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Once upon an alternate Japan, there was an annual singing contest called Enkafest that was designed to find the next superstar of the country’s oldest, most traditional form of pop. Enka was a sentimental form of song that, most of the time, tended to appeal to the moms of the young and hip, not the young and hip themselves.

Still, the contest was a time-honored tradition that young singers continued to enter, mostly because they grew up hearing the music around their homes and came to appreciate it themselves. To do so, you got yourself a corporate sponsor – every singer in the competition was backed by a company. The companies were very glad to do so, because winning Enkafest was a big feather in their public image cap – and if they were publicly traded, a near-guarantee they’d get a spike in their stocks.

Once you were sponsored, you auditioned, got accepted, and then went through several rounds of secondary auditions and eliminations before a panel of music industry executives, until the field was whittled down to 20 singers.

And that was when the fun REALLY began. Those 20 were sent on a tour of outdoor concerts at very traditional sites throughout the country – temples, shrines, serene mountain ranges. They performed before a new panel of judges, made up of big-name record producers and other enka singers – including past winners of the contest. The proceedings were filmed and broadcast on television. And at every stop, there were eliminations, until five were left.

The lucky finalists then performed at the Enkafest Gala, the finale show at Nippon Budokan, which was televised live and watched by millions – in fact, it was the only time much of the country cared about enka, much like the way that most of the world only cares about curling during the Winter Olympics.

At the conclusion of the event, the judges deliberated what they just saw, and then announced the fourth, third, and second runner-ups . . . and finally, the winner, who instantly received a hundred million yen and a recording contract, not to mention being booked on a round of television shows and a headlining national tour. So, indeed, winning Enkafest was a very big deal.

It was definitely the kind of thing that could create a Cinderella story for an obscure singer or restore the fortunes of a faltering sponsor. In fact . . . this is one such case.

And it is here that our story begins . . .

* * *

Nakatomi Shindy sat quietly in the restaurant, staring into his sake cup. It was easier to look at the cup than at his uncle, who was sitting opposite him wringing his hands like he always did when he was nervous.

“Do you have any more ideas?” his uncle said. “I mean, I’ve wracked my brain trying to come up with something. Your father has rejected every one of my offers. I’m afraid if we don’t come up with something soon . . .” He looked away. “I can’t even say it out loud.”

“Then I will,” Shindy said. “We’ll lose the company.”

“It can’t happen,” his uncle said. “Nakatomi Corporation has been in business for decades. We just about created the market for zippers and buttons in this country!”

“We have competition now,” Shindy said, quietly.

“You know as well as I do that competition isn’t our problem!” his uncle said. “It’s . . . the incident.”

Shindy knew precisely what he was talking about. Earlier that year, one of the company’s top executives – a longtime associate of Shindy’s father, the company’s CEO – had embezzled a large amount of money and gotten caught. The ensuing trial had made headlines, brought shame and disgrace on the company, and sent their stocks crashing.

Hence their current meeting. His uncle – the president of the company – was desperately trying to find a way to restore their fortunes and reputation, because Shindy’s father was stubbornly insisting things would turn around on their own.

“I suggested more outreach to young and hip companies,” Shindy said. “Which is pretty much my job, anyway.” Indeed, Shindy was the company’s liaison to the avant-garde clothing industries – the Loli and punk and visual kei segments – which is why he looked like a long-haired rock star despite being, officially, a vice president. Those people were more likely to trust someone who looked like them.

“And what did he say to that?” his uncle said.

“He said I was doing a good enough job as it was, and there was no need to step it up. Then I suggested that we take out ads admitting we had a problem and saying we were working on fixing it. He didn’t want to hear it.”

“Those kind of ads are the WORST thing we could do!” his uncle said. “We might as well hang a banner from our building saying, ‘We harbored a criminal and never caught it!’”

“And then, well, the third thing I suggested was . . .” Shindy shook his head. “Never mind. It’s pretty silly.”

“Out with it!” his uncle said. “I’m willing to hear anything at this point!”

But before Shindy could say it, their waiter approached the table – a very tall, very good-looking man with honey-colored hair. He was bearing a tray with their main courses.

“Here you go!” he said. “Now, you had the tonkatsu, right?” He put a bowl in front of Shindy.

“That’s right,” Shindy said. Damn, he thought, why didn’t I notice this guy when he took our orders before? He’s . . . hot. Really hot. But he knew damn well why he didn’t notice him – because he was trying to keep his uncle from having a meltdown in the middle of the restaurant.

“Will there be anything else?” the waiter said after he placed all the dishes. “I’m about to go off wait duty in a few minutes.”

“I don’t think so,” Shindy said. “So your shift’s ending?”

“Not really,” the waiter said. “I’m singing.”

“Singing?”

“It’s a feature of this restaurant,” the uncle said. “All of the waiters here are also singers – mostly enka – and they take turns performing.”

“And it’s my turn tonight!” the waiter said, happily. “I hope you enjoy the meal – and my performance.” He bowed. “One of my associates will bring your check when you’re done.”

“Thank you,” Shindy said. He watched the waiter go, thinking, damn, maybe I should come here more often, especially if he’s any good at singing . . .

“So,” his uncle said, “what’s that idea you had?”

“Well, I suggested to my father that we think about sponsoring a singer for Enkafest. We used to when I was a kid, I remember . . . but we kind of fell out of it. But, really . . . it would only do us good if we found a singer who had a shot at winning, right?”

At that moment, the lights in the restaurant dimmed, and a spotlight hit the stage at the far end of the room. The restaurant’s manager stepped onto the stage. “Hello, ladies and gentlemen. As you all know, every night we feature entertainment from one of our waiters. Well, I promise you that you’re here on an especially good night. Allow me to introduce . . . Hanamizakura Kouki!”

There was a blast of karaoke-style music, and the waiter from their table stepped onto the stage, having done a quick-change into a yukata. He bowed to the audience, took the microphone, paused . . . and then, he began to sing.

He didn’t have the most trained or melodious voice. In fact, his tone was, frankly, rather nasal. But he was hitting the right notes, he had style . . . and he had personality. Oh, did he ever have personality. He seemed to connect to that old, sentimental ballad he was singing as if he wrote it, as if the words were coming straight from his heart, new and fresh.

As the audience watched, mesmerized, he moved across the stage with agility, gesturing, gazing out into the crowd, letting his facial expressions match the lyrics . . .

Shindy just stared, breathless. This guy was . . . remarkable. You couldn’t take your eyes off him. He was a mesmerizing performer.

An enka singer, he thought, who might have a genuine shot at winning Enkafest . . .

He continued to stare as Kouki sang song after song, each more thrilling than the one before, until finally, he finished his last number with a long, sustained note. As the audience applauded, he bowed deeply, then left the stage.

Shindy suddenly leapt up from the table. “I need to talk to him,” he said.

“What’s this about?” his uncle said, looking baffled.

“My idea,” Shindy said. “Enkafest. I figured it was only worth it if we had a guaranteed winner? Well . . .” He pointed at the now-empty stage. “I think we can safely say we saw the next winner of Enkafest.”

He ran toward the employees-only area – only to have the singer come out of the door, nearly knocking Shindy over. “Oh,” Kouki said. “Sorry about that.” He bowed.

“You,” Shindy said. “You’re just who I wanted to see!”

The singing waiter looked baffled. “Was there something wrong with your order, sir?”

“No! Not the order! You! I mean, nothing was wrong, everything was right! I mean . . . come outside with me, I need to talk to you about something!”

Kouki looked baffled. “Is this a trick? Or a come-on?”

“It’s neither!” Shindy said. “But it’s very, very important!”

He rushed out of the restaurant, the waiter following, leaving his uncle to handle the bill. If this works out, he thought, we won’t have to worry about bills ever again. We’ll have our company back.

* * *

Once they were out in the street in front of the restaurant, Kouki said, “What’s this about?”

“How long have you been singing enka?”

“Just about all my life. My mother’s always been a big fan, I started so I could entertain her – and then I just kept at it because I liked it, I guess. It’s always just been something I did for fun.”

“Have you considered doing it professionally?”

“Not really – I mean, it pays the bills now, but I’m really trying to get a photography career going.”

“What if I gave you a chance to enter Enkafest?”

Kouki looked skeptical. “Is this a joke?”

“No joke! I’m serious! The Nakatomi Corporation would like to sponsor you for Enkafest.”

“How can you say that?” Kouki said. “Doesn’t it have to come from the corporation?”

“I’m a vice president of the corporation!” Shindy said. He bowed. “We haven’t been properly introduced – I’m Nakatomi Shindy.”

Kouki suddenly looked amused. “Pardon me, but . . . you don’t look like a vice president.”

“I get that a lot,” Shindy said.

“Where’s your dark suit? And your short hair?”

“I deal with younger clients,” Shindy said. “Look, trust me, please. What I saw in there . . . it was electrifying. You have a gift. A true gift. One that shouldn’t be kept in a restaurant. Won’t you consider doing the competition? It could change your life.” And save mine, he thought.

There was a pause. “If I do this . . . would I have to quit my day job?”

“You’d be considered an employee of the Nakatomi Corporation during the duration. We’d pay your living expenses and for your coaching.”

“Coaching?”

“Every entrant in the competition has to have a coach. My parents have an old friend who’s a retired enka singer – she’s coached people for this competition before. I’m sure she’d be willing to do it for us.”

“And if it doesn’t work out? If I’m eliminated?”

“We can help you find another job,” Shindy said. “My father knows a lot of people who’d have work for photographers.” Okay, so he was pulling that last bit out of his ass – but he really, really wanted to get this guy on board, and at this point, he’d say almost anything to do it.

“You talk a good game, you know that?” Kouki said, looking vaguely amused.

“It’s part of the job of selling. So, will you consider it? Will you do it?”

There was a long pause, during which Shindy held his breath.

“All right,” Kouki said. “I’ll do it. But if I end up regretting it . . .”

“You won’t,” Shindy said. “I promise on my life, you won’t.”

“I’ll go in and have a talk with the boss,” Kouki said. “He probably won’t be happy, but if he knows it’s for Enkafest . . .” He headed for the restaurant, then turned and looked back at Shindy. “Oh, one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“If I do this . . . how much will I be seeing of you?”

“As your corporate sponsor, I’ll be at your side for the whole thing. I’ll be coordinating your public appearances, your press events, your . . .”

“Well, then I’m REALLY going to do it now,” Kouki said with a smile. “Okay, let’s exchange phones so we can get this going. I’ll talk to my boss. And then . . . well, we see where it goes from there, right?”

When they had exchanged numbers and Shindy was standing on the pavement, feeling breathless with excitement, he thought, I did it. I really did it. I convinced him to enter Enkafest . . . and he could be the one who saves my family’s company.

And then, he thought . . . what was that last bit about? Could it be that he . . . finds me attractive?

* * *

Six weeks after the fateful meeting in the restaurant, Kouki closed the door of his apartment and leaned against it, letting out a long breath. It was another whirlwind day. Not that every day of his life hadn’t been one ever since he’d taken Shindy up on his offer.

He’d gotten pushback from his boss when he said he wanted to quit, of course – “But you’re our most popular singer! You’re our main attraction!” – but the man had relented when Kouki told him, “If I make the final rounds, you can put a sign in the window that says that I started out here. You’ll get attention from the media!”

And almost as soon as he’d let Shindy know it was official, that he was out of his job and free to be in the contest, he was turned over to Inoue-sensei.

Inoue Ayako had placed eight songs in the enka top ten during the genre’s first heyday in the ‘70s. In her old pictures, she was a cute little thing with a bright smile. In her current incarnation . . . she had a lacquered bouffant hairdo that looked like it was made of steel, and a glance of the same material. She faced Kouki in her home studio – a parlor filled with a piano, awards, and framed concert posters – and tapped on his chest with a fan.

“You must know that Enka is the heart-soul of Japan,” she said. “When you sing, you become the embodiment of the feelings of a nation. It is an art form that was born here and has its deepest roots in our traditions and emotions.”

“But . . . isn’t it really just folk song?” Kouki said.

“It is NOT mere folk song!” she said. “It is an expression of everything our hearts hold most dear! That is why it moves audiences so much. Everything you sing . . . you have to MEAN. You must BECOME the song! Even though you didn’t write it . . . even if it’s been performed by a thousand singers before you . . . it has to become YOURS, and yours alone.”

And so, she proceeded to work him like a drill sergeant, correcting and perfecting not just his technique, but his style of performance. He never knew before that being just one second short in how long he held a note could throw an entire song off, that the placement of his breaths could convey meaning in and of themselves. By the time he left her home every day, he was winded and exhausted – but also, felt a lot wiser and stronger.

On the night before the first round of auditions, two weeks after his crash course began, he was half-tempted to just stay up all night and practice – but Inoue-sensei had nixed that right away. “Rest is important!” she said. “Rest gives stamina! Go home and sleep!”

