Chapter Text
On Monday, Shōta finds himself… distracted.
He’s been thinking about introducing a new character into the book he’s working on, and while his characters certainly aren’t weak, he’s always been better at writing plots. And unfortunately, when it comes to characters, he has a habit of drawing on the personalities of people he knows.
Briefly, Shōta wonders what Yamada would think of a boisterous hairstylist being the main love interest.
Shōta’s not sure he likes how often Yamada’s been on his mind recently. Just when he thinks he’s managed to make his new character, Kadota, different enough that he’s not just a copy of Yamada, he’ll reread what he’s written and realize that the difference is only superficial. So far he’s rewritten the introduction scene five times and it still doesn’t feel right.
Eventually he gives up for the day when his neighbor asks him to watch her kids for a couple hours while she goes out to the store. Somehow word has gotten around the apartment building that not only is he a writer (and therefore presumably has plenty of free time), he’s also a former teacher. Apparently in his neighbors’ minds, this translates into “resident babysitter.”
Normally the Yamamoto kids aren’t too much of a handful, despite being seven and nine years old, but unfortunately, Shōta’s been somewhat distracted today.
Meanwhile, Shun, the seven year old, has recently discovered the wonders of chewing gum.
To be honest, Shōta isn’t entirely sure how it happens, but one moment he’s helping Yukari, the elder child, with her math homework, and the next he’s turning to look at Shun, who’s decided to trying pulling on his hair.
“Yes, Shun?” Shōta sighs, looking away from Yukari. “I’m helping your sister right now.”
For a moment, Shun doesn’t say anything, just fidgeting awkwardly in place. Then she mumbles, “I’m sorry.”
“For interrupting?” Shōta asks, his frown deepening slightly.
Shun shakes her head.
“Did you spill juice on the carpet again?” Shōta presses, when it’s clear that Shun is not going to elaborate.
Again, Shun shakes her head.
“Then what are you sorry for, Shun?” Shōta asks, studying Shun carefully. He can’t see any scrapes or bruises and Shun, who still hasn’t quite grown out of her crybaby phase yet, doesn’t appear to be on the verge of tears, so it’s probably nothing too serious at least.
“For your hair,” Shun finally mumbles, fisting her hands in the fabric of her dress.
For a moment, Shōta just blinks at her, caught off guard.
“My… hair,” he repeats slowly.
Shun replies with a little nod.
Shōta reaches a hand up to run his fingers through his hair, wondering what she could possibly mean, but it doesn’t take him long to find out. His fingers snag on something sticky clumped in the ends of his hair, on the right side.
Honestly, Shōta’s a little surprised that he’s spent so much time around kids throughout his life, yet this is the first time he’s ever gotten gum stuck in his hair.
“Shun,” Shōta sighs, looking back down at Shun. His jaw tightens a little as he sees her lower lip wobble a little, and he hopes he can avoid the waterworks. “Do you have any more gum?”
Shun shuffles her feet a little, but digs a small hand inside her pocket and removes another individually wrapped candy, holding it out for Shōta to take.
“Gum is supposed to stay in your mouth,” Shōta says, accepting the piece of gum and putting it in his own pocket. “No more gum until you’ve proven to me, or your mother, that you’re mature enough for it.”
For a moment, Shōta thinks that Shun is going to start crying, but instead she just sniffles a little and nods again. Then she mumbles, in a slightly watery tone, “Is your hair going to be okay?”
Shōta’s caught off guard for a split-second, but then his lips quirk up into the barest hint of a smile, and he reaches out to pat Shun on the head.
“I know a good hairstylist. He can fix it for me,” Shōta replies. “Better my hair than yours, anyway.”
Thankfully, it’s only another fifteen minutes before Ms. Yamamoto returns from her grocery shopping. She apologizes profusely when she sees Shōta’s hair, but Shōta forgoes her offer of removing the gum herself. He tries to tell himself it’s because he’d rather have it done by a professional, but he can’t quite lie to himself well enough to convince himself that it has to do with anything other than seeing Yamada again.
However, when Shōta finally gets to Yamada’s salon, the lights are all off.
