He’s not getting my part,” Kenjirou suddenly stops laughing. “He’s not getting my part because I’m the Black Swan.” Reon watches in horror. “Kenjirou…” “No!” The brunet shoves Reon away, snarling. “I’m the Swan, that’s my part. I’m the Swan. I’m the Swan!” Before Reon can move, Kenjirou bolts for the last stretch towards Washijou’s office. He hears the distant call of his name from behind, but he doesn’t pay any mind to it. No— the only thing on his mind right now is the triumphant affirmation of I’m the Swan, I’m the Swan, I’m the Swan. -X- “Shirabu!” Reon looks over his shoulder, jumping aside just before Eita bowls him over. “Pardon,” the blonde gestures wildly at Reon. “SHIRABU!” Reon grabs Eita, stopping the blond in his tracks. “Wait, Semi—!” “What.” Eita’s impatient countenance shifts to one of anxiety once he examines Reon closely. “What is it?” Warily, Reon glances to the side where Kenjirou had just disappeared, then looks back at Eita. “There is something very, very wrong with Shirabu, and he needs to get help as soon as possible.” Eita looks for all the world as though Reon had just suggested that the sky was blue or that grass was green. “No offense, but no shit,” he hisses. “One moment he’s feeling me up, the next moment he’s pushing me to the ground, punching a mirror, and almost stabbing somebody at coat check.” The other man’s eyes widen in shock, his calm demeanour fractured by the news. “Wait, you two are together?” Scowling in embarrassment, Eita shifts on his feet. “last night, for a bit—" he mumbles almost inaudibly before a piercing scream rings down the hall. The two men look at each other in alarm, and in moments, Eita is flying down the hall towards the administrative wing. -X- Washijou is fucking Oikawa over the desk. Heaving, panting, they move together, the director’s head buried in the crook of Oikawa’s shoulder, Oikawa himself writhing on the desk, his legs hooked around Washijou’s back, facial expression completely blissed out. Kenjirou can’t find a valid explanation for it— all he knows is that he’s seeing something he shouldn’t be, and that knocking on the door might have been a better idea than barging in uninvited. The scream that escapes his lips is unintentional, he thinks; it’s loud, piercing to his own ears, and feels foreign. Noisily, his heartbeat pounds in his ears, and his chest constricts tightly with the need for air. “Shirabu,” Kenjirou feels a hand wrapping around his forearm, a pressure in his shoulder as he’s pulled backwards, and as he instinctively turns, he’s met with a flash of gold flecks in hazel eyes, ash-blond hair, and then darkness as his face is pressed onto Eita’s chest. The world comes to once more when Eita steps back and leaves Kenjirou swaying on the spot. Teeth gritted, Eita spits out a viciously worried, “what are you screaming for?” Kenjirou gapes, because didn’t he—? “You didn’t see them fucking?” The look on Eita’s face says it all. “Shirabu, you need help—” he urges, wringing his hands. “No—!” “You might need help explaining what the fuck is going on with you,” Washijou growls in Kenjirou’s ear, roughly grabbing his shoulder and forcing him around. Kenjirou hadn’t heard the other man approach, too engrossed with the roaring blood in his ears and his storm of mixed feelings towards Eita. With a gulping breath, Kenjirou falls to his knees, wincing as he hits the ground. “Please don’t give Oikawa my part, sir—!” He bows his head and raises his clasped hands in a plea. “Please don’t replace me,” his hands shake from the effort, or perhaps they were already shaking, so he drops them to the floor at Washijou’s feet. “Please, I can’t be replaced.” He doesn’t see Washijou’s expression; he only watches, eyes crossing, as a polished black shoe makes contact with the bridge of his nose and pushes his head up. “Up, boy. Nobody’s taking your part.” If Kenjirou wasn’t so shocked, he would have stood, thanked Washijou gracefully, and apologized for being a disruption. As it is, though, Eita has to hoist him up by the collar of his shirt. “Monsieur directeur, I apologize,” Eita says quickly, snaking an arm around Kenjirou’s waist to hold him steady. Washijou huffs in exasperation and crosses his arms across his chest. “Always the nice guy, huh? Well, I can’t say it didn’t work out.” “…Sir?” Eita blinks. Surprisingly enough, the director’s features resemble something almost— friendly? Kenjirou feels dizzy with confusion. “It’s been under consideration for a while, but Oikawa gave me a means. Boy got himself in a nasty accident with his knee, and he’s out for the foreseeable future; Semi, your being the understudy and all…” Washijou trails off. Eita nearly drops Kenjirou as the arm around him jerks in astonishment. “So, you mean—? I’m really?” The older man nods curtly. “You’re our prince.” Mentally short-circuiting, Kenjirou nearly squawks aloud when the realization hits him. “Oikawa’s not taking my part?” Washijou squints at him, but before he can speak, Eita starts dragging a dazed Kenjirou back in the direction of the dressing rooms. “Thank you so much for this, monsieur,” the blond says hurriedly, gently pinching at Kenjirou’s side to spur him onwards. If the director notices, he doesn’t say anything; rather, he nods gruffly and turns to enter his office again, calling, “don’t be fucking late tomorrow, Shirabu,” over his shoulder. -X- Kenjirou’s name is