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Where do you draw inspiration for your roles?
It was a common question on radio or talk shows, one Gaku had come to expect after the release of every drama or movie that had his name on the cast list. Sometimes it was easy to answer: he knew what it was like to be from a broken home, remembered the arguments and especially remembered listening to the venting from each side, so playing the angel on someone’s shoulder wasn’t so different, merely a perspective shift, and demons were once angels no matter how they may try and twist their origins so even the arguments are the same, simply with higher stakes. If anything, it was a depth of backstory that hadn’t even been planned when they first started rehearsing for Last Dimension but Ryuu had kept in sync and the rest was their greatest success.
He also knew what it was like to be hunted, to fall from the top of a tower to the bottom in practically one night, and so for Crescent Rise it was just the job that changed. The rest-the loss of family and the fraternity of friends-was the same.
It was the truth that mattered in the end, it was all anyone saw when they watched him, not the costume or the fake blood, but the truth. For better or worse, he didn’t wear the truth, the truth wore him, and sometimes, it wore him out.
But sometimes it was hard to answer, as with Zero the Musical. Playing Kujo was different than any other part, those characters didn’t drawl nasally promises into his friend’s ear and idly entertain disbanding everything they’d built together for the sake of a pipe dream. They might leap off the page but not so literally as to stand before him and make him lose his temper. And to lower himself into the mind of someone that manipulated so many lives had spiraled him into hours of muttering lines and replaying his own memories of the man, struggling to find his way into understanding a mindset that he balked at the thought of emulating.
It should’ve been easy, it was set in recent history, in an industry he knew the ins and outs of, knew the bonds that could bind people together in pursuit of the thrill of performance, but to see what Kujo had become was like a warning. If Tenn disappeared like that, would he sink into the same obsessive search for what had once been?
He was still mired in questions when the problem begat its own solution. Rehearsals started with the hardest scenes, the most difficult choreography, and for him, that meant the acrobatics in Phenomenon. He’d never had to sing upside down before, and even if it was only for a split second, the physicality of it was enough to take his mind off the tangled internal world he otherwise needed to inhabit.
“You…did these on the beach?” The landing knocked the breath out of him, his fifth botched attempt of the session, and it was still only the beginning of the day.
Brows furrowed as he helped Gaku up, Ryuu shrugged finally. “Back when I was twelve? Or was it high school already…You’re doing great though!”
“How long did it take?”
“A month, I think? I got a fracture in my arm when I was first practicing. I remember wishing I’d gotten a scar so I could have a cool story.”
“You don’t need the scar, you can just do a backflip and tell people the cool story that way! Guess you’ve always been a fast learner.” Gaku moved back into the middle of the mat, trying to remember what he’d done wrong.
“I had a lot of free time around then. I stayed outside all day so I wouldn’t have to watch my mom pack her stuff.”
“My father paid his staff to come and put it all in boxes. They even cleaned the place, so it was actually nicer than it had looked in a long time.” It was in moments like these that he’d remember, for all that they were opposites in many ways, Ryuu shared some of the same pain. He caught the sadness seeping into their conversation and did his best to clear it away.
“Alright, I’ve got three more days before you’ve beat me, I have to nail this!”
“But I didn’t have to be careful, don’t hurt yourself!”
“That’s what you’re here for, right? The best pupil learns from the best teacher.” Bending his knees, he readied for the next try. Just throwing himself in the air and landing without falling couldn’t be harder than learning anything else.
In the moment before he’d decided to launch himself backwards, Ryuu spoke, as gentle as the hand on his back that was steadying him until he could make the turn on his own. He’d long ago learned to listen for the change, in Ryuu’s breath, his shoulders, for the moments heralding when Ryuu spoke seriously because it was always worth listening, and Gaku knew how rare those moments were. He’d championed those hesitant hushed sentences from their beginnings.
“That’s what that line always reminds me of.” The next words, softly sung, are familiar. “..riveting gaze like a knife...”
Gaku finishes the rest of the line. “About to cut me.” Stretching his arms, he relaxes out of the ready position in favor of facing Ryuu. He needs a few more minutes to steel himself for another faceplant anyway. “And what does this remind you of?”
“You,” Ryuu says, hurrying to continue when he sees the look on Gaku’s face. “Your eyes when you say you’ll do something and set your mind to it. You mean it, you always mean it, and it looks…”
“Threatening?” He wasn’t afraid of knives, but he also had his fair share of times where he’d sliced a finger trying to help his grandpa keep up with orders; it was about control. In a line about Kujo, he could see the truth of it, a knife under tenuous control, a mere slip away from burying itself inside you. He was under no illusions as to what he and Ryuu’s roles were in the TRIGGER of Kujo’s mind, stepping stones and footrests at best. Amidst all the questions and doubts over the role, he’d never thought a new one would be added by Ryuu.
“No, but sometimes it does worry me.” Ryuu rests a hand on Gaku’s shoulder, stilling the exercises he’d still been in the middle of. “Because I know how far you’ll go to meet any goal you set. You’re never a threat to anyone else, but you’ll burn through yourself to make what you said true.”