For a moment, Shōta wonders if everyone is on break, even though it’s the middle of the afternoon. When he goes to inspect the salon more closely, though, he notices that the salon hours are posted on the door in neat, white text.
Apparently the salon is closed on Mondays.
Briefly, Shōta finds himself wishing that he had Yamada’s phone number, but he banishes that thought from his mind quickly. Yamada’s already given him a free haircut, and trying to drag him in on his day off just to remove a piece of gum sounds like overkill, like just a flimsy excuse to see Yamada.
Instead, Shōta turns away from the salon and starts heading back to his apartment. It looks like he’ll have to figure out how to remove the gum on his own, or maybe take Ms. Yamamoto up on her offer of cutting it out. Shōta wonders how Yamada would react to finding out that Shōta had let an amateur cut his hair, and his lips quirk up into the barest hint of a smile.
However, a block away from his apartment, Shōta pauses.
Although he passes by this building every day, somehow he’s never realized that it contains a hair salon. It’s not quite the complete opposite of Yamada’s flashy salon, but the windows are sleek and neat and the door is painted a tasteful dark blue, unlike the eye-watering neon colors of Cocka-dos. The name printed across the glass – Hakamata Tsunagu – doesn’t mean anything to Shōta, but then again, up until a few weeks ago, the name Yamada Hizashi hadn’t meant anything to him either.
For a moment, Shōta hesitates, but then he pushes the door open.
After all, Yamada would probably kill him for keeping gum stuck in his hair overnight.
---
“What happened to your hair?”
“Good morning to you too,” Shōta snorts, not looking up from his work.
Truth be told, Shōta agrees with Yamada’s reaction, at least a little bit. The haircut he’d received from the other salon is about as different as possible from one the Yamada had given him a few weeks ago. Shōta’s not entirely sure what the stylist had done to his hair, but even after sleeping on it and not brushing it in the morning, it’s as straight as humanly possible, the ends all perfectly even.
Also, there’s barely a hint of stubble on his chin today, despite how quickly it tends to grow. He feels like he’s regressed to being pre-pubescent.
“How did you manage to completely ruin the perfect haircut I gave you?” Yamada whines, and if he weren’t a grown man, Shōta would think he’s on the verge of tears. “This is – what did you do to it? Please tell me you didn’t use any chemical straightening treatments, because your hair is so unhealthy already that – ”
“I don’t know what that other hairstylist did to it,” Shōta sighs, finally closing his laptop and looking over at Yamada.
“Other hairstylist,” Yamada repeats slowly.
“I was babysitting my neighbor’s kids and one of them got gum stuck in my hair,” Shōta replies, his tone almost lazy, uninterested. “And your salon was closed so I went somewhere else to get it removed.”
“Where did you go?” Yamada demands, his lips turning down in a scowl.
“The salon a couple blocks down the street,” Shōta answers, waving his hand in the general direction. “Hakamata something.”
For a moment, Yamada is completely silent, just staring at Shōta.
Then, he grabs Shōta’s wrist and all but hauls him out of his chair, making Shōta almost trip on his own feet and go crashing to the floor.
“What are you – ” Shōta sputters, barely managing to grab his laptop before Yamada drags him too far away from the table.
“Hakamata,” Yamada says through gritted teeth, “is a shit hairstylist who knows nothing about true fashion. I can’t believe you let him cut your hair.”
“It was either him or my neighbor,” Shōta replies, but he doesn’t try to break Yamada’s grip. Yamada’s hand is strong around Shōta’s wrist, but it doesn’t hurt. Instead it’s just warm, a little too hot against Shōta’s skin.
“I could have fixed whatever your neighbor did to your hair,” Yamada snorts. “I’m not sure about this. C’mon, sit down.”
Shōta lets out a little sigh, but does as he’s instructed, slumping down into the chair Yamada has directed him towards. As he catches sight of his reflection in the large mirror in front of him, he can’t quite help the way he grimaces ever so slightly.
“Hakamata,” Yamada says as he digs a round brush out of a drawer, “seems to be under the delusion that the same hairstyle works on everyone. Very straight, bangs swept to the side, no layering so to speak of.”