printed on a paper placard in neat Times New Roman font, and it’s shoved messily into the thin metal slip screwed to the door. It’s perfect. “The stage hands moved your stuff here,” Eita says once they arrive, releasing his grip on the younger man’s waist. They face each other awkwardly, and hazel eyes seem to search his soul. After a brief pause in which Kenjirou tries not to focus on the odd beating of his heart, Eita clears his throat. “If you don’t want to talk about last night, that’s fine; I get it, I really do,” he sighs and fiddles with the worn sleeves of his black hoodie. “But I think you should—” his features pinch. “What?” Eita’s features relax again as he shakes his head. “Nothing. I’ll see you when dress rehearsal starts this afternoon.” “Yeah,” Kenjirou says faintly, and he watches as the other man disappears around the corner. It’s only a few moments later, when he takes a deep breath and faces the door again, realizing his name is scrawled messily in Sharpie underneath a blacked-out Ushijima Wakatoshi, that he considers the possibility of Eita’s unspoken sentiment being true. Like water off a swan’s back, he thinks, and turns the knob. -X- Kenjirou opens the door to his private dressing room, the anticipation of their first show sitting low in his stomach. The past week had been a blur of dress rehearsal, demoralizing comments from Washijou (though the frequency had decreased drastically), and intense preparation for opening night. He hadn’t seen Taichi since that night’s events, though his stuff seemed to be disappearing regularly, so Kenjirou could only surmise that his best friend had found a place to move for the time being. Dancing with Eita is a definite improvement— he moves to match the blond’s intensity and vigour, and as long as his thoughts are on the other man, he doesn’t stop to think about the way his reflection phases in and out of his periphery like a ghost. Humming the Pas de Trois under his breath, he steps into the room and kicks the door closed with his foot, then nearly trips over thin air when he sees the person in his seat. “Oikawa?” The man hms, lighthearted and derisive, and smirks at him through the mirror. “It’s nice to see you again,” he says, spinning the chair to face Kenjirou. “Shirabu-kun.” The way he says his name is venomous, each syllable enunciated cruelly. “What are you doing here,” Kenjirou breathes, horrified as Oikawa’s eyes flicker into the gaunt mirror of his own. If it’s possible, Oikawa’s smirk gains a sharper edge. “Well, Washijou was worried, see? He asked me to come in and save the show from your inevitable disaster—” then, dropping the mirthful tone from his voice as he leans in— “and how could I say no to that?” Kenjirou’s heart beats wildly in his chest, and he tries to get his breathing under control. There’s the roar of blood in his ears again, rising in volume as he balls his hands into fists; there’s the feeling of his ribcage constricting, folding in on itself, the bones jabbing into his lungs— breathe, it’s not real, it’s not real— “You’re not real,” he manages to bite out. He hasn’t been able to differentiate between reality and what’s in his head for the past few months, but tonight is his moment, and he won’t let anything get in his way, real or not. “You’re not real.” Oikawa stands and towers above him. “Are you sure about that?” He whispers conspiratorially. “Because I’m awfully flattered that you’d think about me even when I’m not here, but it’s high time you—” “GET OUT OF MY HEAD!” Kenjirou practically roars, launching himself at the other man’s throat with hands extended like claws. He feels his fingers closing around the soft flesh of Oikawa’s neck, feels an erratic pulse beneath his palms, slides his thumbs over the lump that is Oikawa’s Adam’s apple, and squeezes with all his might. The momentum takes them toppling over the vanity counter, and Kenjirou winces as Oikawa’s head smashes into the mirror, causing the shattered glass to cut into the delicate skin of his knuckles. To his growing chagrin, Oikawa smiles widely and shows no sign of pain. Kenjirou growls and squeezes harder, wishing nothing more than for Oikawa to turn blue, for his eyes to roll back in his head— “—Get out get out get out get out get out get out—“ he hears himself muttering as he applies more pressure, and he watches with satisfaction when Oikawa starts to squirm, his smile falling, clawing weakly at the hands around his neck— —there’s something cold running down his fingers— —the sound of glass shattering reverberates in his ears— —his hands ache with the energy it takes to crush Oikawa’s windpipe— —And finally, finally, Oikawa goes limp. Panting, Kenjirou stumbles backwards and falls to his knees, watching wide-eyed as the other man collapses to the floor. He waits for the guilt to set in, the magnitude of the sin he’s committed to floor him; and yet, wait as he does, he only feels a cold emptiness spread from deep in his chest. His hands feel scraped raw. When he finally finds it in himself to move, he slowly crawls to where Oikawa’s lifeless form lies and gently grabs a wrist. Where the other man’s pulse had been wild, loud beneath his grip, it now stays silent. He drops the appendage in muted terror and watches as the blood pools out of Oikawa’s head. He hears a soft knock at the door, accompanied by a muffled, “Shirabu?” Suddenly, the full force of his actions