So, he arrived with his coach the next day at the rehearsal studio where auditions were being held. He was met by someone with a clipboard, processed, and issued into a green room – where there were seemingly hundreds of other people of both genders.

“I have to beat all them?” Kouki said, suddenly feeling worried. For the first time, it was sinking in just how big a task even landing in the top 20 would be.

“And you will,” Inoue-sensei said. “Just remember everything we went over. Make the music come from your soul. If you do, you will be unstoppable.”

When his name was called, he was ushered into a huge, sterile room with a small stage, upon which was a karaoke machine. Initial auditions would all be done using pre-existing songs and recorded music. He was facing a long, folding table, lined with folding chairs, filled with severe-looking men and women in equally severe-looking business suits.

“Good day,” the man in the center said. “State your name, your sponsor, and the song that you’re singing, then cue it up in the machine and perform. Your coach should have already given you the number to enter into the machine.”

He nearly stumbled over the name “Nakatomi Corporation” when he gave it. He suddenly found himself very glad for the karaoke system and its screen of lyrics, because he was certain he’d forget the words otherwise.

But as soon as the music started, he took a deep breath, and he FELT it, like Inoe-sensei said to do. He let it wash over him in waves, seep into his soul . . . and he opened his mouth and began to sing. He didn’t think about the judges, or the competition . . . it was just him and the song.

When it was over, he lowered the mike, bowed, and waited.

The judge furthest to the right said, “Wow. You’re quite the showman.”

“I agree,” the woman to his left said. “You took me on a journey with that song. I’ve heard it a billion times, and you made me feel like it was fresh and new.”

“He has a nasal tone,” grumbled the man next to him. “But I’ll agree that he has great style.”

“Well, I’ll say this,” said the man in the center. “You, sir, have the ability to connect the past with the future with your singing. I hear tradition in what you just did – and I also hear innovation. I’m going to vote emphatically for you to go to the next round, because I would love to see where you take it from here.”

“Thank you, sir!” Kouki said, bowing.

“We will contact your sponsor and let you know if you made it,” the man in the center said. “Good day, and thank you.”

Kouki left the room in a breathless rush. Did that just happen? He thought. Did I really get all those compliments? And . . . was that person who just sang really me?

* * *

The next day, his phone rang early – and the caller ID said it was Shindy. He hadn’t heard from his sponsor since the competition began.

“Good news!” the voice on the other end said. “You’ve cleared the first round!”

“I did?”

“Yes! And I want to take you to lunch to celebrate. I’ve spoken to Inoue-sensei, she said you could come into her studio today afterward. I’m really happy, Kouki!”

“Not as happy as I am!” Kouki said. He jumped out of bed, feeling breathless. He’d survived the first cut. There was a lot more work ahead, of course – but at least he was on his way. He didn’t have to go back to being a singing waiter – yet.

And he got to have lunch with Shindy. To him, that was a huge, huge bonus.

They met up at noon at the kind of place that was so expensive that Kouki didn’t even dare pause in its doorway in the past. A waiter quickly showed him to “the Nakatomi Corporation’s usual table.”

Shindy was already there, and he stood up and bowed when he saw Kouki approach. “Congratulations,” he said. “Your hard work is paying off.”

“It’s not over by a long shot,” Kouki said.

“No, but you’re officially in now,” Shindy said. “My father is thrilled. He was skeptical about my idea at first, but now? He’s utterly sold on it. He’s been getting reports from Inoue-sensei. He has high hopes for you.”

“And you?” Kouki said.

“I believed in you from the moment I saw you,” Shindy replied.

A waiter came and took their orders. When he left, Kouki said, “It feels funny to be on this side of the table.”

“How long were you at that place?” Shindy said.

“Two years. As long as I’ve been in Tokyo. I graduated from university with my arts degree and thought I’d be taking pictures for magazines right away. That didn’t pan out, so I fell back on my hobby – singing. My mom and my grandmother were always big fans of enka. I’d learned to sing the songs they liked to entertain them, and then, it was something fun to do at karaoke. My friends were always the ones singing the latest pop hits – I was the only one singing enka. It’s just . . . I feel like I connect to it, you know? Like it suits me.”

“So you found out that place was looking for singing waiters?”

He nodded. “One of my karaoke buddies from back home had an uncle who was a bartender there. He talked to his boss about me, and I got hired.”

“Well, if this works out? You’ll never have to go back there,” Shindy said. “You can just sing for a living. And it sounds like singing is something you genuinely love to do.”

“Always have,” Kouki replied. “Being able to do this all the time is damn fun – even if Inoue-sensei works me like a horse.”

“I envy you,” Shindy said, quietly. “Doing something you love, I mean.”

“You don’t like working at your father’s corporation?” Kouki said.

“Well, it’s all right,” Shindy said. “I could have had a worse life. And, let’s face it – I was given little choice in the matter. Your family owns a major corporation for generations, your future is pretty much set in stone. So I went to university and immediately became a junior vice president. At least my father let me work with young and hip clients – and grow my hair out.”

“But you’d rather do something else?”

“Well . . . something a bit more adventurous, that is. Which is kind of one reason why I’m excited about this Enkafest thing. Because it’s an adventure. But in the end? Doing what’s right for my family and the corporation is my mission in life, isn’t it?”

Kouki raised his little cup of sake. “I’m going to make you a deal, Shindy. If I win this competition, I want you to think – just THINK – about being a part of my management team. If I’m going to be a professional recording artist, I’m going to have people working with me, right? Who better than someone with management experience? What do you say – is it a deal?”

“Um, well . . .”

“Come on, now,” Kouki said in a teasing tone. “I took a chance. So can you.”

Well, he thought, he said just THINK about it. He didn’t say I HAVE to follow through. “All right,” Shindy said. “Deal.” He clinked his cup against Kouki’s. “Kanpai!”

“Kanpai!” Kouki replied. He smiled. Right now, he was feeling good about . . . well, everything.

The two of them continued to chat during lunch about Kouki’s training and about the clients that Shindy usually worked with. And when they reached the end of the meal, they were both laughing and feeling comfortable.

“You know what?” Shindy said. “I’m really glad we picked you.”

“Because I’ve got potential?” Kouki said.

“Because I genuinely like you. You’re a great guy, and, well . . . if you make the top 20, I’m going to enjoy traveling with you.”

“You’d be with me?”

“The sponsoring company always sends a liaison to accompany their singer on the televised rounds. If you make it, that would be me. I found you, so I’m the liaison.”

“Well, then, I really have to get to the top 20 now, don’t I?” Kouki said, eyes glinting mischievously.

“Yes, you do,” Shindy said. “Now, go back to Inoue-sensei and make sure you do!”

Kouki stood up from the table and bowed. “You better believe I will!” he said.

He was happily humming as he headed to his sensei’s home. Things were looking good – very good, indeed.

* * *

This pattern repeated for the next four weeks. Kouki rehearsed and rehearsed with Inoue-sensei. He went to the rehearsal studio, performed for the judges again, and Shindy was told that he’d made the cut. The two would then go out for a celebratory lunch.

That was the part of the week Kouki looked forward to the most. His sponsor was . . . well, he was a fun person to get to know. It turned out he had a secret hobby of gaming – which he hid from his family.

“It doesn’t look good for a vice president to be playing Monster Hunter on his lunch breaks,” Shindy said.

“But you do it anyway.”

“Of course, I do. But I do it privately. I lock myself in a stockroom and make everyone think I went out to a park to eat.”

“So, you haven’t let the corporate life completely eat your soul,” Kouki said, teasingly.

“Never. Besides, killing monsters helps you COPE with the corporate life. You can always imagine the thing you’re blowing up is the jerk from accounting who E-mails you every two seconds with nonsense.”

And then, of course, there was the small matter that Kouki just liked looking at the other man across the table. He really is too pretty to be hiding himself away in a boardroom, Kouki thought. He should be a on a runway instead.

But then, after the lunches, it was right back to work. After the third week, Inoue-sensei added a new element – a dance coach.

“Why dance?” Kouki said.

“Because movement on stage is important – and the closer you get to the upper rounds, the more important it is that you present yourself in the most complete and professional manner. Besides, if you make the semifinals, dance is expected to be incorporated into your performance – and especially if you make the finals. That will be a huge production with backup dancers and props. We haven’t come so far with your technique for you to blow it because of your visuals!”

Which, of course, brings us back to Kouki’s current moment in time – leaning against the door, breathless after completing his final audition before the top 20. If I make this cut, I’m in, he thought. Everything will be worth it. I’ll be on TV. I’ll be traveling to . . . well, at least one location. And . . . I’ll have Shindy with me.

He crossed the one-room apartment – there wasn’t much crossing to do, since it was so small – and flung himself on his bed. If he comes with me, he thought, what will happen to our relationship? We’ll have so much time together, especially if I make the upper rounds . . .

Of course, he knew he shouldn’t be thinking about that. He should be focusing on what he’d do performance-wise if he moved ahead, right? That’s what was important. Singing, improving his technique, moving ahead of the competition . . .

He closed his eyes. But he couldn’t help but feel that Shindy was important too, right? In a way? Because he was the reason Kouki was in this competition in the first place? And . . . it was right to think about him, wasn’t it . . .

He had the other man’s beautiful face in his mind’s eye as he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Shindy was working late in his office – as was all too common. He was trying to focus on the stack of orders in front of him.

But part of his mind wouldn’t let go of the fact that Kouki had his final audition for the top 20 today.

If he makes it, he thought, I’ll be able to leave this behind for at least a couple of weeks. I’ll be out of the office, traveling, overseeing Kouki’s presentations . . . and spending time with him.

He didn’t know what he found more appealing – the idea of not having to be a corporate grunt for a while or seeing Kouki every day. Maybe it was both. Each idea brought about the same kind of excited flutter in the pit of his stomach.

If it works out, he thought. Nothing is certain, nothing is set in stone . . . but if it does . . .

His thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing at his elbow. He picked it up – the number looked vaguely familiar. Probably a client – they burned the midnight oil, too. He pushed the button. “Hello?”

“Good evening, Nakatomi-san. This is Kitajima-san from the Enkafest committee. We have completed our voting for the top 20, and I thought I’d inform the sponsors tonight, rather than making everyone wait until tomorrow.”

Here it comes, Shindy thought. “Go on,” he said, and waited for the answer. The seconds instantly seemed to stretch into hours.

“Congratulations,” the man on the other end said. “Your artist is in the top 20. We will be contacting you tomorrow with travel plans for you, your artist and your artist’s coaches.”

And suddenly, Shindy felt joy exploding through him like liquid sunshine. It was the best news he’d heard in his entire life. He knew he had to stay stoic and professional, but . . .

“Thank you!” he said. “Thank you, sir, I’m grateful!”

He hung up the phone and dialed Kouki. He actually found himself getting up from his desk and doing a little dance, foot to foot.

The phone was picked up with a yawn. “Hello?” said a sleepy mumble.

“KOUKI!” Shindy nearly shouted. “You made it! You’re in the top 20!”

“I . . . I am?”

“YES! Get ready to pack, we’re going on the road! You’re going to be on TV! I am so damn happy right now!”

“Oh . . . OH MY GOD!” said the voice on the other end. “I can’t believe it! It’s . . . it’s . . . this is the BEST NEWS EVER!”

“Better than the best!” Shindy said.

“I have to tell Inoue-sensei!”

“No, I’ll tell her,” Shindy said. “It’s my job, as the sponsor. But . . . oh, my GOD, Kouki . . .”

They both jumped around, laughing and whooping on either end of the phone. And, unbeknownst to each other, each man had the same thought on his mind . . .

I’ll be able to see him all the time now. At least as long as this lasts.

* * *

The Nakatomi delegation arrived at the train station several days later. Kouki looked around him, nervously. They’d reserved a green car on this Shinkansen for the contestants coming from Tokyo and their entourages.

“This doesn’t feel real,” he told Shindy. “I’m going to be traveling on this train first class. I’m going to be staying in a fancy hotel. The last time I traveled anywhere, I took a night bus and stayed in a hostel.”

“We need you well-rested and comfortable!” said Inoue-sensei. In addition to an oversized, shocking pink suitcase, she had an elongated black case resting at her feet – a portable keyboard. “We’re not going to have all the training we did this week go to waste, are we?”

“Dear God, no,” Kouki said. Inoue-sensei had worked him like a horse the last several days. If he thought the training she’d given him during the initial audition rounds was rigorous . . . well, that was nothing in comparison.

“My point exactly,” she said . . . when another person came running up to their group, a young woman in a long, flowing, dark green skirt speckled with pink flowers and a ruffled white blouse, with wavy hair and a pixie-like face.

“Oh!” the newcomer said. “I’m not late, thank goodness!”

“Ito-san?” Kouki said. “You’re coming, too?”

Shindy looked confused. “Who?”

“This is my dance instructor,” Kouki said. “Ito Akina.”

“Oh, yes!” Shindy said. Yes, he’d remembered now they’d put the dance teacher on the company payroll – despite his father complaining that Enkafest had meant paying more people than he was expecting.