Briefly, Shōta considers asking what’s wrong with that, but then decides against it. Yamada already seems like he’s gearing up for a rant.
“But your hair – your hair needs volume,” Yamada continues, grabbing a comb and a pair of scissors. “You look way too stiff with perfectly straight hair.”
“Stiff, huh?” Shōta replies, watching in the mirror as Yamada starts pinning up sections of his hair with carefully placed clips.
“Like you’re trying too hard,” Yamada clarifies, his fingers brushing against the back of Shōta’s neck as he divides Shōta’s hair into sections. This time, Shōta doesn’t shiver, and he wonders if he’s starting to get used to the feeling of Yamada touching him.
He wonders if that’s a bad thing or not.
“Carefully manicured hairstyles work for some people, but your hairstyle should be effortless,” Yamada continues, dragging Shōta back out of his thoughts. “Effortlessly attractive.”
“Weren’t you the one saying I was wasting my potential because I wasn’t putting any effort into my appearance?” Shōta snorts.
Yamada actually pauses for a moment.
Then, he says, “It should look effortless, not be effortless. And I’ve decided that you look plenty attractive without all the extra hair products I could give you anyway. In fact, if I dolled you up too much, you’d be fending off the ladies with a stick.” Yamada grins. “Well, as long as I’m not in the vicinity, at least.”
“Are you saying that the ladies would be more attracted to you instead, or that you’d fend them off for me?” Shōta drawls, and Yamada lets out a short laugh.
“Take your pick,” Yamada replies, shooting Shōta smirk.
This time when Yamada’s fingers brush against his neck again, Shōta does shiver. He wonders if Yamada notices the goosebumps dotting his skin.
It takes Yamada a good half hour to restyle Shōta’s hair. It turns out a little shorter than Shōta usually likes to keep it, but at least that probably means he can go even longer between haircuts.
Somehow, that thought doesn’t make him as happy as it would have a few weeks ago.
“There,” Yamada says, taking off Shōta’s apron and stepping back to admire his work. “Much better.”
Although Shōta doesn’t generally care much about his appearance, he’s inclined to agree. It’s like the haircut Yamada had given him before, layers falling in all different directions, making his hair look full and soft. Part of Shōta wants to reach up and run a hand through his hair, just to see how it feels, but he manages to restrain himself.
Yamada, on the other hand, has no qualms about touching Shōta’s hair.
“Now, just remember to brush it occasionally, okay?” Yamada says, fluffing Shōta’s hair out a little.
“Why brush it myself when I know that you’ll just do it for me if I wait long enough?” Shōta snorts, tilting his head back slightly to shoot Yamada an amused look.
“You love making extra work for me, don’t you?” Yamada huffs, but he doesn’t deny Shōta’s claim.
For a moment, Shōta considers pointing out that he’s never actually asked Yamada to do anything for him. Yamada decided to do it all on his own. Instead, Shōta asks, “So how much do I owe you?”
“Owe me?” Yamada repeats, his lips turning down in small, confused frown.
“For the haircut,” Shōta clarifies, like it should be obvious.
“I’m not going to make you pay for this,” Yamada replies, shaking his head slightly. “You just had to pay for an expensive haircut yesterday, and it’s not like you asked me to cut your hair anyway.”
“You used up your lunch break to fit me in again,” Shōta says, his own lips turning down into a frown now. “And I didn’t ask for the haircut but I – ” Shōta hesitates. “It looks good.”
“It’s really not a big deal,” Yamada protests, shaking off Shōta’s praise. “It’s not like I’m short on money or anything. People pay big bucks for my haircuts.”
“So you’re saying that I shouldn’t pay you because people normally pay a lot for your haircuts?” Shōta snorts, giving Yamada an unimpressed look. “Do you normally give strangers special treatment?”
“Well,” Yamada says slowly. “You’re not really a stranger anymore.”
Shōta doesn’t really know what to say to that.
“But if you really want to pay me back that badly, you could always buy me lunch sometime,” Yamada continues, his lips quirking up into a small smile. “Considering I keep giving up my lunch break for you.”
“I suppose I could do that,” Shōta replies.