punches him in the gut, and he scrambles to his feet to drag the body into the private bathroom. He throws a few paper towels over the trail of blood and stares in dismay at his reflection in the shattered glass— — his makeup is done? Shaking, he brings fingers up to his face to lightly dab at the chalk-white of his face, the dark lining of his eyes, and the light blush on his cheeks. It’s his make-up, and it’s how he always envisioned it, but he doesn’t— He looks at the ground, sickly reaffirming the existence of blood. The sight makes him want to puke, but before he can do make a break for the bathroom, his door opens to reveal a concerned Eita. “Shirabu, what did you do to your hands?” Kenjirou looks down to examine his bloodied knuckles. Breath hitching, he turns them over to see the angry scratches across his palms. “I…” he falters, then the world tilts sideways. -X- Kenjirou comes to groggily, blinking rapidly to make sense of his surroundings. The first thing he feels is a mass of hair against his nose, and upon leaning back, recognizes it to be Eita’s. “Wait, try not to move,” heavily accented Japanese processes slowly in his brain, but he stills and tries to control his breathing. As far as he can tell, he’s still in his private dressing room, but he doesn’t know how much time has passed. Eita goes on: “You fucked up your hands pretty badly— I managed to find a first-aid kit, and the bandages should help, but you’re going to have to be careful when dancing.” Dumbfounded, Kenjirou tears his head away from Eita’s shoulder and stares as the man finishes wrapping gauze around his thumb. “Why are you doing this for me?” He asks, but the words sound strange to his ears; it’s almost as though he’s speaking underwater. Eita faces him, and only now does Kenjirou realize just how close they are—if he leans forward, he can probably— Soft lips press gently against his. The kiss is chaste, more a peck if anything, but Kenjirou feels dizzy with warmth. Eita’s lips curve into a gentle smile. “Though it might be hard to understand, I’ve taken quite a liking to you recently, I think,” he says, patting the now-bandaged palms of Kenjirou’s hands lightly. “But you’ve still got to get off me—our last technical rehearsal is in fifteen, and I’m still not ready.” Kenjirou almost squawks once he realizes that he’d been sitting on Eita’s lap for the entirety of his unconscious state. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he wiggles off and lands gracelessly on the cold floor, feeling an odd squeezing in his chest. Eita snorts out a laugh and uses the wall to support him as he stands. He bounces on the toes of his feet a few times, then extends a hand to help Kenjirou up. “Come, let’s dance.” -X- Kenjirou is flying. The scene is dream-like: on stage, nothing but bright spotlights shining on him, the glimmer of sequins on his person sharp in his periphery. He takes a deep breath and lets the music guide him. His time on stage as the White Swan is perfect, he thinks. It’s almost as though he dissociates from his body, the way he sees himself in third person; he admires the delicate sorrow in his movements, the precision that goes into dancing elegantly. The feathered gloves on his hands do well to mask the gauze, and all in all, having nearly finished the second scene, he can safely say that he’s killing it. If Eita was an amazing dancer during rehearsal, he’s extraordinary during the actual show now— his energy is bountiful, nearly infectious, and Kenjirou can almost believe that they are not simply actors in this tragedy. The finale of Act One ends on an incredible note, but as the curtain closes in front of Eita, Kenjirou feels a hand on his shoulder forcing him to turn around, and turn around he does— when he’s captured in a soul-crushing kiss. Washijou’s tongue flicks against his teeth, and it feels so invasive, and no, no, he doesn’t want this, this is ruining everything— Washijou breaks away. “For good luck.” Gasping, Kenjirou nearly trips as he backs away, quick as his legs can take him, and he collides with Eita, whose arms extend automatically to hold him in upright. “Semi,” he breathes, voice ragged, but with one look at the ash-blond, Kenjirou can already tell that Eita is furious. His gaze is firmly fixed at Washijou’s back, his jaw clenched tight, and his grip on Kenjirou’s hips almost painful. “Semi, forget about it, please,” he begs. Eita loosens his hold, allowing Kenjirou to step away and breathe. Face to face now, the other man looks menacing, all of his soft features hardened into tight lines of anger. “I won’t forget it, and we need to talk about this after the show, but,” he breaks off, and the rigid exterior breaks somewhat as he looks at Kenjirou’s wringing hands. “But we need to focus right now.” Kenjirou nods vigorously. Eita’s features toughen again, and his voice is sharp as he continues. “You dance your fucking ass off for the Black Swan, are we clear?” Determined and feeling more like his old self than he has in weeks, Kenjirou gives a sarcastic, “yes, sir,” before spinning on his heel and rushing to change costumes. He hears the distant exclamation of “why, that little snot—” and smiles, feeling his heart skip with fondness. -X- The vanity mirror is still shattered and bloody, but to its credit, it remains on the wall, and Kenjirou almost feels normal again as he carefully places the