“Of course, she’s here,” Inoue-sensei said. “Remember, dance is an important part of your training, too. We can’t let that lapse. We . . .” Her expression suddenly darkened as she looked across the platform. “Oh, no . . . SHE’S here?”

“Who’s ‘she’?” Kouki said.

“Hosoke Junko. She was my rival way back when. And it seems . . . that SHE has a student in this competition as well.” She nodded in the direction of another group – which seemed to be moving toward them rapidly. At the head of it was a woman Inoue-sensei’s age, considerably taller, with an equally sprayed hairdo and a face that indicated she may have been a great beauty when she was younger.

“Inoue-san,” Hosoke-san said. “What a PLEASURE to see you.” The words were so laden with sarcasm that they nearly fell on the floor.

“The pleasure is all mine, Hosoke-san,” Inoue-sensei said. “And is this your student?”

“Oh, yes,” Hosoke-san said. “May I present Sakatomto Hachiro?” She gestured to the young man standing beside her, who had a handsome, chiseled face and short, neat, processed hair – to Kouki, he looked like a news anchorman. “He’s won numerous junior enka competitions, been in musical training all his life, comes from a musical family . . .”

“Charming,” Inoue-sensei said. The physical effort to not roll her eyes was visible.

“And your pupil?” Hosoke-san said. “I heard all about him in the paper. A singing waiter? How . . . quaint.”

“His name is Hanamizakura Kouki, NOT Singing Waiter,” Inoue-sensei said. “And he may not have had years of formal training, but he’s a natural. He was BORN to do this. And that, to me, counts MUCH more than years of studying.”

The train pulled into the station. Staff members quickly rushed onto it to clean it and make it ready for the new guests.

“That’s our cue that we’ll be leaving soon,” Hosoke-san said. “Best of luck, Inoue-san. To you and your student. May the best singer win.”

“And he will,” Inoue-sensei said. She clenched her fist as the other group walked away. “She’s just as insufferable as she was then,” she muttered.

“Who is she, anyway?” Shindy said. “You said she was a rival . . .”

“You don’t know enka, do you?” Kouki said. “Hosoke Junko was a HUGE name back in the day.”

“I said my family used to sponsor singers. I never paid much attention otherwise.”

“She came from a family of other musicians,” Inoue-sensei said. “Her uncle was a conductor with the Tokyo Symphony, and her mother sang with jazz bands. She thought that made her better than anyone else. The problem was, she was damn talented and had a great team of managers and songwriters behind her, so . . . she had a lot of hits. And then she’d gloat about them. And I’d work my tail off, trying to match her hit for hit.” She suddenly turned to Kouki and grabbed his jacket. “We’re not going to let her and her student win. We’re going to wipe the floor with them!”

“Inoue-sensei?” Kouki was a bit worried.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just . . . we’re going to have you do your very best out there, okay? Because I’m not giving her the satisfaction.”

The train opened its doors, and the passengers started boarding. “Your seat is next to mine,” Shindy said.

“Good,” Kouki said, giving him a smile. He watched Inoue-sensei and Ito-san take seats together across the aisle. “They’re probably plotting my doom now,” he whispered.

“Looks like we have another motivation,” Shindy whispered back. “Save my father’s company AND beat her rival.”

“And the we have all the OTHER competition,” Kouki said. “We haven’t even seen them yet.”

“Scared?”

“Not really. Well, a bit. Okay, I’m terrified.”

Shindy reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Don’t be. You’ll be fine. Inoue-sensei is right – you’re a natural. All you have to do is perform the way I know you can, turn on the charm, and you’ll get through every round.”

“I hope you’re right. Because I’m risking everything on this.”

“We both are,” Shindy said. “But you know what? It’s going to be worth it. One way or another.”

Kouki leaned back in his seat, exhaling a long breath. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, it will be.”

Shindy kept holding onto Kouki’s hand as the train pulled out of the station and went on its way.

* * *

Each of the top 20 rounds of Enkafest was held at a shrine, temple, or other picturesque location with a very traditional Japanese-looking background. The first was a temple in Nara which sported a rather impressive statue of a Buddha within its gates. Kouki glanced over at it as his group entered the grounds.

“Should I go over and rub it?” he said. “I think I need the luck.”

A man with a clipboard approached them. “Greetings,” he said. “You are the group from which corporation?”

“Nakatomi,” Shindy said, bowing. “I’m the liaison.”

“Greetings, Nakatomi-san. And your singer is . . .” He looked at the list. “Hanamazikura Kouki. Very nice to meet you. I’m Takata-san, assistant director. I’m just going to brief you on the shoot. The competition stage will be set up here, over by the Buddha. There will be dressing trailers for the contestants to prepare. Each of you will perform the song and get feedback from the judges. We will then inform everyone the next morning who’s going on to the next city. We don’t announce eliminations live until we get to the last rounds – when the show airs, we’ll put the list of who was eliminated and who is continuing on our social media.”

“And is the boy going to have any rehearsal time?” Inoue-sensei said. “I need to make sure he’s ready for this!”

“You have time booked in the studio across from your hotel.” Takara-san handed Inoue-sensei a printout. “There’s the schedule. Oh, and we’re going to tape an introductory interview with him after your rehearsals. The producers LOVE the singing waiter angle, by the way. They’re going to play it up in all the broadcasts. Everyone loves a Cinderella story.” He handed Shindy a card. “Any questions, here’s where to reach me.”

“Thank you,” Shindy said, bowing again.

“The singing waiter thing again,” Inoue-sensei mumbled. “He’s much more than that!”

“He’s right about one thing,” Shindy said, putting the card in his pocket. “That’ll make the audiences take to him. It IS a Cinderella story. If he wins . . . it’ll mean a lot more than if your rival’s guy wins, with all his championships.”

“He is NOT going to win!” Inoue-sensei said. She handed Kouki the rehearsal studio printout. “We’re going to be in that studio the MOMENT it’s available to us, and we’re staying there until they throw us out!”

Kouki sighed. “I’m in for a rough few days, aren’t I?” he whispered to Shindy.

“We’ll go out and celebrate when you make the next round,” Shindy whispered back.

We’d better, Kouki thought. He looked around him . . . at the grand structures that had stood for centuries, at the beauty and grace surrounding him.

I’ll give a performance worthy of all of this, he thought. And I’ll make everyone proud.

* * *

When the night of the competition arrived, Kouki found himself standing by a rock garden, contemplating the stones and swirls of sand. He could see why they had a calming effect. You could lose yourself just in the sight of them.

He needed it right now. He didn’t think he’d had time to breathe since he arrived.

There was the rehearsal time with Inoue-sensei, the dance lessons with Ito-san, the meetings with producers and directors, the taping of his introductory interview (which included them shooting footage of his rehearsal) . . .

He did get a bit of time to meet with some of the other contestants, too. There was Tendo Midori, a sweet-faced girl from Kyoto who was currently studying music in college; Chiaki Takashi, the grandson of an early enka singer; Mori Kasasko, a teenager whose parents had been posting videos of her singing online since she was three . . .

Everyone has more experience than me, he thought. I’ve just done this as a hobby. I never thought of it as anything more . . .

Then, he remembered something Inoue-sensei said to him during one of their first rehearsals. “Maybe you being an amateur is what makes you special. Amateurs do something purely for love, not for personal gain. And when you love something, it comes straight from the heart – which is what your audiences will want to hear.”

As he continued to contemplate the garden, a voice behind him said, “Oh, you come here before competitions, too?”

“This is my first one,” Kouki said. He turned – and there was Sakamoto Hachiro, Hosoke-san’s student. “You’re . . .”

“Sakamoto Hachiro,” the other man said, bowing. “And you’re the singing waiter.”

“I’d like to think I’m just a singer now,” Kouki said.

“You really think you’re going to go somewhere in this competition?” Sakatomoto said. “Let me tell you – enka is no place for amateurs. Most of us have trained all our lives. You think you can come in here after singing karaoke a few times and get in the finals?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, would I?” Kouki said. “And I’ve been training hard, too, you know.”

“But hard enough to make this music part of your LIFE?” Sakamoto said. “Part of your soul? Do you LIVE it? That’s what they’re looking for. I’ve been around these competitions. I KNOW what they’re like. Don’t be surprised if you’re one and done.” He turned to leave.

“I might be the one to surprise you,” Kouki called after him.

“We’ll see about that.”

Kouki looked at the sand garden again, his jaw set. That’s it, he thought. I REALLY have to make the next round now. Not just for Inoue-sensei, and for Shindy, but to show up that snobby asshole.

* * *

Kouki waited in the wings, heart pounding. This was it. He was about to go out for his first performance of the REAL competition. He had heard the audience cheering for other singers, heard their performances.

I have to match them, he thought. Hell, I CAN match them, can’t I? I’ve worked hard. Damn hard.

A stagehand approached them. “Two minutes and you’re on,” he said to Kouki. “Coach, if you have any last-minute advice for him, give it to him now.”

Inoue-sensei straightened the lapels of the white tuxedo he was wearing, with a black shirt underneath. “Remember, everything comes from your heart,” she said. “Every word, every note . . . sing them as if they come from your own experience, and they’ve never been sung before.”

In the front row, Shindy sat among the other sponsors, heart equally pounding. You can do this, he thought. I believe in you, Kouki. You have it in you to wipe the stage with all of them.

The emcee came to the center of the stage. “Our next contestant,” he said, “has a rather unusual background. He was discovered as a singing waiter at a Tokyo restaurant. Now, he’s bringing his natural talent to the national stage. Please give a warm welcome to . . . HANAMAZIKURA KOUKI!”

This is it, Shindy thought. Come on, Kouki . . .

On the stage, Kouki stood in silence. His song for this round was going to be a dramatic ballad called Yuki Kuni – Inoue-sensei had chosen it because “it shows your full emotional and technical range.” There were chords of a guitar, a spotlight hit him . . .

And then, just like the previous rounds, it was as if the judges and the audience weren’t there. It was just him – and the music. He opened his mouth and began to sing, the notes flowing out of him as naturally as everyday speech.

The audience was suddenly still. They were breathless, enraptured, as he moved about the stage, his gestures and facial expressions matching the dramatic music. Kouki just fell deeper into the song still, as if he was born singing it, and never would stop.

When it was over, when he came to the middle of the stage and struck a pose, there was a moment of dead silence . . .

And then, thunderous applause erupted, much louder than the usual polite clapping of Japanese audiences. Kouki just stood there, with the sound washing over him . . .

Oh, my God, he thought, I did it. I nailed it.

The emcee came back out on the stage. “Fantastic!” he said into his microphone. “That was amazing! Judges, what did you think?”

The first judge, a woman about Inoue-sensei’s age in an evening gown, said, “Well, I’d say we just witnessed something very special. When you came out, I didn’t know what to expect – I mean, a singing waiter? We’ve never had that in this competition before. But then, you started to sing, and, well . . . it made my heart sing, too!”

The second judge, a man in a businesslike three-piece suit, said, “I agree. You connected with that song and you connected with that audience. Nobody would never know you’re an amateur. I, for one, want to see where you go next.”

The third, an elderly man in a tuxedo, said, “Oh, my, well, the technique is a bit . . . unconventional, but you can’t deny the power of the emotion. That was quite the performance, young man.”

The final judge, a woman in an embroidered kimono who was only slightly younger than the man next to her, said, “Amazing. I don’t think I breathed through the whole thing. Well done, young man!”

In the sponsor row, Shindy started to punch the air – and restrained himself, settling for clenching his fist. They love him, he thought!

Kouki bowed to the judges and said, “Thank you very much,” then left the stage, waving to the audience. When he got back to the wings, Inoue-sensei flung herself at him and hugged him hard – which meant her head was buried in his chest, since that was as high as she reached.

“Wonderful! Marvelous!” she said. “You surpassed my expectations!” And then, she pulled back and said, “But you know this means we have to work TWICE as hard for the NEXT round! We start tomorrow!”

“But . . . if I make it through, we travel tomorrow . . .”

“We start soon as we get to the hotel, then! I’ll set up the keyboard in my room!”

Kouki sighed – but he was still happy. He’d done what he set out to do. Now, he just had to KEEP doing it.

* * *

Later, they all went to an izakaya near the temple for their victory celebration. There were several toasts to the hard work of all of them, and much laughter.

“You should have seen Hosoke’s face after Kouki got his reviews from the judges,” Inoue-sensei said. “She looked like she’d just bitten down on a slice of lemon.”

“The judges liked her singer too, remember,” Ito-san said. “They said he has great technique.”

“Yes, but he doesn’t have Kouki’s style,” Inoue-sensei said. “That’s what they liked best from him.” She patted Kouki’s shoulder. “But that doesn’t mean we’re not working on his technique, too!”

“Hosoke-san’s singer was very much a traditionalist,” Shindy said. “Formal kimono, old folk-style song . . .”

“Some judges prefer that,” Inoue-said. “Others prefer something new and original. We just have to convince them both.”