“Great!” Yamada replies, patting Shōta on the shoulder.
Shōta’s shoulder feels warm for far longer than it should from such brief contact. He tries not to think about it too deeply.
---
One of the things that Shōta likes about his job is that it’s largely anonymous.
That is to say, the average person, no matter how big of a fan they are, has no idea what he looks like and because he writes under a penname, his privacy is relatively secure. Even on the rare occasion he consents to doing a signing or some other event to promote his book, photography is restricted and his face is forgettable enough.
Unfortunately, it seems that his anonymity is about to take a hit.
A few years ago, a large studio had bought up the movie rights to his second book. He’d been hoping that it would go the way of most movie deals: his bank account would get a nice boost, the studio would sit on the movie rights for forever, and the film would never actually get made.
But it appears that his luck is not quite that good, because in four months, his book is going to be up on the big screen and the studio wants him to do an interview to promote it. Shōta had tried to convince the studio executives that showing him on TV would probably deter possible viewers instead of gaining them, but apparently nowadays any publicity is considered good publicity.
Of course, appearing on TV means he has to look relatively presentable.
“How far out are you booked?” Shōta asks, not looking up from his laptop as he sits across from Yamada at his (their?) usual coffee shop table.
“Booked?” Yamada repeats, swallowing his mouthful of coffee.
“Your salon, I mean,” Shōta clarifies, careful to keep his tone relatively disinterested. “When’s your next opening?”
“I mean, I actually have a slot open on Friday morning because a certain client decided to extend their trip to Italy,” Yamada snorts, his tone vaguely annoyed, “but I have enough of a waitlist that it’ll probably get filled pretty quickly. Why are you asking?”
For a moment, Shōta hesitates.
“I have… an event Friday night that I need to be presentable for,” Shōta admits, still not looking over at Yamada.
“An event?” Yamada repeats, his mouth turning up into an amused smirk. “It must be a pretty important one for you to actually let me do your hair without complaint.”
Shōta finally looks away from his laptop, leveling Yamada with a flat look.
“It’s a work event,” Shōta replies, scowling slightly.
“Some work event,” Yamada says, arching an eyebrow at Shōta.
“I could always go back to Hakamata’s salon if you’re going to be an ass about it,” Shōta grumbles, his scowl deepening.
“No!” Yamada blurts out, quickly enough that Shōta can’t quite help his amusement. “No, I can give you the Friday slot. If I let Hakamata have another go at your hair it’ll be much harder to fix than last time.”
“I don’t understand why you’re so invested in my hair,” Shōta snorts, propping his cheek up on his hand and peering across the table at Yamada, studying him carefully.
“I’ve put a lot of time and effort into it,” Yamada huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.
“No one asked you to,” Shōta replies, giving Yamada a flat look.
“Are you saying you don’t like it?” Yamada asks, arching an eyebrow at Shōta.
Shōta pauses.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Shōta finally answers, which is the closest to a compliment Yamada is going to get.
“You’re so hard to please,” Yamada complains, his expression dangerously close to a pout. “Do you know how much effort it took to make your hair look good that first time? I should have taken before and after photos to put on my Instagram.”
“Weren’t you the one talking about how much ‘potential’ I have?” Shōta asks.
“Just because someone has potential doesn’t mean it’s easy to draw out,” Yamada huffs, narrowing his eyes at Shōta.
“Well, we’ll see how much you can draw out on Friday,” Shōta replies, his lips quirking up into the barest hint of a smirk.
“Is that a challenge?” Yamada asks. “Because if it is, you better be prepared to suffer the consequences.”
Which is how Shōta finds himself in Yamada’s salon for the third time in much less than three months. Briefly, he finds himself wondering if this is going to become a regular occurrence.
“I cut your hair fairly recently so I shouldn’t have to actually take anything off this time,” Yamada says fastening the clasps on the black apron at the back of Shōta’s neck. “But I would like to wash it out with some decent quality shampoo and conditioner instead of whatever bar soap you use on it.”
“I don’t use bar soap,” Shōta snorts, but he lets Yamada guide him back out of the chair and over to the sinks again.