Black Swan’s mask over his now-darkened eyes. Needless to say, he tries to ignore the bruising around his lips and the phantom pain of Washijou’s lips against his own. Slowly, he slides his blood-red liquid lip over the sensation, taking comfort in how the wand seems to erase the director’s presence. He smacks his lips to even out the product while he places the tube back on the vanity counter, and satisfied, leans back in his seat to try and collect himself. His chest still hasn’t gone back to feeling normal, which worries him; usually, the feeling subsides after a few minutes. He feels as though something is pinching his ribcage shut around his heart, or maybe stabbing through his skin just above his solar plexus. “Act Two in five,” a voice says faintly outside his door, accompanied by a few loud raps on the wood. Wincing, Kenjirou manages to draw a deep-enough breath to grit out, “I’ll be stage left soon.” The tightness is almost overwhelming, but he is nothing if not a creature of spite, and he wants nothing more than to show Washijou what he’s got—especially after that damned kiss. Standing, he slaps the sides of his thighs with both hands, flinching as the impact makes the cuts on his hands throb. Focus, Kenjirou, he thinks. Focus, and let loose. Easier said than done.-X- His entrance to Act Two is more dramatic than he would have thought possible; it’s as if Washijou’s harassment awakened something feral within him, and along with the desire to keep Eita— well. They wanted him to dance his ass off, didn’t they? Ushijima lifts him, guides him in provocative spins, and he relishes in the feeling of Eita’s hungry eyes on him from the other side of the stage. When he makes his way to the blond, he ups the ante, allowing memories of their night, of their maybe-not-sex that he remembers vividly, to surface in his mind. He teasingly brushes the unbandaged tips of his fingers against Eita’s jaw as he’s dipped, and the growl that the man releases sounds almost inhuman. After they leap offstage together for the next number, Eita pins him against the wall of the wing, pushing him into the curtain as he captures his lips in a sultry kiss. It quickly turns possessive, his hands snaking running up and down Kenjirou’s torso as they move together. They break apart, breathing hard, the sound of the Danse Espagnole climaxing below them. “That was fucking incredible,” Eita says lowly in his ear. “You’re fucking incredible, I knew you could do it.” Kenjirou preens under the praise, ignoring the way his chest seems to palpitate from their proximity. To their right, one of the stagehands clears their throat. Ah. Caught. -X- The rest of the Act goes along in a similar fashion to his entrance, with Kenjirou blowing everybody away. He loves this feeling, this sense of absolute freedom as he twirls and seduces the court onstage. Then, it arrives, his moment to shine, his stake to fame—the Coda to the Pas de deux. The fouettes he had split his toenail over, the same fouettes he was ridiculed for countless times by Washijou— they’re his now. He steps and spins and spins and spins and spins as the music swells around him, and finally, finally, he lands in the end position, arms stretched behind him— wings extended. Panting, he struggles to breathe as he stands up straight. There’s still another scene before Act Three begins, and he needs to get off stage now, but the applause feels euphoric. He takes an impromptu bow that’ll have Washijou chewing him out later, but as the applause renews in vigour, he decides it was very much worth it. Changing back into the White Swan costume is hard; it’s almost as though he wants to cling onto his newfound Black Swan, wants to revel in it. Sighing, he slides on the costume, frowning when he sees—red? “Shirabu-kun, are you in there?” Kenjirou’s blood turns to ice. He knows that voice all too well, but— that’s not possible, he—? Warily, he opens the door, only to come face to face with Oikawa Tooru. “Oh, great, I was worried I might have missed you,” Oikawa grins sheepishly. “Or, more worried for myself, since Iwa-chan would most definitely kick my ass if I didn’t talk to you.” Kenjirou can only gape. The other man’s smile falls into something uncertain and awkward. “Anyways, I just wanted to say that your Black Swan performance was really good. Also, that, uh,” he swallows. “I know we didn’t get along the greatest. And, um. I’m—” “Don’t,” Kenjirou blurts out. Blinking, Oikawa’s expression becomes something much more self-assured. “I see you’re still laughably confident!” Kenjirou can feel his pulse racing once more, so he stays silent, watching Oikawa flounder at the lack of response. “Well, that was all. I’ll leave you to it,” he says, flicking his bangs out of his face. “Best of luck, Shirabu-kun.” All Kenjirou can do is nod dumbly and close the door, staring at the space where he had seen Oikawa’s face moments prior. The dread builds in his stomach as he walks over to the bathroom door and pushes it open, revealing… Nothing out of the ordinary. The tightening in his chest gets impossibly tighter, and Kenjirou snaps his gaze down to see— Oh, fuck. There’s a shard of glass buried to the left of his sternum. It’s partially hidden by the folds of his costume, and if he’s honest, he has no idea how it ended up there. He goes to remove it, bracing himself for the pain, when Tendou’s words echo in his mind.