After a couple of rounds of drinks and several skewers of yakitori, Kouki excused himself and stepped outside, leaning against the building and breathing deeply . . .

Shindy walked out a couple of minutes later. “Need a break from the intensity?”

“I’m still processing it,” Kouki said. “I did pretty good, didn’t I?”

“You were fantastic,” Shindy said. “I got special permission to take a video of your performance as long as I only sent it to my father. They don’t want anything leaked before the show airs.”

“When is that?”

“In two days. When we’re rehearsing for the next round.” He leaned against the building next to Kouki. “I can’t believe this is happening, either. If you had said to me five years ago, or even a year ago, that I would be on the road with an Enkafest contestant . . .”

“What about ten years ago?”

“Ten years ago, I was still in school. I don’t think I was considering any future past my college entrance exams.”

“Fifteen years ago?”

“I was a kid then!”

“What did you want to be when you were a kid?”

“I told you, I knew my whole life that I was going to . . .”

“But wasn’t there something you fantasized about being? If you didn’t have to work for your father’s company?”

“Well, yes,” Shindy said. “I fantasized about being a cop. I always thought the guys on cop shows were so cool, and that going around finding clues and busting criminals would be a lot of fun, and . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t look like a cop at all, do I?”

“No,” Kouki said. “But that’s why you’d be a good one. The criminals would never see you coming. They’d think you were just some hot club guy, and they’d let their guard down . . . and then you’d slap the cuffs on them.”

“Hot CLUB guy?”

“I call them as I see them. Be honest, you’d hang out in clubs if you hadn’t had to do the stuff for your father’s company, right?”

Shindy let out a big sigh. “What about you? What was YOUR childhood fantasy?”

“I wanted to be a baseball player. Part of me still does.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. I was in baseball club, all the kid baseball leagues, the whole thing. Except . . . well, it just never happened. My parents pressured me to go to college instead of professional baseball, and I decided to study art and become a professional photographer instead . . . and you saw the direction my life took.”

“It’s not so bad now, is it?”

“No,” Kouki said. “It’s . . . pretty damn good.” He turned toward Shindy. “It could get better, though.”

“Oh?” Shindy said. “How?”

Kouki leaned in, starting to bring his lips toward Shindy’s . . .

And then, the door opened and Inoue-sensei came out. “There you are!” she said. “They’re closing down and harassing us for the bill. We need your company credit card!”

“Coming,” Shindy sighed. He looked at Kouki. “We’ll . . . continue another time?”

“You’ve got it,” he said.

They went into the restaurant, both breathing deeply . . . and wondering what would have happened if they weren’t interrupted.

* * *

Once they go back to the hotel, everyone on Team Kouki went straight to bed. They were absolutely wiped and had to be up early the next day.

Sure enough, when 8 a.m. came, Shindy was showered and dressed and poised with his phone in his hand, waiting for the call he knew was going to come. When it did, he nearly jumped in the air – but waited until one and a half rings before he answered. He didn’t want to seem TOO eager.

“Nakatomi-san? This is Enkafest Central calling. Congratulations, your candidate has been promoted to the next round by the judges.”

Shindy let out a long breath. “Thank you,” he said.

“Please have your candidate in the lobby by 10:30 so the group can move on to our next stop. And do tell him that next week’s competition is a theme week – ‘My Sensei.’ Each contestant is being asked to perform a song associated with, or inspired by, his or her coach.”

That shouldn’t be too hard, he thought, given Inoue-sensei’s background. “I’ll tell him,” he thought. He hung up the phone and breathed a sigh of relief again. Even with the praise Kouki had received from the judges, he’d had his doubts.

He just felt sorry for the artists and sponsors who were finding out that they were dismissed and were now quietly packing up and leaving before the victorious ones moved on. At least Enkafest didn’t put contestants through the humiliation of a live elimination show – until the semifinals.

Shindy picked up his phone again to deliver the good news. Inoue-sensei brightened at “My Sensei.” “I know just the song,” she said. “He’ll win the next round for sure!”

Over the group’s collective breakfast, she told Kouki, “We’re going to start RIGHT AWAY. And, I mean, on the train.”

“The train?” he said. “We can’t do that!”

“We’re going to watch my performance of the song on that online thing – what’s it called, Tube-Tube?”

“YouTube,” Shindy said.

“Yes, that. My niece told me that every song I ever performed on TV is there. And I’m going to give you notes on how to perform it.”

“I’m supposed to sit next to Shindy . . .” Kouki said, weakly.

“We’re switching tickets!” she said. “Shindy will sit with Ito-san, I’ll sit with you. Do you want to make the next round or don’t you?”

Shindy and Kouki exchanged a sad glance. She was depriving them of one of the few quiet times they could have alone together in the midst of this madness. But she had a point – they had to make sure he made the next round.

Two hours later, they were hurtling toward Nikko, where they would be competing at a Shinto shrine this time. Inoue-sensei got Kouki to pull up the song – “Tokyo Ondo” – on his phone. And there was a much younger version of her, with a bright smile, an apple-cheeked face and a brightly colored kimono, singing on one of those gaudy, light-bulb-bedecked sets that were common in ‘70s variety shows.

“I took a lot of heat from traditionalists and people like Hosoke for this song having a bit of a disco beat,” she said. “But I had the last laugh – it was my biggest selling single!”

They watched the song through a few times, with her giving him notes on how she wanted him to perform it – though he was mesmerized by the image of his younger sensei. No wonder she was such a stickler for presentation and performance – she looked like she was born to do it. From the first moment to the last, she seemed to hold the audience in her hand.

After their final run-through of the video, she said, “I really, really miss those days sometimes. Life was much simpler. So was the music business.”

“Inoue-sensei,” he said, “who was YOUR sensei? What was the person like?”

“A very sweet man named Oka Hachiro,” she said. “He was one of the first popular enka singers in the late ‘40s. He was more of a father to me than my own father.” She looked out the train window and said, quietly, “My father didn’t want me to be a professional singer. He said that real ladies don’t become performers. I don’t think he ever came to one of my performances or watched me on TV.”

“That’s horrible,” Kouki said.

“I expected it,” she said. “My mother and sisters would always come, though, so I knew I had their support. And then, there was the fans. They were what REALLY kept me going. Some of the letters I used to get . . . it was heartwarming to find out how deeply my music had touched some people. I remember one woman in particular who said she couldn’t physically have children, and to her . . . I was the ideal daughter that she’d never have.”

“Wow.” Kouki just sat there stunned. Imagine, he thought, having a deep effect on people you’d never met, and probably never would, except at brief handshake events . . . it was one more thing that he never even thought about when he got into this.

Will that happen to me? he thought. Will I be the one to move strangers someday?

“But we’re getting away from the topic!” she said. “Back to my notes! You’re going to perform this song even better than I did!”

And true to her word, she made sure she worked him hard on it. They started rehearsals that afternoon, like she’d promised and kept at it the next couple of days. Kouki found himself seeing Shindy mainly during mealtimes, though his sponsor did pop in to see the progress of rehearsals and report back to his father.

The group did gather in Shindy’s room, however, to watch the broadcast of the first round of the competition. When Kouki’s turn came, he was surprised at how he looked on television.

“I look . . . really strong,” he said. “Like I’m completely in control.”

“Because you were,” Shindy said.

“You photograph marvelously,” Inoue-sensei said. “That’s important! You’re incredibly good-looking and charismatic.”

“Charismatic, commanding, sexy . . .” Shindy said.

Kouki glanced over at him. “Sexy?” he said.

Shindy quickly looked down at the floor. Whoops. He really did just say that in front of the other two, didn’t he? “Well, um, it’s like they say about someone seducing the camera . . .”

“He’s right,” Inoue-sensei said. “He contains just enough sex appeal to be alluring, but not enough to be threatening. That’s an important balance to have!”

Shindy let out a relieved breath. Good. He hadn’t broadcast his true emotions to everyone. He didn’t want everyone knowing that when he went to sleep at night, his final thoughts were starting to be fantasies of himself and Kouki in a sweaty tangle in the sheets . . .

Kouki, meanwhile, was thinking, did he mean that like I thought he did? Or is it just my overheated imagination which seems to keep picturing me lying on top of him?

After the broadcast, the group went to the bar for a celebratory nightcap before turning in – when Shindy’s phone suddenly lit up. It was his father.

“Check Twitter,” his father texted. “It’s going crazy. Audiences love Kouki. The hashtag #singingwaiter is trending higher than any other contestant’s. Make sure he gets an official Twitter ASAP and have him start tweeting!”

“Whoa,” Shindy said. He read the message to the others.

“But I HAVE a Twitter!” Kouki said.

“You don’t just need a regular Twitter, dear,” Ito-san said. “You need an OFFICIAL one – a celebrity account registered and protected with Twitter. All of the big-name dancers I’ve worked with have one.”

“And when you’re in this competition, you’re considered a celebrity!” Inoue-sensei said.

“How do I do that?” Kouki said.

“I’ll make some calls in the morning,” Shindy replied. “And when you get the account, you use it to put out appreciation for people watching the competition, little hints about what you’re working on for the next round . . .”

“But don’t give anything away!” Inoue-sensei said. “Create anticipation, but don’t ruin the suspense!”

“Well, okay . . .” Kouki said. “This should be damn easy! I like interacting with people on Twitter!”

Another thing he wasn’t ready for – a CELEBRITY Twitter account. His life really was becoming a roller coaster. He was beginning to wonder if he was going to wake up tomorrow and find it was all a dream, that he was going to work at the restaurant that night.

* * *

The rest of the week was a blur. Rehearsals, more rehearsals, dance instruction, promotional photoshoots at the shrine (in front of a group of three spirit statues, the whole group on the steps leading to one of the tori gates, with a row of shintai along a lake in the background . . .)

When the night of the competition arrived, Kouki was more than ready. He was wearing a hakama this time, in keeping with the traditional outfits his sensei used to wear.

Hosoke and her charge approached them backstage. “Your artist looks quite nice, I must admit,” she said. “But I heard he’s singing that DISCO thing. Honestly, Inoue-san, couldn’t you have given him something with a bit more, I don’t know, tradition and dignity?”

“Sales figures don’t lie,” Inoue-sensei replied. “And I believe I beat you on the charts six weeks running with that song. The public loved it.”

“The public aren’t the judges.”

“We’ll see about that!” she said.

When Sakamoto went out to perform, it was another traditional folksong – which make Inoue-sensei whisper to Kouki, “I think I’m going to fall asleep. She should have picked something just a BIT more dynamic.”

The judges gave Sakamoto high marks, however, praising his “flawless technique” and “ability to embody the soul of our nation” – and then, it was Kouki’s turn.

“It’s no longer my song,” Inoue-sensei whispered to him. “It’s yours now. Go out there and claim it!”

He walked out to the announcement, heard the introduction of the music . . . and as soon as he started to sing, it happened again. The music took him over. The audience and TV cameras fell away. It was just him, totally inhabiting this music as if it were written for him, and him alone.

When it was over, loud applause swept the audience again, and it soaked into him, filled him with energy. He bowed with enthusiasm.

And then, when the judges’ comments came, they were just as enthusiastic as before. He was told it was “a different side of you than we saw last week, and I like this one just as well,” that he could “embody joy as well as sadness,” and that listening to him sing that song was “just plain fun, and isn’t that what music is supposed to be about in the end?”

Kouki rushed backstage and hugged Inoue-sensei like he’d done during the previous round – and she glanced over at Hosoke, who was standing a distance away with her arms crossed and a scowl on her face, and whispered, “How do you like ‘that disco thing’ NOW?”

In the audience, Shindy was all smiles. They’re going to pass him again, he thought. He’s really on his way. I’m not going to have to say goodbye to him – yet.

He didn’t want to think of what would happen if that day came.

* * *

For the next three weeks, Kouki didn’t know if he’d even had time to breathe.

After the second round, they went on to the next city, and it was another explosion of enthusiasm on social media, another city, more hard rehearsal, more preshow publicity, and finally, the competition. The judges continued to give him compliments, Hosoke continued to sulk backstage, and they had another post-performance celebration.

With each passing round, Kouki watched the pool of competitors shrink more and more – from twenty in the first week, to 15, then 12 in week three. When he passed that one, the pool was cut down to 10. He wondered, sometimes, why he kept being chosen – he saw some singers whose talent had astonished him get cut.

“Never question it,” Inoue-sensei said to him during one of their week four rehearsals. “You’re going through because you have something to sing for – a higher purpose. Something bigger than the music itself.”

“What is that?” Kouki said.

“Only you know what it is,” Inoue-sensei said. “In your heart of hearts.”

When he passed the fourth week, the producers sent sheet music for two songs he’d never seen before to Inoue-sensei. “What’s that for?” Kouki said.

“Your semifinal and final week songs,” she said. “Everyone who makes the top 10 is given original songs. They hire songwriters to come up with them every year. The person who eventually wins the competition will release their finals song as their first single, and their semifinals song as their second. They’re giving us these because we need to start working on them NOW.”