“Fine, ¥200 shampoo,” Yamada answers, sweeping Shōta’s hair back and then positioning his neck comfortably on a rolled up towel.
“It costs me a whole ¥300, actually,” Shōta drawls, and he hears Yamada let out a little snort in response.
“You’re really treating yourself, I see,” Yamada says, turning on the water and starting to rinse Shōta’s hair. Like last time, the temperature is perfect, and Shōta can’t help but relax into it, eyes sliding shut as he feels Yamada’s damp fingers brush against his forehead, sweeping his bangs back.
“I probably don’t want to know how much the shampoo you’re going to use today costs, do I?” Shōta replies, his tone dry.
“Probably not,” Yamada answers, and even though Shōta’s eyes are closed, he can tell that Yamada is grinning.
Normally, Shōta doesn’t take his time when washing his hair. His showers are short and efficient, and his shampoo and conditioner are a two-in-one so he doesn’t have to bother with two separate products. He’s never seen the point in dawdling in the shower when he has better things to do.
However, today, with Yamada carefully washing his hair, skilled fingers working in the shampoo and the water set to just the right temperature, it seems that it goes by far too quickly. In fact, Shōta can’t quite suppress his surprise when he feels the water shut off, blinking his eyes open slowly to look up at Yamada.
“You didn’t fall asleep on me, did you?” Yamada asks, looking amused. Shōta narrows his eyes.
“I just closed my eyes for a moment,” Shōta mutters, and Yamada lets out a little laugh.
“Who knew my magic fingers would have so much power over you?” Yamada teases, and Shōta feels his cheeks flush a little hot.
“Shut up,” Shōta grumbles, breaking eye contact with Yamada. “Don’t you have to dry my hair now?”
“Yes, your highness,” Yamada replies, although his tone is still distinctly amused.
Yamada takes a few moments to squeeze the water out of Shōta’s hair with a towel and then shuttles Shōta back over to his workspace. Shōta watches on idly as he rummages around through drawers, before finally coming up with a blow dryer and plugging in into a nearby electrical socket.
“I still don’t like the thought of blow drying your hair, because it was so damaged a while ago, but this should make it easier for me to style,” Yamada says, turning on the blow dryer.
Shōta just grunts in reply, not bothering to try to stop Yamada. He can’t say he really likes blow dryers much, but it’s not like Yamada had actually asked for his opinion on the matter.
Yamada’s remarkably silent as he dries Shōta’s hair, brushing it out carefully with a round brush. Maybe he isn’t trying to make conversation because the noise of the blow dryer is too loud, but Shōta’s not complaining, content to merely watch Yamada’s reflection in the mirror as he works.
Briefly, Shōta finds himself wondering if he should just tell Yamada who he is already – or, rather, who Sōsawa is. The more time he spends around Yamada, the more awkward it feels, hiding this from Yamada. Sure, Yamada’s a fan, and Shōta still isn’t too keen on dealing with fans, but, well.
Yamada’s not just a fan.
However, as soon as Shōta allows himself to seriously consider telling Yamada the truth, he grimaces as something occurs to him.
After a good five rewrites of the introductory scene, he’d given up on trying to make his new character drastically different from Yamada. Despite his best efforts, he’d been unable to get Yamada out of his head, which means that the love interest in his next book is going to be a boisterous blonde hairstylist whose bright green eyes and sweet smile make the protagonist feel bad about lying to him about her (less than legal) job.
Shōta highly doubts that Yamada would miss the connotations if he actually knew that Shōta had written the book.
“Hey, earth to Aizawa,” Yamada says, abruptly breaking Shōta from his thoughts. “Are you sure you’re going to be fine at your event this evening? You seem like you’ve been zoning out a lot.”
“Just thinking,” Shōta mutters, suddenly hyperaware of Yamada’s fingers brushing against his the bare skin of his jaw and the nape of his neck.
“About what?” Yamada asks, innocently enough.
“Things,” Shōta answers curtly. In the mirror, he sees Yamada roll his eyes.
“Alright, alright,” Yamada huffs, fluffing Shōta’s hair out with his fingers. It looks messy, but still full and lush, the strands silky and dark, unlike the dull knots they had been tangled up in before Yamada had first cut his hair.