As if that was something to avoid. “If that’s what it takes,” he says, but as soon as the words leave him, he could hear Kujo’s voice saying the same. “I’m no better than him…”
“Kujo?”
“Zero is an ideal we all look up to even if we want to surpass him, Sakura Haruki is the genius behind the songs of a legend, and Kujo…”
“The mastermind who took them to the top. He’s the only one whose journey did not end, who kept changing. Maybe not for the better, but when Haruki met him, he inspired this song. That can’t have come from hate.”
The fact that this was a song Haruki had written not for Zero or anyone else, but about himself and Kujo, their chemical reaction, had been buried underneath the history of everything that had happened since then. But in those moments, that first meeting, sparks had flown; even his own line attests to it.
“Draw it out…” He meets Ryuu’s gaze, the song’s lyrics taking on new meaning. “...with your seductive voice…”
Ryuu looks down, fiddling with the strings of the hoodie he wears to their rehearsals. “See? They were young and…”
“Had found someone they could spend the nights in the city with,” Gaku finishes, the rest of the lyrics slotting into place, rearranged into a different picture than what he’d assumed from the start. A picture that he can find his own truth in, can see his own reflection amongst the distortions of a different life. He knows what it’s like to brood over something too much, to get caught up in himself, to meet someone who has a vibrant take on life and who brings out the best in everyone…in him. He may not sympathize with the Kujo of today, but the younger days are something else entirely. That was one issue solved, now he needed to work on the other.
“Let’s go again, I’m ready,” he says, swinging his arms one last time and getting into position. After a few seconds, he glances over where Ryuu still hasn’t moved, just standing and staring at his hands with a look that says he’s miles away, maybe years. “Ryuu?”
“Yes! You’ll get it this time!” Ryuu comes back to life, shaking out of his wrists before taking up his stance, hands warm against Gaku’s tank top.
~*~
Zero the Musical was a sensation. Tenn personified the bittersweet celebration of the legendary idol’s legacy, while audiences familiar and new alike praised both the show’s respect for the idol and the courage to portray past relationships in a new light. Gaku didn’t read the reviews, never read the reviews for anything he’d been in; what did it matter whether it was judged as good or bad if he put his heart into it? Where once he’d been at a loss for what he’d say at the interviews, he was content that he could say honestly that he understood Kujo better now.
But that revelation seemed to go both ways, for better or for worse. A few nights after their premiere, once everything had settled into a routine without any sudden last-minute changes like the ones that had plagued opening night, Kujo found him during the final minutes before the start of the show. It was disquieting, without Tenn’s buffer of concern and despite his newfound understanding, Gaku was at a loss for what could prompt the look on Kujo’s face. No calculation or thinly veiled judgment, if he thought about how familiar those had been it would remind him of his father, and in its place an expression softer than any he’d seen before.
“I underestimated you both,” Kujo said, words still as coarse as ever but somehow the sincerity was clear.
“Me and…?” The world didn’t feel quite real, Gaku expected to wake from a fever dream brought on by the rigors of back-to-back performances, why else would Kujo say something so uncharacteristically like praise.
“Ryuunosuke. Zero’s disappearance was the cruelest betrayal”—that sounded more like Kujo—”but Haruki’s was the final blow before rock bottom. A vulnerability that has taken me over a decade to finally overcome.”
“...vulnerability?” Caring? One broken heart and Kujo had been reduced to this bitter shade, professionally capable but personally unbearable. If any of Gaku’s failed loves had taught him anything, it was to improve on himself, to value space, and finally, how to let go.
“We were the spotlights that shone on Zero. That was our purpose. Our pleasurable distraction cost us the undoing of our work, a reminder you both embody so admirably in your portrayals.”
“I…” He might have found a tenuous understanding with the Kujo from the past, but the man of today was as foreign as ever. A mind that turned in dark accusing circles; Gaku couldn’t fathom inhabiting such a hopeless place for even a day let alone most of a lifetime.
“I trust that you will not make the same mistake.” As if that were the best note to end their conversation on. Kujo nodded toward the stage with a thin, satisfied smile. “To another spectacular show.”
The final call sounded, forcing Gaku to focus on fastening his coat properly instead of the words disturbing the calm that usually descended on him before the curtain or the cameras began their work. Was this another attempt to disrupt TRIGGER? But why disguise it within the mask of a compliment, if it could even truly be called such. To fracture him and Ryuu enough that Tenn could break free?
“What did Kujo-san say?” Think of the angel and he shall appear.
“More notes?” Ryuu asked, rounding the rack of clothes at his other side.
“Warnings are all he can give apparently. Like a crow cawing bad omens,” Gaku muttered, shaking his head.
“He’s haunted by what happened, by the thought of anyone treading the same path.”
“If you disappeared like Zero,”—Gaku pressed on, even as Tenn’s lips grew thin at the mere mention—”what do you think we would do?”