“But . . . we still need to do a regular song for week 5 . . .”

“We’ll work on those AND these. The finish line is in sight, we have to make sure you cross it!”

So Kouki worked harder . . . and harder. Now, he not only had to learn songs, he had to learn choreography, because he was going to have to both dance and sing for the last two rounds. He found himself falling into bed exhausted every night . . . and wondering what the “something” that kept him going was.

Then, after one such night, his phone beeped with a text. He picked it up . . . to see a message from Shindy.

“Hi,” the other man wrote. “We haven’t had much time to talk the last few days.”

“Working hard,” Kouki replied, adding a tired-looking emoji.

“I know,” Shindy wrote. “And I appreciate everything you’re doing. I look forward to when this slows down, and we have more time to talk.”

“So do I. At least we have the train to talk, unless Inoue-sensei steals me away again.”

“I won’t let her,” Shindy said. “I’m the sponsor, and I claim that time!”

“You try saying that to her,” Kouki typed. “But I look forward to having more time to talk to you, too.”

“When this is over, maybe we can go on a real date,” Shindy typed, adding a winking face.

“You’re on,” Kouki typed back, adding a winking face of his own.

“I’m going to let you go back to sleep now,” Shindy typed. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Kouki replied.

He closed his eyes and drifted off . . . but he was still holding his phone tightly, as if unwilling to let the last person he’d talked to go.

His heart definitely knew what the “something more” was.

* * *

In his own room, Shindy leaned back against the headboard of the bed, clutching his own phone.

He was beginning to wonder if he’d be able to go back to his old corporate life. He was getting so caught up in this . . . overseeing every aspect of Kouki’s participation, acting as go-between with the show producers, attending the rehearsals . . .

It was one hell of a way to learn about show business under the gun, and he was loving every moment of it.

Not to mention being around Kouki himself. They didn’t have much time to talk, sure, but his attendance at the rehearsals was an experience and a half. He was watching an artist in the making. He was witnessing Kouki discovering his own limitations – and how to challenge them. And then, there was the sound of that voice, growing stronger and more confident all the time . . .

It’s like I’m watching the evolution of a person, Shindy thought. And I’m evolving right alongside him. Even if we don’t get as much chance to sit down and talk, it’s like our lives are entwining more and more.

Which was making the idea of this being over all the more unthinkable.

* * *

Kouki easily cruised through the fifth week and headed for the sixth. “Just this one last hurdle,” Inoue-sensei told him as they headed for the train, “and you’re headed for the finals.”

“This is the semiminal?” Kouki said. “Already?”

“Yes!” Inoue-sensei said. “Haven’t you been keeping track of time?”

“It’s all been a blur,” he said. “I can’t separate one thing from another. Wait a minute – that means I’m doing that tango song this week, aren’t I?”

“Tango has been an important element of enka for years!” Inoue-sensei said. “They go hand in glove, because they both express the soul of a people! And, by the way, it is NOT ‘that tango song,’ the song has a NAME. And it’s . . .”

“I Love Tokyo,” said Kouki and Shindy in unison.

“You HAVE been paying attention,” she said.

Once they were on the train, Kouki said, “Semifinals already. I can’t believe it.”

“I can’t believe it, either,” Shindy said. “I feel like we just started this.”

“When we started it,” Kouki said, “I had no idea I was going to get this far. I thought I’d just go on the ride and see where it took me. And . . . look where we are.” He looked over at Shindy. “Not bad for a singing waiter, right?”

“Not bad at all,” Shindy said. “Although you’re not a singing waiter now. You’re a star. I’ve seen the things that get posted about you on social media. I relay the best ones back home.”

“Including the not-worksafe invitations?”

“I don’t show THOSE to my father.” He looked over at Kouki. “You’re not going to take them up on any of them, are you?” he said.

“Nope. I’m not doing that with anyone.” And then, he gave Shindy a sly, sidelong glance and said, “Well, ALMOST anyone.”

“Anybody you have in mind?” Shindy said.

“Maybe.”

And two were quiet for a moment, both thinking the same thing . . . how much they wanted to stop joking and take things to the next level for real . . .

* * *

The semifinals were to be held in Kyoto, with the stage set up on the grounds of Fushimi Inari, one of the most iconic sites in all Japan. “Hey, I’m not far from home,” Kouki said. “I’m from Kobe. My parents and brother are coming to the semifinals.”

“Then you have all the more reason to make them proud, right?” Inoue-sensei said. “And you’d better!”

Their hotel was the biggest and most elaborate yet, and across the street was a full-blown, professional studio – where Kouki had unlimited practice time booked. “Unlimited?” he said, looking rather worried.

“And we’re going to need it!” Inoue-sensei said. “We’re not going to just be rehearsing a song, it will be a PRODUCTION!”

Sure enough, the week was the most grueling one Kouki had experienced yet. There was not only the constant singing practice, he had to rehearse full choreography with a group of backup dancers – which included Ito-san herself. “I’m not letting you go through this alone,” she said. “Inoue-sensei can’t be on the stage with you, but I can!”

Meanwhile, Shindy spend as much time in that studio as he could – but his own week was busy as well. The media was more and more interested in the company’s artist with each successive week – and with them in the semifinals, it seemed that every two minutes someone was asking him for a quote.

And then, he kept getting reports from back home – where his uncle was thrilled by their progress. “The stock has started to take an uptick,” he said. “If Kouki-san gets into the finals? It’ll do even better. If he wins? It’ll EXPLODE!”

“Let’s take this one step at a time,” Shindy said. “He’s currently rehearsing his butt off. We’ll let him get IN the finals, and then we’ll wonder about what happens afterward.”

Of course, “what happens afterward” was foremost in Shindy’s mind – and not just because of his family’s business. Sometimes, he even forgot that the Nakatomi Corporation was why he was in this for the first place, that his mission was about anything other than Kouki himself.

Am I seriously going to be able to go back to my desk and my clients? he thought. Am I going to be spending entire days without speaking to or seeing him, or going to the rehearsal studio and watching him at work, hearing his voice . . .

All his life – ever since he let go of that childhood dream of being a cop – everything had been focused on being part of his father’s company. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

By the time the night of the competition arrived, Kouki felt like he’d spent every moment of his life rehearsing – when he wasn’t being photographed beneath a lantern-festooned row of tori gates, or speaking to the press, or being fitted for his costumes for both the semifinal AND final rounds – “We have to start working on them now,” the seamstress said.

“What if I don’t make it?” Kouki said.

“We finish it anyway and give it to you as a gift,” the seamstress replied. “But have some confidence in yourself!”

Kouki did. In fact, as he arrived at the stage set up with the legendary shrine in the background, he felt more confident than he had at any point during the competition – but that didn’t mean he wasn’t scared as hell.

“Okay,” Inoue-sensei told him. “Eight performers tonight. Five move on to the finals. You can be one of them – but you HAVE to give it your all.” She looked over at him. “You look stunning, by the way.”

Kouki smiled. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

“I’m not the one going onstage, you idiot!” she said, rapping him lightly with her fan.

He had to admit that the costume designers had made him the nicest thing he’d ever worn onstage – a cream-colored tuxedo, under which he wore a dark purple suit and a navy blue tie with polka dots. It suited him, and the song he was performing. “Do I get to keep the outfit?” he asked his sensei . . . just as they were approached by Hosoke-san and her protegee, who was dressed in a very traditional hakama.

“Look at this,” she said. “Your boy looks ready to become an idol singer.”

“And your boy looks like an old photo you’d find in your grandfather’s attic.”

“Charming, as always,” Hosoke-san said. “Good luck, Kouki-san. You will need it. No amateur has ever made the finals before.”

“He’s NOT an amateur!” Inoue-sensei snapped. “Not anymore! The viewers don’t exactly think so!”

“Social media doesn’t choose the finalists. The judges do. And remember – they will announce the finalists ON STAGE tonight. Meaning, it will be filmed, and shown as part of the broadcast.”

“I’m aware of it,” Inoue-sensei mumbled.

“So all of Japan will see his expression when the decision is announced,” Hosoke-san said. “I hope you taught him how to have a poker face.” She waved. “See you in the wings!”

As she left, Inoue-sensei said, “When this is over, I swear, I will dump a HUGE drink over her smug head . . .”

“You don’t have to,” Kouki said.

“What do you mean?”

“I found out beforehand which trailer is theirs, and . . .”

Just then, there was a huge shriek, and Hosoke-san came flying out of her trailer. “COCKROACH! There’s a COCKROACH in here!”

One of the assistants looked in the vehicle. “Madam, that is clearly a RUBBER bug.”

“I don’t care! GET IT OUT OF THERE! And then sweep the trailer! We don’t know if the rubber one attracted REAL bugs!”

Inoue-sensei clapped Kouki’s shoulder. “Well done, my boy,” she said.

He gave her a big smile. “Thanks,” he said.

If nothing else, they’d gotten their revenge.

* * *

As he waited for his name to be called, his backup dancers behind him, Kouki felt like he was barely breathing.

This is unlike anything I’ve done before, he thought. I’ve always lost myself in the music onstage. Can I do that . . . AND remember the choreography?

“Just remember what I said,” Inoue-sensei said. “It’s all integrated. The song, the dance, the presentation. It’s all a part of you. Now get out there and be everything you’re capable of being!”

The announcer was saying, “And now, the young man who’s become a social media sensation, who went from waiting tables to a shot at the biggest stage in the world . . . please welcome HANAMIZAKURA KOUKI!”

This is it, he thought as he walked to the center of the stage. I pass this, and it’s on to the finals. I just need to center, and find the song within myself . . .

His eyes scanned the audience – and fell on Shindy, sitting in the sponsor’s row. He smiled. I’m doing it for him, he thought. For him, I’ll be the best I can be.

The music started – and he began to move. Suddenly, the steps he’d practiced a billion times were flowing through him, too, as if they were spontaneous muscle movement, not carefully structured choreography. And the song was flowing through him, too, being sung as naturally as if it was coming straight from his heart . . .

He was barely aware of the backing dancers coming onto the stage and starting to move along with him, although they all moved in perfect synch. It all seemed spontaneous and inevitable, as if he’d slipped into a parallel dimension where people breaking into song and dance on the spot was something that happened to everyone.

When the bridge of the song arrived, he stood still, and the dancers formed a circle and danced around him – but it didn’t break his concentration. He could still feel the music flowing through him, carrying him to the next line of the song . . .

And when he reached the end of it, with everyone bowing in unison, the applause was the most thunderous he’d gotten yet. He just stood there, panting, hardly believing he’d pulled that off.

The judges began to speak – and oh, he knew them all by now. The businesslike woman, Kojima-san, executive with Royal Records, said, “You’ve silenced everyone who was skeptical about your performance. You left me breathless – and I’m sure everyone else in this audience, too!”

The older man, Susumu-san, long-ago Enkafest contestant and retired pro, said, “I’ve never been entirely sold on your tone, but I am more than sold on your showmanship. You, sir, have evolved into a true performer.”

The older woman, Yukari-san, who had the same status as Susumu-san, said, “You didn’t miss a note or a step. I will confess that I had my doubts about how you’d be able to incorporate your vocals with full choreography, but you brought it home!”

And finally, the businesslike man, Tsuyoshi-san, co-owner of Vox Records – “You’ve been incredibly strong every week, but now? You just took it to the next level. You, sir, are a TRUE star. Congratulations to you, and to your sensei – you’re a singing waiter no more! You’re just a SINGER!”

Shindy thought he was going to keel over from happiness. Oh, my God, he thought. Oh, my God, it’s going to happen, they’re going to put him through to the finals. And then . . . and then . . .

He didn’t want to ask the question at the back of his mind. When the finals were over . . . what happened then? What if Kouki was out there being a professional . . . and he was still chained to a corporate desk?

* * *

After the last singer had performed, all of them were called back onto the stage when the emcee delivered a long speech about how they were all so exceptional, that they had brought so much to the competition, that it was a shame only five of them could move on to the finals . . .

Meanwhile, the singers behind him were fidgeting with prop fans, rocking from foot to foot, doing everything to not show that they were dying of nerves, that everything they’d worked for was on the line, and why didn’t this jerk just GET TO THE POINT already?

Finally he said, “And now, the five singers, in no particular order . . .”

Of course, Sakomoto Hochiro, Kosoke-san’s singer, was called first. He walked to the front of the stage with a huge smile that said “I had no doubt,” and bowed to the judges.

The second was Tendo Midori, the third, Chiaki Takashi, and then Kouki held his breath as the fourth name was about to be called . . .

“Mori Kasasko.” And Kouki’s heart sank as he saw the young woman go to the edge of the stage and bow.

Oh, God, he thought, I didn’t make it, did I? It was all for nothing. All that praise the judges gave me, it was just empty words . . .