Briefly, Shōta wonders what it would feel like to have Yamada actually tug on his hair, fingers curled up into fists, but he cuts off that train of thought quickly.
It occurs to him that although Yamada touches his hair constantly, he’s never actually felt Yamada’s.
“So, I was thinking about doing something simple,” Yamada says, breaking Shōta from his thoughts again. “I could do a fancy updo or something, but you have nice, full hair and lots of layers, so I don’t think you really need it.”
Yamada runs his fingers through Shōta’s hair, almost absentmindedly, and Shōta wonders if it’s to show off the thickness of his hair, or if it was just an unconscious thing.
“I mean, I could always do crown French braids, though, if you want to release your inner princess,” Yamada continues, shooting Shōta a grin.
Shōta gives him a flat look in reply.
“I’ll take that as a no,” Yamada snorts. “How about I just separate some off the front sides and clip with back with a claw hairclip?”
“Do what you want, as long as it doesn’t involve braids,” Shōta replies, his tone dry.
“So glitter hairspray is okay?” Yamada teases, but instead of reaching for any of the cylindrical bottles spread out on his workstation, he grabs a simple tortoiseshell hairclip instead.
“No glitter either,” Shōta amends, and Yamada lets out a laugh as he starts to carefully separate a section of hair on the right side of Shōta’s head, fingers brushing lightly over Shōta’s cheek.
“Spoilsport,” Yamada replies, but there’s no bite to his tone.
In the end, it doesn’t take very long to put the clip in place. A few sections of hair still fall down over Shōta’s forehead, but the longer hair that normally frames his face has been pulled back and held in place neatly by the large clip, the rest of his hair falling freely against his shoulders and upper back. Yamada had used a bit of some sort of gel-like hair product to keep the pulled back sections of hair in place, but not nearly as much as Shōta had been dreading, much to Shōta’s relief.
It looks… nice. Simple, but much more sophisticated than just letting his hair flow loosely around his face.
“Simple and effortless,” Yamada chirps, stepping back to admire his work.
“You just spent forty minutes on my hair,” Shōta snorts. Yamada gives him a vaguely annoyed look in reply.
“Now we’ve got to deal with this,” Yamada says, ignoring Shōta’s comment, instead gripping Shōta’s chin and running his thumb over Shōta’s stubble.
For a moment, Shōta feels his breath hitch, with Yamada crowded up in his personal space. Yamada releases him a moment later, though, instead going to retrieve a razor and some fancy looking shaving cream.
“You better keep still while I do this,” Yamada says, coming around in front of Shōta and reaching out to grip Shōta’s chin again, tilting his head up.
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with you using such a sharp blade this close to my throat,” Shōta says dryly, but he doesn’t try to move away.
“You’re such an ass,” Yamada huffs, spreading some sort of foamy product on his hands. “I’m a professional, thank you very much.”
“A professional who insults his clients,” Shōta snorts. Yamada narrows his eyes, but doesn’t dignify Shōta with a proper response, instead carefully coating Shōta’s face in whatever it is he has on his hands.
“It’s a facial cleanser,” Yamada says, before Shōta can ask.
“How much do you spend on unnecessary beauty products every year?” Shōta asks, earning him an unimpressed look from Yamada.
“You of all people are not allowed to criticize what products I use. You looked like you’d just rolled out of a dumpster the first time I saw you,” Yamada replies, putting some sort of oil on his hands now before rubbing it onto Shōta’s face. As usual, Yamada’s touch is firm but soothing, and briefly Shōta wonders if he kisses the same way.
Shōta zones out a little as Yamada works, finally turning away to mix the shaving cream until it’s at the right consistency. When he starts to apply it to Shōta’s face, Shōta can’t help but feel a little disappointed that he’s using a brush now, instead of his hands. Shōta almost misses the sensation of Yamada’s fingertips pressing against his cheeks, rubbing circles against his skin.
The razor, Shōta decides, is even worse than the brush, though. Shōta honestly doesn’t understand how people can trust a complete stranger to hold something so sharp up against their face, professional or not.