If you’re stabbed, keep the object in until you can get help, unless it’s poisoned—in which case, you’re dead if you do and dead if you don’t, am I right?
Kenjirou bites the inside of his cheek in an attempt to stop the tears from spilling out of his eyes. He knows what he must do, but it doesn’t make the notion of it any easier. It hurts like hell, and he can’t breathe, and only God knows how he’ll be able to dance, but the show— The show, after all, must go on. -X- During dress rehearsal for the finale, falling off the make-shift cliff never seemed like a big deal to Kenjirou. Now, though, it’s the only thing on his mind. He’s lifted into the air, and he passes between various soloists on his way to Eita; then, he twirls back towards Ushijima as the music rises in intensity. The pain in his chest is overbearing now, and he’s sure it shows on his face— yet again, he’s thankful that the White Swan moves more stiffly than its counterpart. His cue hits, and he undulates his arms to mimic flying as he runs up the ramp. He looks at Ushijima with desperation, then at Eita, unshed tears blurring his vision. The second cue hits, and he hesitates, glancing nervously at the safety mat below. If he jumps, he’ll surely die— Gasping at a sudden prick of pain from the wound, he collapses off the edge, far from the graceful fall that was choreographed, but maybe the audience will enjoy the authenticity of his pain— His back hits the mat, and he feels something dislodge beneath his sternum. Applause erupts from the audience, but it fades to something muted, it all sounds muted, why are his ears ringing? There are people beginning to crowd around him now, but Kenjirou’s vision is still blurred from the tears—only, after blinking several times, the colours and lines never separate into anything distinguishable, and there’s small black spots everywhere—? “Shirabu!” Eita’s voice is the only relatively clear thing, so he focuses on that. “Shirabu, you did it, you were so good,” Eventually, the sound becomes muffled just like the rest, and the black spots nearly take up all his vision, outlined all in a glowing white. “Semi, the glass,” he says, or perhaps he mouths; he doesn’t know, and there’s a tingling numbness quickly branching from his extremities up towards his torso. (Glass? Did he say glass? Shirabu, there’s no glass anywhere, please get up, what’s wrong?) “Semi,” he tries to speak again, because he needs to try before the world becomes steeped in black. “Perfect.” He was perfect. (Get help, he’s not breathing! Quickly! Kenjirou, stay with me, please—) The brightness consumes him.
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That which is dreamed can never be lost, can never be undreamed.
July 19
“Hi, yeah, could I have a single scoop of, uhm,” Eita starts, tearing his gaze away from the employee and down to the tubs of ice cream. “Peanut butter chocolate chip cookie dough?” Kenjirou watches the exchange with thinly veiled disgust. What kind of monster decided that peanut butter, chocolate chips, and cookie dough would taste good with vanilla ice cream? “I’ll have a single scoop of French vanilla,” he says when it’s his turn. “In a cup, yes, thanks.” Playfully, Eita elbows him and wrinkles his nose. “Boring,” he snarks. Kenjirou just rolls his eyes. “Shut up and treat me to fucking ice cream, idiot.” The blond chuckles and taps his card, then grabs a copious number of napkins, along with two spoons. It’s a relatively cool summer’s day, despite it being mid-July, but Eita firmly maintains that any weather is good ice cream weather. And so, they’re on their umpteenth date at the ice cream parlor a few blocks away, one of those faux-American diner style buildings. “I’m your idiot, though,” Eita says suddenly, once they’re seated across from each other. “Huh?” The blond smiles a million-watt smile, one that could probably blind Kenjirou if he looked directly at it. “You called me an idiot. I’m your idiot, though, so you’re stuck with me.” Kenjirou sighs fondly, then steals a chunk of cookie dough from his boyfriend’s ice cream. “I suppose I am, yeah.” Eita lights up as though he’s had a revelation. “Say, that reminds me…” As the blond waves his spoon around and goes on one of his many rants, Kenjirou turns his gaze out the window they’re sitting beside, humming in interest at appropriate points to let Eita know that he’s listening. The sun catches on their table such that Kenjirou can clearly see Eita’s gesticulations in the glass, but for some reason, he fails to see his own reflection. “So, then Tendou was like, ‘well, if you consider the standard deviation of farts,’ and just— anyways. Isn’t it stupid?” Eita shoves a spoonful of ice cream in his mouth. Deciding that he’s unbothered by the realization, Kenjirou faces his boyfriend again. He hadn’t been listening to the rant at all, but that doesn’t matter, really. “Not as stupid as how in love with you I am,” he says plainly. Eita flushes a bright red and covers his mouth with one of the (many, copious number of) napkins as he splutters. “Baby, I have a reputation,” he whines once he recomposes himself. Satisfied, Kenjirou leans over the table and kisses Eita softly on the mouth. “That’s a shock, I never would have guessed.” he laughs, sitting back down. -X- “You want me to walk you home?” Eita asks once they leave the parlor, breathing in the summer air. Kenjirou closes his eyes and tilts his head up to enjoy the sun a little. “No, I’m good. I’ll probably just run errands anyways, so you can skedaddle.” He hears the blond scoff beside him before feeling gentle lips on his. “Love you too, Kenjirou,” Eita puts his hands in the pockets of his windbreaker. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?” Opening his eyes, Kenjirou offers a small salute, mouthing love you before Eita turns around and walks away. He wonders what Taichi would want for dinner.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
I’m not sure how many of you reading this experienced the… fun…. that is the International Baccalaureate Diploma, but if you haven’t, all you gotta know is that we had to do a 4k word argumentative research paper called the Extended Essay (EE) and that it was hell. Why does this relate, you may ask? Excellent question! We were encouraged to write an appendix detailing the sort of things that go in “Author’s Notes”; that is, our thought processes, where we wanted to go with our argument, what changed over the course of two years, and basically how we got to the finished product. While this isn’t an argumentative research paper by any means, I’ve picked up this habit for all large writing projects I undertake. And, for those of you saying, "well amy, this wasn't really 20k words, it's a short project actually," shhhhhh. I've been struggling to write over 1k words for ages okay let me Have This.
I have my own interpretation of the story’s events, and you might have a different take on it, so if you don’t want to know the process/my interpretation, feel free to stop now!
So, here we go:
HOW IT STARTED
This story began on Twitter a few weeks back, when I said that I wanted Semi Eita to live up to his birth roots and take on the scorpio aesthetic. Now this, of course, bears little relevance to the finished story at hand, but I think it’s where the idea first came to mind. My thoughts at the time, though rather instantaneous, can be summed up as thus: scorpio aesthetic -> black -> Shiratorizawa -> greyscale uniform? -> edgy? -> *looking at Shiratorizawa fandom wiki page* -> Shiratori means swan -> black, Shiratorizawa, scorpio, swan -> black swan I suppose some context is necessary—my layout at the time was pastel pink, exuding big dumbass bubblegum bitch energy. It was kind of cute, actually, even though my icon and header didn’t match. I digress. You can find an image of it here. The notion of a black swan immediately reminded me of Black Swan, directed by Darren Aronofsky. I later tweeted, imagine Shiratorizawa as a ballet company. Then, I changed my layout. Pastel Pink Bubblegum Dumbass Semi became Edgy Black Feathers Chromatic Aberration Will-Cut-You Semi, and the plot bunny started to hop around. I wrote a few warm-up scribbles to start, first imagining the Shiratorizawa boys in the universe. Actually, I should mention: I didn’t think Shirabu would become the protagonist until I started fleshing out solid plot points, so there’s that. I didn’t mean for the poor boy to suffer as much as he did, too… but some things can’t be helped, I guess ;) Originally, this story was supposed to mirror the actual story of Swan Lake and explore a humourous contrast in the Behind The Scenes that would go into the production, but after writing a few scenes, it felt. Well, “off,” to say the least. I couldn’t sense any real direction with the plot, and I didn’t want to keep shitposting (I do that enough on every other platform lol), so I decided to revisit the Black Swan idea. The movie’s story moves in a way that’s very central and specific to its characters (insofar as Nina’s psychological breakdown being VERY specific to her character flaws)— it’s not an easy story on its own, nor do its characters have enough similarity to the Shiratorizawa boys to fit them in without changing the story.