Hands rising as if to calm the mood preemptively, Ryuu tensed beside him. “Tenn, we don’t—”
“There would be no more TRIGGER, but you’re too hard-headed to let me be the reason you quit,” Tenn said, smirking. “The spite would keep you from falling down his path. And Ryuu.”
“What would you do if Tenn vanished?” He shouldn’t be doing this now—not when they were so close to starting, mere seconds away—knowing Ryuu would be nervous already but he needed to know.
“I’ve sung alone,”—a memory none of them would forget—”but I knew you wanted to be there with me. If Tenn vanished…I’d search for an answer. I can’t believe that he would stop without a reason. Would you come with me?”
“Yes.” It was an easy, immediate answer. He’d fallen in love with being an idol because of them; he doubted he’d find that with anyone else. Meeting Tenn’s eyes, he knew he’d want to wring an answer from that brat more than anything.
“That’s what makes you different,” Tenn interrupted, nodding as if he’d given the right answer. “Our leader would never be paralyzed by resentment.”
“Careful, you’re starting to sound sincere.” The teasing jab broke the tension. Ryuu laughed at Tenn’s affronted look and everything settled back into its proper place, as if now nothing could go wrong. They had all the answers they would ever need.
~*~
After the hurdle that was Zero the Musical, Gaku had thought nothing could compare, but Hidden Region had turned out to be more difficult than he’d expected. An original project was always a challenge, but performing in something with a legacy was even harder. Everyone knew the story, everyone knew how good the story could be, and yet the expectations for novelty never disappeared. Pay too close an homage and it was merely a copy, but stray too far and it became derivative; it was the finest of lines to balance on.
They’d had Last Dimension to get their feet wet, experience the exhilaration and exhaustion of a story that was entirely their own, and since then they’d been trusted, and tasked, with bringing the same success to legacies spanning from classics like Crescent Rise to the newfound anticipation of Zero the Musical. After such a resounding triumph, something like Sherlock Holmes should be easy.
And yet. Gaku tapped the side of the soba bowl to the rhythm of the melody that had been playing in his head since they’d left the last meeting that day. The stories had fallen into the common domain and been immediately snatched up for an adaptation, a musical one that TRIGGER had been chosen to play with as they please. More creative freedom than he’d ever been handed in a role before and he didn’t know what to do with it. Even Last Dimension had been overseen and micromanaged by his father, their acapella version had practically given the man a conniption despite the news recording doing the brunt of their advertising on rabbitube, according to Anesagi. After their trial by fire through ZOOL and Ryou’s machinations, they’d been lucky to find any work and now they were being trusted to not only perform but to produce the entire production.
And they’d gotten to work, Ryuu to decide the choreography, Tenn the music, and the lyrics of the drama had fallen to Gaku. Some aspects were a given: a crime, a chase, codes and clues. But where was what would set it apart? Who would play who? How would the story unfold?
Tenn was the perfect Sherlock, calculating and so obsessed with the details because that’s where the devil and the answers were, entwined. Ryuu could never be anyone but Watson, the lighthouse for all of them, the one who kept everything bright and warned them away from danger. That left Gaku as Moriarty, where he couldn’t find any truth. Opposing Tenn wasn’t unfamiliar, they had their regular disagreements and butted heads as often as the day was long, but he couldn’t imagine plummeting with him to their deaths, willingly abandoning Ryuu. And Ryuu, causing him trouble and anguish felt too alien to contemplate, even the idea left the soba turning tasteless.
It was almost like a puzzle itself, how to fit the pieces together in such a way that it wouldn’t leave any of them diminished, that would form an answer that made sense with who they were. Because ultimately that was what they brought to any project, themselves and only that. Where would they fall into place this time?
How to untangle it all, how to lay all the threads in a pattern that won’t be a mess but have purpose. Picking at the end of a piece of soba, Gaku drew it out slowly, until it met some resistance and distorted the rest of the dish, dragging the others in its wake. All of the framework was there, Ryuu’s vision for the moves, Tenn’s harmonies, and here was his solitary contribution in danger of tugging the others off course. He was the leader, then why was he the troublesome piece that didn’t fit his role?
Who would?
The simple question left him reeling; the switch was plain, a single flip of perspective, of looking at their trio from another angle and he knew who would. The one who was always secretive, two steps ahead but still turning back to point out flaws, and above all, who didn’t balk at the dark side of things, at the gray shades in life.
He let out a laugh, the painful obviousness of it, the truth of it, had been there all along. He and Ryuu, the ones chasing, following, searching, and Tenn, the one poised to fall, to rise too high and too close to the sun, flung by a father who wanted to see his son burn brighter and brighter, never knowing what was too much until there was another charred and melted feather in his hand.
They’d played along last time, tried to give Kujo closure through their sweat and sweet songs, but this time they were the ones in charge of the script, and Gaku would write them an ending that they deserved. No more tragedies; no more bullets, no more blood, and no more broken ties, they had their answers and now they’d let everyone know just what they were.
A Sherlock Holmes that wasn’t caustic and critical, with a partner in John Watson, who was as cherished as he should be, and a Moriarty that wasn’t allowed to fall.