Although Shōta supposes he’s comfortable enough around Yamada now to trust him with this.
Thankfully the actual shaving doesn’t take too long. Yamada works with short, precise flicks of the razor, neatly cleaning up Shōta’s unruly stubble. Shōta keeps his eyes open for the first minute or so, but then closes them, his heartrate increasing as he looks at Yamada from this close up. Yamada doesn’t seem to notice the lack of distance between their faces, though, too focused on his own work. Professional.
Shōta finally opens his eyes again as he feels something cool touch his face, making him flinch slightly.
“Sorry,” Yamada says, continuing to wipe away the last of the shaving cream with a cool, damp towel. “You’re almost done.”
“There’s more?” Shōta snorts and tries not to get distracted by Yamada’s eyes.
“Aftershave,” Yamada answers, like his answer should have been obvious.
“Is that really necessary?” Shōta sighs, but he doesn’t make any move to try to get out of the chair.
“Yep,” Yamada replies, turning to grab yet another bottle of product. “It prevents infection and soothes the irritated skin.”
“Fine,” Shōta says, and tries not to think about how he’ll get to feel Yamada’s hands on his face again.
The aftershave only takes a few moments to apply, a thin layer of liquid massaged into Shōta’s skin. And then Yamada steps away from him again, going around to the back of the chair and tugging the clasps of Shōta’s apron apart, dragging it off of him.
“There you go,” Yamada announces, eyes dragging over Shōta’s reflection in the mirror. “From trash bag to respective member of society.”
“Trash bag,” Shōta replies dryly. “How creative.”
“I promise you will be the center of attention at your work event,” Yamada says with a grin, ignoring Shōta’s comment.
Well, Shōta supposes he would be no matter what, but Yamada doesn’t need to know that. And maybe this way people won’t even recognize him when he goes back to his normal beauty routine.
Briefly, he wonders when this turned into a Cinderella story.
---
The interview goes well, or at least as well as an interview can go for Shōta. Thankfully the interviewer sticks mainly to questions about the movie and his books, instead of asking nosey questions about his personal life.
Still, Shōta’s more than happy for it to be over.
Shōta’s never really been in the habit of googling himself or checking social media, so he honestly doesn’t know if his talk show appearance actually helped promote the movie much. The show host had looked vaguely familiar, but Shōta doesn’t know if that’s because the program is a popular one or if the host was just familiar because the show was one of the outdated ones that his father likes watching on the weekends.
Either way, Shōta’s hoping that whatever hype it makes will be minimal and as painless for him as possible. The last thing he wants is for his face to become recognizable.
Unfortunately, it seems that it’s already recognizable to some people.
“I can’t believe you!”
Yamada’s shrill announcement is the only warning Shōta gets before Yamada storms across the café, directly towards him. Shōta only barely manages to get his fingers out of the way as Yamada slams his laptop closed, abruptly halting his writing.
Shōta opens his mouth to protest, but before he can, Yamada throws a worn-out copy of a very familiar book down in front of him and demands, “Sign.”
“What?” Shōta finally manages, dragging his eyes away from the book to look back at Yamada, whose mouth is set it a firm scowl.
“Sign it so I can sell it on eBay and feel like a little less of an idiot for letting you string me along like that,” Yamada snaps, crossing his arms over his chest.
For a moment, Shōta’s quiet, trying to process everything.
“You saw the interview,” he finally says – a statement, not a question.
“Of course I saw the interview!” Yamada huffs, narrowing his eyes at Shōta. “It was kind of hard to miss! Now that you’ve had your fun jerking me around, though, you’ve gotta pay up.”
“I – ” Shōta starts, but then cuts himself off, trying to think of what to say. “I wasn’t trying to jerk you around.”
“Which was why you lied to me about who you were and let me go on and on about how amazing your writing is and how I’d die for your autograph,” Yamada says flatly.
“I wasn’t – ” Shōta snaps, anger building up in his chest, but he manages to stop himself, taking in a slow breath to calm himself. “I’m not good with fans.”
“I can see that,” Yamada snorts.