He glanced out at Shindy in the sponsor’s row, who was trying not to look worried, but he was clutching the arms of the seat, thinking the same thing . . . was it all in vain? Does it end tonight? Is Nakatomi Corporation back in danger?

The emcee said, “Four singers left. Only one goes on to the finals. I’m about to announce the name.” Pause. “Here we go.”

Loud cheering from the audience. The emcee paused again . . . just to be a jerk.

“The last person going on to the finals . . . and having a chance at a recording contract . . . is . . .”

Another pause. Kouki thought he was going to have a heart attack. Shindy looked like he was going to pass out.

“HANAMAZIKURA KOUKI!!!”

Kouki let out the biggest sigh of relief of his life, literally dropping to his knees. Oh, my God, he thought. I made it. I really made it.

The audience was cheering. He scrambled to his feet and walked to the front of the stage, waving – and looked down at Shindy. His sponsor’s face had a huge grin from ear to ear – which made Kouki’s heart fairly sing.

“Tune in two weeks from tonight for the live finals!” the announcer said. “Don’t miss it!”

As soon as the cameras were turned off, Inoue-sensei rushed onto the stage and hugged Kouki. “I don’t believe it!” she said, her eyes wet with tears. “I just don’t believe it!”

Hosoke-san walked over to them. “You got lucky,” she said. “We’ll see what happens in two weeks, won’t we?”

“Yes,” Inoue-sensei said. “We certainly will.” She turned back to Kouki. “I still don’t believe it.”

“Neither do I. Did I really hear my name when . . .”

“Yes! Yes, you did!”

They went backstage, where Kouki’s parents and brother were waiting. They all rushed at him, enveloping him in a huge hug. He hugged back.

“Are you glad you played enka music around me when I was a kid?” he said to his mother in a teasing voice.

“That’s the best decision I ever made,” she replied.

And then, he looked up and saw Shindy approaching him. He released his family, slowly, and walked over to him.

“Safe for two more weeks?” he said to Shindy.

“You’d better believe it,” the other man replied.

The two men exchanged a look, though, that said a lot more than their few words to each other had.

* * *

They went out as a group as usual, but with Kouki’s family in tow as well, and the celebration was even more boisterous than after previous rounds. They drank toasts to Kouki, to Inoue-sensei and Ito-san, to the judges, and to the Nakatomi Corporation.

Kouki’s brother, Subaru, monitored social media throughout the whole thing, and said over and over, “Holy crap, it’s going nuts! They can’t stop talking about you!” He looked up at Kouki. “Hey, I wanna get in on this enka thing!”

“You hate enka,” Kouki reminded him.

“If it gets me this many followers, I’ll sing anything!” Subaru said, looking down at the phone again.

“You sing, too?” Shindy said.

“Well, a little . . .”

“Hey, Inoue-sensei . . .” Shindy looked at the coach.

“Oh, no,” she said. “Don’t even think it! Kouki’s enough to handle!”

Afterward, Kouki’s family returned to Kobe, and Team Kouki moved on to a nightspot next to their hotel.

“A dance floor?” Inoue-sensei said when they walked in.

“Why not?” Kouki said.

“I can’t believe you haven’t had enough dancing,” Shindy said.

“Depends on what kind of dancing it is,” Kouki said. “Wanna come out on the floor with me?”

“Well . . .” Shindy said – only to find himself grabbed by the hand and dragged out to the dance floor.

The two started with fairly conventional gyrations – bouncing to the beat with arm motions – until Kouki got a look at the crowd around them. “Hey,” he said, “this is a pretty open-minded place.”

“What do you mean?” Shindy said.

“There’s men dancing as couples with men, women dancing as couples with women . . .”

“And that means . . .”

“We can let loose!” And suddenly, Kouki grabbed him about the waist and grabbed Shindy’s hand, leading him into a ballroom dance.

“Whoa!” Shindy said.

“Can’t dance like this?”

“Well . . . it’s been awhile since I did it . . .”

They started to move around the floor together, and Shindy said, “Is this a tango?”

“I’ve had enough of tangos to last me the rest of my life!” Kouki said. “This is, well . . . whatever we want it to be!”

They whirled around the floor together, both laughing, growing more confident together, as if they had been dancing together like this all their lives. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

After a few songs, the music shifted to a slow, romantic ballad – and the two men shifted to a slow dance, holding each other tightly. This felt natural, too . . . and nice. Very nice.

“Why did we wait so long to do this?” Shindy said.

“We didn’t have time to?”

“Maybe we should make time.” Pause. “After the finals.”

“I don’t start preparing for finals until tomorrow.”

“So what does that mean for tonight?”

“This.” Kouki leaned over, bringing his lips to the other man’s . . .

The kiss was soft, gentle, and tender, something both of them had wanted for what seemed like eternity. Their arms wrapped around each other, pulling closer, kissing harder . . .

The music shifted again, and the lighting shifted with it . . . and the shift in tone brought the moment to a close. The two men moved apart, both breathing harder, their cheeks flushed.

“We should get back to the table,” Shindy said.

“Yeah, we should,” Kouki echoed.

But as they headed back, their hands were still clasped, and they didn’t drop them until they sat down.

* * *

When he’d had his shower that night, Kouki knew that sleep wasn’t going to come easy. He felt . . . restless. Heated. On-edge. Like there was an emotion burning just under the surface, but he couldn’t figure out what it was . . .

He didn’t bother getting dressed. He pulled down his covers and lay on the bed, naked, hands resting on his chest . . .

It wasn’t until one of those hands started moving downward that he realized what that emotion was. And once he started . . . he wasn’t going to be able to stop.

His mind was filled with images of Shindy. Smiling at him over drinks, dancing with him in the club tonight, and that kiss, dear God, that kiss, the feel of the other man’s body against his . . .

He thought of that man in front of him, right here, right now, pulling him into his arms, kissing him, rubbing their bodies together . . .

His fingers wrapped around his cock and stroked, imagining Shindy’s hand on him, caressing him rapidly, making him moan, coaxing him toward full arousal . . . He shifted on the pillow, reaching for his nighttable drawer, for the travel kit that contained a bottle of lube he never really thought he’d use, but brought with him just in case . . .

He coated his palm and took hold of his cock again, and now it was Shindy’s mouth he was imagining, encasing him in wet heat and sucking, moving along his length as Kouki stroked his hair, moaning in encouragement and . . .

And then, there was a knock on his door, and he froze.

* * *

Shindy didn’t really know why he was out there. He’d intended to go to bed, really. And yet, his feet were carrying him down the hall, toward Kouki’s door, as if on automatic pilot.

I’m just going to ask him a question, right? He thought. I’m just going to ask if he’s moving back into his own apartment when we get back to Tokyo, or if he wants us to put him up in a hotel suite until the finals. That’s fair and reasonable, right? It’s a legitimate question. It’s . . .

His fist raised and knocked on the door. There was no answer at first. Good, Shindy thought with a mixture of relief and disappointment. I’ll just go back to my room, and . . .

The door opened just a crack, and Kouki’s head poked out. Just his head. Although he could see enough of his shoulders to know the other man wasn’t wearing a shirt.

“I came here . . .” Shindy said, looking at the ceiling, the floor, anything but the other man. “I came here because . . .”

And then, suddenly, the door was open wider, and Shindy was stepping into the room quickly, no longer wanting to deny why he came there. The door was shut rapidly, and he was suddenly kissed hard, hard enough to make him breathless, and he was pushed against the wall, held in place by Kouki’s naked body, yes, he was naked, wasn’t he, this was beyond Shindy’s wildest imaginings . . .

Their mouths moved against each other, lips opening and tongues sliding together, and Kouki’s hands were moving over Shindy’s shirtfront, unfastening buttons, and Shindy broke the kiss long enough to tip his head back, letting out a loud groan of approval.

Kouki licked at the exposed neck, running his tongue rapidly from bottom to top, then nibbling along his jawline as he worked at the fabric. He moved away from Shindy just long enough for the other man to toss the unwanted garment on the floor, and then Shindy unfastened his own pants, because they were coming down anyway, dammit . . .

Their hands both grasped the waistband, and the pants and underwear hit the floor. They kissed fiercely again as Shindy stepped out of them, pressing his pelvis toward the other man’s, and God, Kouki’s cock was so hard already, it was like he’d been waiting for him, maybe he had . . .

Kouki began to move downward, knowing he had to make Shindy as hard and aroused as he was. He licked a wet trail over his shoulders and chest, and when he came to a nipple, he wrapped his lips around it and sucked fiercely, drawing a loud moan from the other man in response.

“Don’t stop,” Shindy murmured. “Don’t ever stop . . .”

Kouki kept descending, rapidly sliding over smooth, soft skin until he reached what he was really looking for . . . and then he slid his mouth over the tip of the glorious thing, sucking, moving his head downward until he had a mouthful of cock, and every inch of his body seemed to catch fire in response.

He bobbed his head, the hardness sliding over his lips and tongue, his hands moving upward over his partner’s torso until he found the nipples, which he caressed, squeezing them gently, then rubbing them . . .

Shindy moaned wordlessly, running his fingers over his new lover’s hair, thrusting into that hot mouth, feeling a steady thrum of pleasure over his whole body. This was even better than he imagined, a million times better, Kouki looked like a damn god on his knees, pleasuring Shindy as if his life depended on it . . .

Kouki lost himself in the feel and scent and taste, in the motion of the sucking, the sensation of hard nipples under his fingers, the sounds of his lover’s gasps and groans. He wanted this like he’d wanted nothing before in his life. Even the glory of being onstage, of riding the wave of the audience’s enthusiasm, could not compare.

Shindy gasped, “I want to ride you,” and he was amazed at how rough and ragged his own voice sounded, how dazed with passion he was . . . Kouki moved away, and he felt the cool air where the hot mouth had been like a shock to the system. He stumbled toward the bed, bending over with his hands on the mattress, and oh, God, he didn’t even consider whether Kouki would have lube, but then he felt a slick finger probe him, and he moaned all over again.

Yes, he had it. This was meant to be, wasn’t it? And as the finger pushed into him, he felt himself relaxing, opening up to the other man’s preparation, he needed the completion, needed to feel Kouki moving inside him . . .

Kouki slid another finger in, gently moving in and out until Shindy gasped, “I’m ready . . . I want you . . .” He reached for tissues, wiping his hand off quickly before lying on his back, handing the lube to Shindy, who poured it into his hand, slicking Kouki’s erection as Kouki arched forward, moaning, thinking the other man’s hand felt even better than he’d imagined.

Shindy straddled Kouki, moving into position, and then pressed down, feeling that hardness start to fill him, the initial pain no deterrent, because it wasn’t going to keep him from what he wanted. He paused for a moment, letting his body adjust.

Then, he started to move, a slow and gentle thrust, pushing himself down on that cock, then pulling back up, then filling himself again, starting to moan as the pain gave away to a sweet, overwhelming pleasure.

Kouki lay under him, his eyes wide open, looking at the beautiful creature moving on top of him, fucking himself on him. Shindy’s long hair was spilling over his shoulders, his torso slicked with sweat, his nipples standing out hard against his pale skin, and that cock, that beautiful cock standing at attention, leaking a few drops of precome as the other man moved harder and faster. . .

Shindy began a steady thrust, shifting his hips so the hardness within him could caress pleasure spots, and he groaned at each new jolt of sensation, each wave of hot pleasure that moved through his body. He could hear Kouki moaning loudly, and he moaned in response, the two of them thrusting together now, moving in perfect sync. Kouki’s hands slid over Shindy’s body, reaching down to his hardness, fingers running over it lightly, then wrapping around it, stroking it faster . . .

Shindy leaned back, letting out a loud groan, and he thrust harder, upward into Kouki’s hand, then down on his cock again, pleasure overwhelming him from multiple bundles of nerves, he didn’t know how much longer he could hold on, but it was blissful, more than it had ever been with anybody else . . .

Kouki’s thumb swept over the tip, and Shindy let out a loud, shuddering cry, followed by a wail as the pleasure exploded at last, ecstasy flooding his body as his come poured over Kouki’s fingers. He kept thrusting, moaning, “Come for me . . .come for me . . .”

When the orgasm did hit Kouki, it was more intense than any he’d ever felt. His whole body arched forward as he let out a loud, keening cry, ecstasy flooding him as he shivered again and again, finally collapsing to the bed limp and happy.

Shindy fell atop him, and they kissed, softly and gently, Shindy reaching up to brush a few strands of hair away from Kouki’s eyes.

“Hey,” Shindy said.

“Hey, yourself,” Kouki said. “How did you know I wanted you to come here?”

“Intuition, I guess,” Shindy said. “That, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“That makes two of us.” Kouki kissed Shindy again, softly. “I’d clean us up, but . . . that involves moving, and I’m comfortable like I am. In fact, I think I never want to move.”

“Why don’t we go in the bathroom together,” Shindy said. “Then, we could clean each other up. Then, we could come back here, and . . .”

“And?”

“Well, nap first. You wore me out.”

“That makes two of us.”

“But later? Who knows?”