ADAPTING BLACK SWAN
My last “long” creative writing project was my collaboration with Amirah (bbyg, if you’re reading this, ily and imy), which was a Newtmas adaptation of Comet (dir. Sam Esmail). I figured, “if I want to try tackling psychological thriller, I can try adapting the Black Swan story to suit my needs.” …Which sounds easy on paper, sure, but this was a beast to get under control. As mentioned before, Black Swan’s story is heavily reliant on Nina’s character flaws, or her main one, that being her lack of maturity. Because I was originally thinking of writing Eita as the protagonist, it was hard to imagine his own specific character flaw—canonically, we know very little about him, and though I explored some facets of his psyche in i don’t want to fight , I didn’t want to go off that and risk inconsistencies in his character (limited as it may be). Whether I pulled everything off or not is up to you, the reader, to decide, but regardless? I’m pretty happy with how I adapted the story. Psychological thriller is probably the most fun I’ve had with a genre in a LONG time, so expect to see more of it from me! I’m hoping to execute some of the ideas I have in an original story, but that pet project alone might take eons to complete, lol. But this brings me to Shirabu! After I dismissed the idea of Semi being the protagonist, I started thinking about possible characters that could feasibly fit the bill and have enough canon characterization to pull off a psychological spiral. At first, Tendou came to mind, because it’s easy to imagine him going crazy—but then I’d have a different story on my hands. I needed somebody fine on the surface with something deeper beneath, and who better on the Shiratorizawa team than Shirabu? The kid’s got so much anger in him, despite his calm demeanour. Anybody who’s checked my carrd or Twitter knows one of my favourite quotes is Nietzsche’s “there is no beautiful surface without a terrible depth.” I love exploring this concept, and I will continue to explore it til the day I stop writing. aka probably never. So, I had Shirabu, I had an idea of some specific scenes, I had my vision— what were some things I kept in mind while writing? CHARACTERIZATION AND MENTAL ILLNESS *Gabriel Zamora voice* Okay, okay, OKAY. Let’s keep it 100. The Shiratorizawa boys have… barely any content. They’re one of the antagonists in the Haikyuu!! universe, so of course they have their share of the spotlight, but let’s KEEP IT 100, their content doesn’t even begin to compare to the teams who are, ah, “allied”? with Karasuno. We’ve got lots of Ushijima, I GUESS? But only hints of the other Shiratorizawa boys and mini flashbacks to hint at backstory and character dynamics. #BringShiratorizawaScreentimeToJustice Alright, in all seriousness, yes, I’m updated with the manga, I realize they have their moment and it is fitting (even though I still think Ushijima was more villainized than he deserved to be). It works. For the purposes of fanfiction, though, it’s a bitch. Even though I tried to remain true to the characters, I recognize that they’re going to be OOC— Kawanishi especially. Also, yeah, I made Washijou a pervert. So…. Uhm. Yes, you’re not going to find the most accurate depictions of the Shiratorizawa boys here. You’re also not going to find this to be the most accurate depiction of whatever amalgamation of mental illnesses is present in Shirabu. Honestly, I don’t think I could ever do the experience of psychosis justice. I took a lot of artistic liberty here—typically, one wouldn’t have something like an eating disorder and something like schizophrenia. The conditions for both types are pretty much polar opposites. If you suffer from any of the above, I sincerely apologize for mischaracterizing things and taking them to the extremes. Did I perpetuate the false notion that those suffering from severe mental illnesses are out of control/“bad”? Perhaps. Only those with the condition can be the true judge of that. Just know that I didn’t mean to villainize the mind; rather, I meant for Shirabu’s character flaw, his strive for perfection, to be the downfall of his psyche, exacerbated by the onset of his disorder over the course of the story. Let’s talk about his flaw: when I was writing this, I reflected on my own strive for perfection, and wrote that aspect of him based on personal experience. Perhaps that says a lot, perhaps that says a little; I’m open about my struggles with my own eating disorder, though, so I didn’t hide anything with him. For me, my fight with EDNOS is one of control. I’m a university student, my academic life is, in a sense, wack, and no amount of previous cognitive behavioural therapy prepared me for this. I fucking love food—in fact, it’s a treasured and signature aspect of my culture, and it honestly sucks that I have the relationship I have with food. I imagined Shirabu’s eating disorder to be along the same lines—he’s so desperate for control and perfection that he’s willing to destroy himself for it, and this concept is so deeply engrained in his being that he does it unconsciously. His body dysmorphia extends to how his reflection is a stranger to him. He sees himself, he sees his reflection, and he can’t even begin to comprehend the connection between the two. I’ll touch on this more in themes/motifs. TAICHI. For Shirabu, I wanted a big brother/best friend character, and seeing as they’re both second years (and they stood next to each other in Ushijima’s final debrief in Chapter 190-something), he seemed to fit, position-wise. Character-wise, we know so little about him. All we can really gather is that he’s more laid back and probably just as sarcastic Shirabu (the whistling at Tendou’s nagging). I wanted him to be that chill best mom friend who’s got his shit together. Kind