“I don’t like people demanding autographs and pestering me about what I’m writing and trying to get spoilers,” Shōta continues, ignoring Yamada’s comment. “So I didn’t tell you.”
Yamada’s quiet for a long moment.
“So that’s what you think of me,” Yamada finally says. The way his arms are crossed over his chest seems more defensive than angry now. “That I’m just an annoying fan.”
“That’s not – I value my privacy,” Shōta sighs, frustrated with his inability to find the right words. He has no problem with writing them out, but in conversation he’s hopeless. “And I didn’t know you at first.”
“Were you ever going to tell me?” Yamada asks, studying Shōta carefully.
Shōta hesitates.
“Alright, I get it,” Yamada sighs, his shoulders slumping a little as he starts turning away from Shōta. “I won’t bother you from now – ”
“I don’t think of you as just a fan anymore,” Shōta blurts out, the words spilling out of his mouth before he can stop them.
“But you still didn’t tell me,” Yamada snorts. He doesn’t try to leave again, though.
For a moment, Shōta’s quiet, but then he turns his laptop towards Yamada and sighs, “Read this. It’s part of my next book.”
“I thought you said you didn’t like fans pestering you for spoilers,” Yamada replies, but although he doesn’t make any move to sit down at the table with Shōta, his gaze lingers a little on the laptop screen.
“There aren’t any spoilers in this section,” Shōta says, not quite meeting Yamada’s eyes. “But it is why I was reluctant to reveal my identity to you.”
Yamada still looks wary, but he picks up the laptop, his eyes darting across the screen as he begins to skim the chapter. However, Shōta can tell the moment he reaches the physical description of the new character, because he pauses for a split second and then starts reading more slowly.
It takes him a couple of minutes to read the pages that Shōta’s written. His expression doesn’t betray anything, though, and for a moment Shōta wonders if he’s managed to make the connection.
Finally, Yamada says, “This is me.”
“It wasn’t intentional,” Shōta sighs, propping his cheek up on his hand. “I occasionally base characters on people I know, but usually I manage to make them different enough that it’s not obvious.” He pauses. “I had trouble this time.”
For a moment, Yamada’s quiet, but then he says, “You really like my eyes that much?”
The question catches Shōta off guard, and he finally looks back over at Yamada. He opens his mouth to deny it, but then he notices that there’s a small smile tugging at Yamada’s lips, and a look in his eyes that’s almost mischievous.
“They’re,” Shōta starts, unsure what to say, “above average.”
“Above average?” Yamada snorts, unable to stifle the grin spreading across his face. “Here you say that they’re ‘mesmerizing emerald’ – ”
“Descriptions are always exaggerated in prose,” Shōta retorts, his cheeks heating a little, but he can tell that Yamada isn’t buying his excuse.
“You know, you could have just asked me out instead of lying about your identity in the hopes that I wouldn’t realize that you’ve based a character on me,” Yamada replies, catching Shōta a little off guard.
“I don’t know, are you willing to be seen in public with someone whose hair looks like it’s ‘died on top of their head’?” Shōta asks, trying to keep his tone steady.
“Well, the more I get to see you, the more often I can brush your hair for you,” Yamada answers, looking amused.
Briefly, Shōta hesitates, but then he says, “I suppose I never did buy you lunch in exchange for that haircut a while back.”
“Make it dinner tonight and maybe I’ll forgive you,” Yamada replies, but judging by the smile on his face, Shōta suspects he’s already been forgiven. “Oh, and you have to let me read your new book as soon as you’ve finished the first draft.”
“I’m a fairly slow writer,” Shōta says, but he can already feel a smile starting to tug at his own lips. “It might take a while before you get that draft.”
“I guess I’ll have to stick around, then,” Yamada replies.
For a moment, Shōta considers telling Yamada not to get too far ahead of himself, but instead he says, “Dinner at seven?”
“I can do that,” Yamada answers. “Just remember to brush your hair before picking me up.”
“I can’t make any promises,” Shōta replies dryly.
Yamada laughs.
---
(“You know, you still haven’t signed my book.”
“You still want me to?”
“I have some books back at my apartment that I need you to sign, too.”
“So you’re just using me for my signature.”
“Oh, definitely.”)