They kissed again, before heading for the bathroom, hand-in-hand. They both knew they’d been waiting for this moment since they first laid eyes on each other. And it was very, very worth it.

* * *

On the train the next morning, Kouki leaned over and discreetly squeezed Shindy’s hand. Just touching him seemed to send electric currents through him now. They’d slept after their initial lovemaking, then had a second round in the morning, until they had to check out of the hotel.

“I don’t know how much we’re going to be able to see each other over the next couple of weeks,” Kouki said.

“It’s all right,” Shindy said. “You have to focus on the finals. You have a lot of work ahead of you.”

“You said it,” Kouki said, rolling his eyes. “I’ve been forewarned that the routine is going to involve not just dance, but also props. The name of the song is Wasuregasa” – literally, “forgotten umbrella” – “so that means dancing with umbrellas, and . . .” He paused. “She’s going to have me twirling a fan.”

“A fan?”

“I don’t want to think about it until I have to do it.”

Shindy squeezed his hand. “You’ll be fine. You’ve done everything that was expected of you, and then some.”

“Including last night?”

Shindy closed his eyes and leaned against the seat. He knew Kouki wasn’t talking about his performance on the stage.

“Last night was awesome. Just incredible. And when this is all over . . .”

“What are our lives going to be like then?” Kouki said.

Shindy blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Even if I win . . . you won’t be my sponsor anymore. You won’t be coming to . . . well, everything.”

“I’ll find time in my life for you if I have to rearrange my life. If I have to defy my father.”

Kouki smiled. “Who are you and what have you done with Mr. I’ve Devoted My Whole Life To My Family’s Corporation?”

“Maybe he’s realized there’s more to life than selling zippers and buttons.”

I’m going to find a way to do this, he thought. Even if I do have to rearrange everything. He’s too much a part of my life now to throw him away.

* * *

Pulling back into Tokyo was quite the experience. Kouki felt like it had been years since he’d seen it last. He told Shindy he’d be staying in his old apartment, so Shindy made sure he put a car service on call for him – “You’re still our contestant, you’re not taking the train. Oh, and you’re not eating conbini bentos, either. We’re going to make sure you get decent food.”

“Hey!” Kouki said. “I like conbini bentos!”

“Well, they’re not good energy food for what you’re doing.”

“If I invited you to spend the night at my apartment,” Kouki said, teasingly, “would that be good for energy?”

“We agreed no more of that until after the finale – remember?”

Kouki made a face. “Killjoy.”

“Look, I don’t want to be the one to tell Inoue-sensei that you’re falling asleep during rehearsals because you were having sex all night.”

“Point taken,” Kouki said.

When he walked into his apartment, however, Kouki was struck by how . . . small it was. And plain. After all the hotel suites he’d lived in, it felt like, well . . . it didn’t belong to him anymore.

“Am I even the same person?” he said out loud, as he opened his closet . . . to see his old waiter’s uniform. “Hello, old friend. I don’t think we’ll be seeing much of each other anymore.”

And then, his phone went off with a text message. He picked it up and looked at it . . .

“Car service coming in an hour,” wrote Inoue-sensei. “We start voice training for the song right away. Come dressed for dance practice as well.”

Kouki sighed, pushing his suitcase into the corner. It seemed he wouldn’t be here long enough to feel nostalgic.

* * *

The final five of Enkafest were given an extra week to rehearse their final routines because, well, everything had to be top-notch spectacular. Song, dance, props and visuals had to come together perfectly. In the past, they used backdrops and stage furnishings, but in the digital age, those had given way to rear projections.

The singer had to master the song, the movements, the little tricks that could be incorporated into the act . . . and then make sure it all fit together. Props couldn’t cover the screen, dancers couldn’t be blocking each other.

In Kouki’s case, the key element was the fan twirling during the song’s bridge, which was turning out to be a challenge in itself. Kouki had to snap his fan open like a samurai, twirl it around his finger while revolving in a circle, and then catch it in his hand and strike a dramatic pose – then go right back into singing. On paper, it sounded easy enough. In practice, it was anything but.

He’d open the fan and immediately drop it. He’d get halfway through the twirling and it would spin right off his finger. Or, he’d finally get through the twirling – and it would fly over his shoulder when he went to strike the final pose.

“Can’t we do something else?” he asked Inoue-sensei. “Like, something else with the umbrellas?”

“The judges will be looking for a variety of props!” she said. “You’ve come too far to let everyone down now!”

“But . . . this fan is . . .”

“Just focus on it,” she said. “You’ve been able to do deep focus with everything else, right? Just think of this as just another element of the overall performance, like the dancing.”

And so, he practiced . . . and practiced . . . and finally, with two days to go, it started to come together. He could slide from the dance to the fan twirling naturally. He was actually getting through the whole routine with no drops, not even a moment’s hesitation. The dancing and rear projection were now naturally integrated into the performance.

The day before the broadcast, the final five were taken out to Mount Fuji in a bus, for a special photoshoot with the iconic peak in the background. Afterward, they would go to Nippon Budokan for final dress rehearsal.

Sponsors were allowed to come along on the trip, so Shindy rode alongside Kouki. “How do you feel?” he asked the singer.

“Like I will be very glad when this is over,” Kouki said. “All that damn fan twirling . . .”

“Will you really be glad?” Shindy said.

There was a pause, and Kouki said, “No. In fact . . . I don’t even know what comes next. I mean, if I win, great, I get the recording contract, but if I don’t . . .” He looked out the bus window. “I can’t go back to that restaurant. I just can’t. I even feel strange about being back in my own apartment – like it’s somewhere that I lived in another life.”

“Because it WAS another life,” Shindy said.

“What about you?” Kouki said. “You said you were starting to feel like there was more to life than selling buttons and zippers . . .”

“There is, but . . .” He let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to get out of that life, much as I want to. My family . . .”

“You can make a decision to change your life, you know,” Kouki said. “It’s a matter of taking a chance. Remember the conversation we had when I started this, that you’d think about joining my management if I won? You sounded willing to take a chance then.”

Shindy was quiet. Taking a chance definitely sounded appealing, but the thought of defying his family . . .

He said he’d think about leaving the company then. He never a hundred percent considered actually facing that decision.

“Promise me that whatever happens, we’ll still be a part of each other’s lives from now on?” Kouki said.

“You know it’s a promise,” Shindy said.

It’s just a matter, he thought, of what form those lives are going to take.

* * *

Kouki expected there might be a crowd of press when the car carrying him to the finals arrived at Nippon Budokan. After all, it WAS the finals, and they were going to be broadcast live.

What he didn’t expect was to be met at his car by two burly security people. “What’s this, then?” he said.

“Take a look,” one of them said, sweeping his arm to the entranceway to the backstage . . . which was lined with people armed with TV cameras and microphones.

“All them for ME?” Kouki said, looking baffled.

“You’ve attracted a lot of attention, Mr. Singing Waiter,” the first security person said. “Now, let’s get you in there before they pounce.”

Once they had run the press gauntlet and were safely inside, Kouki was approached by Inoue-sensei, who grabbed both his hands. “Kouki!” she said. “We need to find someplace where we can practice. I need you to run through the last chorus leading into the fan routine and the routine itself one more time, and . . .”

“Inoue-sensei,” Kouki said, “is THAT typical?” He pointed toward the door he had just come though. “The press fuss, I mean?”

“Of course, it is,” she said. “You’re a star. At least for tonight. And you’re going to get treated like one.”

“At least for tonight,” Kouki said, quietly. He knew damn well that most Enkafest contestants who didn’t win the championship slipped back into obscurity. Probably some of them were working as, well, singing waiters.

“But let’s not think beyond the competition! We need you to rehearse, now!”

A few hours later, Kouki was dressed in a plum-colored suit with a string tie, fully made up, and waiting in a green room area with the other contestants to be called. He glanced over at Sakamoto Hachiro, who was having a quiet discussion with his coach, Hosoke.

I just want to do better than him, he thought. For Inoue-sensei’s sake.

At that moment, the door opened, and Shindy walked in, wearing a black suit and shirt with a white tie. He walked over to Kouki and said, “They let me in for a few moments to wish you luck.” He paused. “I still can’t believe that it’s the finals.”

“Me, neither,” Kouki said. “And afterward . . .”

“Nakatomi Corporation is having a party for you one way or the other,” Shindy said. “We’ve never had a contestant make the finals before. Hell, we’ve never had a contestant get past the midpoint of the competition.”

But they both knew that wasn’t what Kouki meant by “afterward,” and they shared a long look communicating that. “Talk between the competition and the party?” Kouki said.

“You know it,” Shindy said. He reached out and lightly patted Kouki’s shoulder – the most physical contact between them that would be allowed, even though he wanted to pull the other man into his arms and kiss his lips off.

He stepped back, bowed, and said, “I have to go outside. I’ll be in the sponsor box with the other four. I’ll see you later, all right?”

Kouki nodded and watched him go as Inoue-sensei walked up to him. “All right,” she said. “I’ve been talking to the director, and . . .”

Hosoke-san’s voice said, “If it isn’t the last person I expected to see at finals.”

Inoue-sensei sighed. “This is getting old, Hosoke-san. Surely, you must acknowledge Kouki’s talent by now? The press does. They’re all saying the final is a battle between your boy’s tradition and my boy’s innovation.”

“I know what the press is saying,” Hosoke-san said. “And I know what the judges are going to say, too.”

“We’ll see about that,” Inoue-sensei said.

“But I will say this,” Hosoke-san said. “I DO acknowledge his talent. Because there had to be SOMETHING special for him to get this far – with YOU as a coach.”

“Charming as always,” Inoue-sensei said. “We’ll see if you’re still that arrogant at the end of the night.”

The director entered the room. “All right, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I’m going to go over this one more time. The host will open the show, and then our staff will come to get you, one by one. As your acts are being set up, the TV audience will see a highlights package of your interviews and performances during your time here. You’ll perform, but unlike previous rounds, the judges won’t be giving you live feedback. When everyone has performed, the judges will vote. While they’re voting, we’ll broadcast the interviews with all of you we filmed earlier in the week. Finally, we’ll call all of you back onto the stage and announce the results – fifth place, then fourth, then third, and finally, the winner.” He paused. “It’s been a pleasure to work with you. Good luck to you all. We go live in three minutes.”

He bowed and left the room. Kouki swallowed hard. This is it, he thought. Everything you’ve worked for, everything you’ve done . . . it all comes down to these few minutes.

It seemed like eternity before he was called – he knew he was going to be next to last. He watched Tendo Midori go out to the stage, then Chiaki Takashi, and then Mori Kasasko . . .

“You’re next, Kouki-san,” a director said to him.

He slowly moved toward the wings, Inoue-sensei walking beside him. When they got there, she took his hands in his.

“It’s been quite a journey for us, hasn’t it?” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it has.”

“I’m going to tell you this . . . remember who you are. Make everything come from your soul. But at the same time, make it come from EVERYONE’s soul. I told you when we started this that enka is the heart-soul of Japan, but it is also the heart-soul of YOU. Do that . . .and you’ll make me proud. You’ll make YOURSELF proud.”

He squeezed her hands and turned to the wings. The assistant director was ushering him out onto a stage lit only by stage lights. His backing dancers were getting into place. He was fitted with a headset microphone so his hands could be fully free for dancing and props.

The announcer was saying, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, may I present the Cinderella of this competition, the singing waiter, HANAMAZIKURA KOUKI!”

There was the sound of traditional stringed instruments and a flute, as the screen behind him displayed a background of clouds, an animation of a flying umbrella and the song’s title . . .

Then, the music picked up, the song proper began, and Kouki and the backup dancers – their faces half-covered with kitsune masks – went into the routine they’d rehearsed. He opened his mouth and started to sing . . .

It was like what had happened at every other stage of the competition. He was merging with the music. He and the song were one. The well-rehearsed dance steps just flowed from him, were as much a part of the song as everything else.

At the end of the first chorus, he and the dancers stepped backward in unison, turned around and grabbed umbrellas from a rack behind them, then opened them slowly – first two dancers, then two more, then Kouki. They twirled and danced with them throughout the second verse . . . and Kouki didn’t miss a step. Every motion seemed, well, inevitable, organic, the only thing in the world that could be sung or done in that moment.

They stepped backward to put the umbrellas back at the end of the second chorus – and Kouki grabbed the fan from the same rack.

Backstage, Inoue-sensei held her breath. In the audience, Shindy did the same. They knew this had been Kouki’s greatest challenge in rehearsals.

But Kouki was still in the zone. He grabbed the fan, dropped into a dramatic pose with bent knees, jumped up theatrically snapping it open, and began to twirl it perfectly. He revolved in a circle, still twirling, as the audience applauded, finally standing upright with the top of the fan in his hand . . . and began the final run-through of the chorus.

When he sang the last note of the song, he held onto it extra-long – the way Hosoke-san had told him to, then finally went through the last steps with the dancers. At the song’s end, they struck a pose, Kouki turned sideways with his hand held out toward the audience, as paper sakura petals exploded from behind him.