of like a mix of Cathy’s and Erica’s character roles from Girl on the Train and Black Swan, I guess? Somebody genuinely nice who cares about their roommate. I wasn’t sure how to write him after the attack scene in Act Two. We’ve never seen Kawanishi angry, but we’ve seen him cry, and ugh it was hard to justify like Goshiki or somebody else as a caring roommate with their shit together, so I had to toe the line with his character. Semi took kind of a backseat role in this whole fic, despite the fact that he was my muse for the majority of it. Though, I’m really glad I didn’t use him too much— one of the first things I learned when I started getting serious about creative writing was to “kill your darlings”. Actually, verbatim, it was thus: "Kill your darlings" doesn't mean "tear apart what you love", it means file it away under "darlings" and look at it when you need it most. Had I plugged Semi in there more, I think I would have taken away from the story. He’s a character that I think has a lot more to him than meets the eye, which is something I also didn’t think I had the capacity to tackle in this fic without sacrificing the flow of it. So, I dropped a lot of clues— it’s up to you how you interpret him. Tendou and Ushijima: just, wow, what a pleasure it is to live in an era where these gems exist, honestly. I have regrets about their characters because I don’t think I did them enough justice or wrote about them enough, but I guess it’s kind of the same case as Semi; this is ultimately Shirabu’s story, and too much filler could detract from that. Oikawa and Iwaizumi: Right, so, I’ll be honest here. I’m tired of Iwaoi. They just don’t hold the same spark as before, you know? Maybe that was reflected in this fic. But for the sake of justifying his character here, let me just add:
Kenjirou is an unreliable narrator
Oikawa, borrowing Mila Kunis’ words, danced his ass off. He told the truth when he said he’d been at the company longer and worked harder. If ballet was volleyball, he attacked the art just the same as he did in the show.
Also, it’s canon in this universe that he fucked up his knee dancing. Move aside Furudate, this is my show now
Also canon: iwaoi got together at the end of junior high because Oikawa said he was going to do ballet as a career and Iwaizumi was like “no way in hell I’m letting you go through that alone” so
Washijou: I… really hate Washijou. I don’t know if that’s evident or not. I despise the guy. So yes, I made him a pervert. I needed a baddie. Honestly? I’m not even going to waste my time with his character analysis. Just know that I made him as disgusting as I feasibly could.
THEMES
I hope there was the very clear, not-at-all-subtle running theme of reflections and perception: How the characters see themselves, and how that conflicts with how others see them. Shirabu’s reflection was very much the embodiment of his detachment from reality and himself. His body dysmorphia, a facet of his eating disorder, played a heavy role in how he perceived himself. Along with his deteriorating mental state, his reflection became a thing of horror—something he couldn’t look at because of his body image, then something he believed was out to murder him. His reflection wasn’t perfect, and he couldn’t bear to believe that, and it destroyed him. I could go on a holier-than-thou rant about how you should align your morals, but that would be hypocritical of me, so take from that what you will. There’s also the theme of control. Washijou exerting control over Shirabu’s body, Oikawa trying to usurp Shirabu’s control over the role, Shirabu’s utter loss of control, Taichi’s lack of control, etc etc. That one should be pretty obvious to parse out, and I touched on it earlier. I’m not sure how well this came across, but I tried to include a theme of duality. There’s Shirabu in the beginning with amusing narration, then there’s Shirabu in the throes of terror. There’s Shirabu’s perception of Oikawa, then there’s Oikawa’s true character. Small things like that. Perhaps I’m lacking in technical skill as a writer, in which case I hope to improve for the future, but I did my best with incorporating that duality into the style of narration itself. On unreliable narration: F. Scott Fitzgerald did a fantastic job of making Nick an unreliable narrator in Great Gatsby, and I kind of wanted to take some of the techniques I saw implemented in the work and bring it to this fic. Obviously, I have work to do, and writing a psychological thriller is different from writing about the disillusionment of the 1920s, but I hope I did some of it justice. Those were my working themes/concepts I kept in mind while writing, though you might have had your own take-aways—in which case, hell yeah! Would love to hear them!
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A project like this doesn’t finish itself, so I have a lot of people to thank for getting this story where it is! First and foremost, thank you to Tay for beta-ing the first part! And to Jesaya for beta-ing a bit too!! Huge thank you to Tay, Malina, Allison, Isaiah, Alex, Reefa, Keegs, Marina, and Aidan for validating my love for the Shiratorizawa boys— honestly I’m so grateful for the entire Ushigod/daddy/phfeegis/whatever chat. Y’all are amazing people, and I’m glad to call you friends!!! Also thank you to Rea and Possumel for their endless support!!! You kept me writing when I wanted to give up, and I’d never have finished if not for you. You have so many of my uwus. Bless the shresus sluts™/gucking nornies— y’all make my day so much brighter and ily <3 Last, but certainly not least, the biggest thank you goes to you, dear reader! Thank you for making it this far and reading my fic! I appreciate you beyond what words can express!!! That’s it from me, for now. Peace!Amy