There was loud applause as he bowed. Backstage, Inoue-sensei blotted tears. In the audience, Shindy was swallowing a lump in his throat.

He did it, he thought. He got out there and kicked ass. He couldn’t have done a better performance if his life depended on it.

Now, it was all up to the judges . . . who had no idea just how much was at stake for him and Kouki.

* * *

After a seeming eternity, the contestants were lined up on the stage, with the announcer in front of them. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I have the judges’ decision. May I all say that you all were exceptional tonight, and I hope you all go on to have the fruitiful careers you deserve. And now . . . the moment of truth. Here we go.”

There was one of those excruciating pauses, during which the audience called out the names of the people they wanted to win. Kouki tried not to listen for how many of them were calling for him.

“In fifth place . . . Chiaki Takashi!”

Kouki watched the performer walk to the center of the stage with a forced smile on his face, bow to the judges and crowd, and accept his fifth place certificate. He felt bad for the man, who’d worked his butt off throughout the competition, only to arrive at that result.

Tendo Midori was named the fourth place finisher, Mori Kasako the third. Finally, there were two performers standing at the center of the stage . . .

“And then, there were two,” the announcer said. “Sakamoto Hachiro, the impeccable traditionalist. Hanamizakura Kouki, the brilliant innovator. One of these men will walk away with a hundred million yen and a recording contract. And now, here we go.”

Kouki held his breath. So did Inoue-sensei. So did Shindy.

“The winner of Enkafest is . . .”

Long pause.

“SAKAMOTO HACHIRO!”

Kouki felt his stomach drop to his feet. Sakamoto was jumping up and down, cheering. Hosoke-san was running onto the stage to hug him.

I failed, he thought. I came this far, gave it my all . . . and I failed.

It was as if the last few months of his life were for nothing. He’d come this far . . . just to end up at square one.

The TV cameras were tight on the celebrating Sakamoto and Hosoke as the credits rolled. Kouki turned and walked . . . and just kept walking. Into the backstage area, past Inoue-sensei who was calling his name, out the back door of the Budokan Arena . . .

He kept walking until he found a curb, which he dropped down on, his head in his hands.

So close, he thought. It wouldn’t have hurt as bad if I was in the bottom three tonight. But to come that close, and come up short . . .

He just stayed there for a seeming eternity . . . until a voice above him said, “I had a feeling I’d find you out here.”

“Misery loves company?” Kouki said, looking up at Shindy.

Shindy sat on the curb beside him. “More like I was worried about you.” He put an arm around Kouki. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. You were brilliant. Beyond brilliant.”

“A lot of good it did me,” Kouki said. “All I got out of it . . . was a second prize certificate. And a cash prize. I guess that will sustain me until . . .” He sighed. “I don’t even know what I’m going to do now.”

“I know one thing you’re going to do,” Shindy said. “You’re going to be seeing me. On a regular basis. Because no matter what those asshole judges said? We got one thing out of it. Something that’s more than all the recording contracts in the world. We . . . we got each other.”

Kouki looked at him. “Are you asking me to be your boyfriend?”

“Would you have a button and zipper salesman?”

“Only if you’d have a failed Enkafest contestant.”

“You’re not a failure,” Shindy said. “Not at all . . .”

He leaned in to kiss Kouki . . . when a voice behind them said, “There you are!”

Kouki turned to see Inoue-sensei – and instantly went into a kneeling bow on the sidewalk, leaning over until his forehead was on the pavement.

“Inoue-sensei!” he said. “I’m sorry! I failed you! I . . .”

“Get up RIGHT NOW, Kouki,” she said, sternly. “You did NOT fail me.”

“But . . . but Hosoke-san’s candidate won . . .”

“And she gloated about it,” Inoue-sensei said. “But I silenced her quickly. I just had to show her THIS.” She took her phone out of her pocket. “Good thing you taught me to use that Twitter thing.”

Kouki took the phone, looked at it, scrolled, scrolled some more . . .

“What is it?” Shindy said.

“It’s going nuts,” Kouki said. “It’s full of people screaming about the results. They’re saying I was robbed. There’s even people calling for the judging panel to be fired. And . . .” He looked over at the trending tags. “The #singingwaiter tag is the highest trending tag in Japan right now! Even more than #enkafest itself!”

“Oh, good, you did see it,” said a new, male voice behind the group. They turned – and there was one of the judges, Tsuyoshi-san, co-owner of Vox Records.

“Tsyoshi-san, good evening,” Inoue-sensei said, bowing politely.

“Good evening to you, Inoue-san,” the judge said. “I couldn’t say this to you during the competition – we were forbidden to mingle with you – but I have the utmost admiration for what you did with this boy. You took an amateur and made him into a star. That’s exceptional.”

“I’m not a star after tonight,” Kouki said, glumly.

“What are you talking about?” Tsuyoshi-san said. “Your performance was incredible. One of the most breathtaking I’ve ever seen on that stage. And that’s why . . .” He paused. “I told the Enkafest committee I wouldn’t be judging next year.”

“You did?” Kouki said.

“The other three all voted for Sakomoto-san. I argued passionately for you. I said he was an impeccable traditionalist – but that’s just it, he represents tradition. If this genre is to survive, it has to move forward. We need new blood, new styles. And that’s precisely what you were doing. It was enka, but it was contemporary. That’s what we need to be honoring and promoting. But . . . they played it safe in the end.”

“I had a feeling that’s what happened,” Inoue-sensei grumbled.

“And social media agrees with you,” Tsuyoshi-san said. “They want to see more of Kouki-san. And so . . .” He paused. “I made a few phone calls. I wanted to get the approval of my co-owner and our board. They all enthusiastically agreed.”

“To what?” Kouki said.

“My dear boy,” Tsuyoshi-san said, “Vox Records is hereby offering you a full recording contract that matches the one given away as first prize tonight yen for yen.”

Kouki nearly fell on the pavement. He reached for Shindy’s hand. Shindy gripped it, not caring what anyone thought.

“ARE YOU SERIOUS?” Kouki said.

“Completely,” Tsuyoshi-san said. “I just need your verbal agreement and I’ll set the wheels in motion. We should have the formal signing in a few days. After that, we’ll do the song you performed tonight as your first single, and you’ll have a national headlining tour.”

“OH MY GOD!” Kouki nearly screamed. “YES, I AGREE! YES, YES, YES!”

“Thank you!” Inoue-sensei said, bowing. “Thank you, thank you . . .”

“And we’re hiring you, too, Inoue-san, to be his coach and music director,” Tsuyoshi-san said. “I knew your sensei, back when I was starting out in the business. He’d be very proud of you.”

“I’m honored,” Inoue-sensei said, bowing again.

“Oh, and you, young man?” He turned to Shindy. “If you’d like to leave your family’s corporation – and I know that most people choose to stay with the family company for life – there’s a role for you, too, on Kouki-san’s management team. You did a great job with him throughout the competition.”

“Thank you, sir!” Shindy said.

They all bowed to the executive, who went out into the night . . . and then, the three of them formed a group hug, jumping up and down and screaming with joy.

“Oh, my GOD!” Kouki said, again.

“I can’t believe it!” Inoue-sensei said. “And I will be rubbing that BITCH’s face in it so hard . . .”

“Inoue-sensei!” Kouki said. “I’ve never heard you say that word!”

“I’ve never said it – but it feels GREAT! When I tell her about your contract, I think I’ll say it to her face!”

The group all laughed. Shindy knew there was one more thing he needed to do – call his father. And he knew they would be discussing more than just the contract.

Kouki’s life had just changed forever. It was time for his life to change as well.

* * *

The party was a jovial affair, since instead of mourning Kouki’s defeat, they were celebrating his good news (although everyone on Team Kouki was sworn to secrecy until Vox Records officially tweeted out the signing announcement). Guests took turns singing karaoke. The backup dancers were teaching wild moves to Kouki’s mother and some of the Nakatomi executives.

In one private corner of the rented back room, however, a very serious discussion was taking place.

“Shindy,” his father was saying, “no member of our family has ever LEFT Nakatomi Corporation before. You’re a vice president. You could succeed your uncle at the very least, if not me. Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Because my heart isn’t there anymore, Father,” Shindy said. “If I were to come back to work, I wouldn’t be giving it my all. And our company deserves better than a half-hearted executive.”

“I know the adjustment is going to be difficult after so many weeks of being the liaison to our candidate for Enkafest. We’re willing to alter your work schedule if . . .”

“It’s not a matter of adjustment, Father,” Shindy said. “There’s been a change in me. Or maybe it’s something I knew all along, but didn’t want to acknowledge. I . . . I want to bring beauty and music into the world, not sewing products. I want to work in the entertainment industry. And I’ve had an offer.”

“If you just took some time to think . . .”

“I’ve thought plenty,” Shindy said. “I thought through this whole process. And when I got the offer tonight, I knew. It used to be that the company spirit was what was burning in my heart. Now, it’s music.”

More than music, Shindy thought. It’s his voice. Kouki’s voice has been living inside me since I first heard it. It’s not the words or the music I hear – it’s that voice. I think I was falling in love with him before he and I even exchanged a word.

His father sighed. “I can’t believe you’re serious about this . . .”

“I am, Father. With all my heart. I wouldn’t be coming to you if I wasn’t.”

“All right. I’m willing to grant you a one-year sabbatical. If, at the end of the year, you’re still serious about this music thing, we will make it permanent. But I do hope you come to your senses. And if, at any time, you decide you want to return to us . . .”

“I know, Father.” But I won’t, Shindy thought. I know where my place in the world is . . . and it’s not anywhere corporate. It’s at Kouki’s side.

He stood up, bowed to his father, and said, “Thank you for hearing me out, and for your generosity.”

“I just hope I don’t regret this,” his father said. “For my sake, and yours.”

Shindy walked out onto the dance floor, humming, and found Kouki getting a drink from the bar. “Hey,” he said. “Let’s dance. I feel like celebrating.”

“Oh? Other than what we’re celebrating already?”

“How about my divorce from the Nakatomi Corporation and my engagement to your new career?”

“You convinced your father?”

“He was reluctant, but he gave me a ‘one-year sabbatical.’” Shindy laughed, pulled Kouki onto the dance floor and wrapped his arms around him. “So, we’re both going to live happily ever after, it seems!”

“It’s happening.” Kouki pulled Shindy close. “I’m getting everything I ever wanted. A new career, a new life . . . and you.” He put his lips to his lover’s ear and whispered, “I’m falling very much in love with you, you know.”

Shindy whispered back, “Not as much as I’m falling in love with you.”

As the two of them danced past Inoue-sensei, she called, “Don’t keep him out too late, Nakatomi Shindy! He’s got a professional debut to start preparing for!” She paused. “In a couple of days. You’ve earned the rest.”

Kouki laughed as they danced away. “Got any plans for the next couple of days?” he said.

“Well, let’s see,” Shindy said. “I think they involve a nice, big hotel suite . . . room service . . . and never leaving the bed unless we have to.” Pause. “Unless we want to christen the chairs or shower together.”

“I like those plans,” Kouki said.

The two of them laughed again as they danced across the floor. Kouki would never wait another table again. Shindy would never attend another corporate meeting. And neither would have it any other way.

* * *

EPILOGUE

The official signing of Kouki to Vox Records took place, symbolically enough, in the restaurant where he’d once been a singing waiter. His old boss made a point of getting into the pictures and loudly telling all the assembled press that he always knew Kouki had it in him to be a star.

His debut single was released within two months, with a music video based on his Enka Gala routine – much as he groaned at having to do the fan-twirling again. (It came much easier to him now, though, and ended up being incorporated into his live shows). It outsold Sakamoto Hachiro’s debut single – much to Hosoke-san’s chagrin.

Inoue-sensei just laughed. “He may have won Enkafest,” she said, “but we won the fight that REALLY matters – the battle of the CHARTS!”

His semifinal song went on to be his second single, by which time he was being acclaimed by media and fans alike as a bonafide star. His concerts drew, as some organizers put it, “more young people than we’ve seen at an enka show in years.”

And meanwhile, his relationship with Shindy blossomed on a personal and professional level. They fell very deeply in love, and within six months of Enkafest, they moved in together (while carefully keeping their relationship away from the prying eyes of press). Shindy quickly found his place on Kouki’s management team, where the business smarts he picked up from his father’s company came in very handy.

Nakatomi Corporation, by the way, came out of this just fine. The uptick their stocks took when Kouki made the semifinals burst into a blaze of trading when the controversy over him not winning hit social media. It kept going when his label signing was announced. Shindy’s family would joke that the corporation was better off without Shindy than with him.

Both members of the happy couple would say that the most important day of their lives was when Shindy walked into Kouki’s restaurant with his uncle. Nothing was the same for either of them after that – and neither would have wanted it to be.

Kouki had been called the competition’s Cinderella. And now, he had his prince and his happily ever after.