date posted: 2024-01-31
summary: His hair is greasy; he hasn’t changed out of his pajamas in three days. There’s dirty dishes haphazardly stacked up in the kitchen sink and empty chip bags and open tupperwares are scattered about the living room.
He blinks. Shima is still there.
He did not want this.
word count: 3,221 words
notes: second part of a series with eaten by demons
To set the record straight: he did not want this.
Yukio, standing with his mouth agape like a fool, his door wide open and presenting the ghastly sight that is Shima Renzou, did not want this.
His hair is greasy; he hasn’t changed out of his pajamas in three days. There’s dirty dishes haphazardly stacked up in the kitchen sink and empty chip bags and open tupperwares are scattered about the living room.
He blinks. Shima is still there.
He did not want this.
Rewind a couple months:
They were at that part of their career where they reached their peak and are coming down from it, slowly, jaggedly. None of them reacted to it much, but they definitely noticed it, with their singles charting lower than before in sales and streams, their view counts still high but overall engagement low, fansigns being just slightly smaller in number to be noticeable.
It was fine. They were fine for a while. They could get used to this; though, it’s not as if the likes of his brother and Shima would react well.
Scratch “none of them reacted” – those two reacted very much so.
Shima, nosy as ever, kept coming to Yukio’s apartment, all crocodile tears and perverted tendencies, a “hey, y’know how we can blow off some steam?” delivered in a lower register, with his characteristic playful wink. He kept exclaiming loudly, on Yukio’s shoulder, all relaxed and spread out on his couch, so loud it hurt Yukio’s ears, how they were nearing the end of their careers, talking as if it was the end of the world.
Rin, on the other hand, was quieter about it, but Yukio knows him too well: he saw right through his brother’s mask of friendliness and extroversion. He has too big of a heart to not notice the fans that have disappeared in favor of the newer groups that have burst onto the scene in recent months – one from their own company, really. Yukio sees the slight moments in between the shuffle of fans at handshake events where Rin’s smile dims.
Yukio, now, looks at the man before him, and thinks the end of the world doesn’t sound too bad.
He sighs.
“What do you want?” he says, as stern as possible. His hand slips slightly from the doorknob, but he keeps it there, ready to slam it in Shima’s face if he needs to.
Shima looks down, still smiling, smirking so annoyingly, and simply shrugs. Yukio wants to wring his neck right in the doorframe for it.
“I don’t know, just thought I’d check on my best buddy since your hiatus started,”
Yukio’s trying to keep his face frozen, and he just barely suppresses another sigh and the threat of rage bubbling in his chest.
“You came here yesterday with the same excuse,” he says, monotone.
“And I have the bruise to prove it!” Shima exclaims excitedly, holding up his hand, presenting a small, angry dark mark on his index finger.
Yukio closes his eyes briefly. “You had that coming,” he begins, “and why isn’t it covered with makeup? You’re still working,” he asks, to change the subject.
“It’s a Saturday, dude. I don’t have any shoots scheduled today. You definitely don’t, by the looks of it,” Shima snaps back, with little malice in his voice; Yukio wonders how good he is at hiding it, for how long, and even competitively, wonders if he’s better at hiding his own fury.
There’s a brief silence between the two. Shima shifts his weight onto his other foot and his hand slightly slides down the doorframe. Yukio stays still.
“So what do you want,”
“I told you,” Shima winks. Yukio almost gives in to his rage at that moment, at that wink.
But, instead of giving in to that rage, he gives up to something else like he already did those months ago, like he’s been exercising his ability in doing in the time since. He gives up to something greater than him, just like then, but now, it’s the sheer ability of Shima Renzou to become an unceasing thorn in his side.
Scratch that: he’s more than a thorn in his side. That’s been his problem all along.
Shima, despite the litter and garbage scattered about, makes a home for himself on the couch, as he always does when he comes over; to his credit, he tossed the trash in the trash can and took out the bag before he did, but he didn’t pick up what was on the floor, or anything else surrounding. It’s the little things like that that make Yukio feel less demeaned when someone like Shima does something for him.
Yukio keeps his distance, as much as he can from the other side of the small couch. He doesn’t let Shima’s presence stop him from lying his head on the arm of the couch, curled pathetically into a ball with an old, threadbare blanket from back home all wrinkled atop him. He stares at the television, endlessly playing infomercials or old movies or bad shows, and does nothing.
None of this stops Shima from being a thorn in his side. In fact, he might as well be poking him with a stick when he’s kicking him in the side, groaning “c’mon, do something,” which elicits only an annoyed groan back from Yukio.
“Fuck off,” he says, raspy.
“Be nice to your groupmate! Who knows, you could be locked in a furious rivalry with one of these new kids if you get compared to them; you need someone in your corner,” Shima responds snappily.
“None of that matters right now,” he rasps back, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Shima, who’s busy rolling his eyes, arm curled around the other arm rest, leg extended to nudge Yukio in the side until he does something.
But Yukio has no intention of giving in to him again; actually, he has little intention to do much of anything right now.
So he lays there, Shima poking his side, and reins in the roaring monster in his stomach that threatens to burst out at one more kick.
His first mistake was getting up. His second? Reining in that monster from before.
Yukio is mid shit on the toilet when he hears a knock, followed by three rapid knocks, followed by a single knock again.
“What the fuck kind of knock is that?”
“Ah, Okumura-san, you find every way to wound me,” he hears from the other side of the door, muffled. Yukio leans his head back on the raggedy shelf above the toilet.
“Can I use the bathroom in peace?” he complains.
“No,” Shima replies happily, “you have to deal with me whether you like it or not.”
“Did they send you?” Yukio cuts to the chase, cuts the last bit of hesitation curdling in his guts at the thought of this. “Did they put you up to watching me? Did my brother?”
There’s a small moment, small but noticeable enough for Yukio to catch it. Then,
“Nope,” he hears, “it’s all me.”
Yukio closes his eyes and finishes taking a dump. The sound is embarrassingly loud and he’s sure Shima heard it from behind the door.
“Why won’t you give it up? Do you want me to sleep with you that bad?” Yukio says, even more cutting than before. He figures he’s already at rock bottom, and nothing else is working. All he wants is to be alone in the time that he has left before he’s called back to work, or his contract is cut, or anything. He’s chased away Rin as much as he can, and subsequently their groupmates; all except for the guy on the other side of the bathroom door. He’s trying his best and his best is him at his worst. He digs himself a deeper hole.
Except, after a brief pause, he hears a sigh.
“I mean, you’re kinda right, I do want to sleep with you, but not while you’re all stinky. P.S., that shit smells. Please flush,” Shima says nonchalantly.
Yukio wipes and flushes faster than the heat can rise up in his cheeks. He flicks the knobs at the sink and washes his hands longer than he needs to, something to muffle the sound of Shima behind his door.
He thinks he’ll hide in here for the rest of the day, maybe into tomorrow, until Shima gets bored and leaves.
“Hey, while you’re in there, can you maybe take a shower? I can get you a towel,” he hears.
Yukio slams the knobs to the closed position with his palms and opens the door. The familiar sight of Shima in a doorframe is not a pleasant one.
“No,” he grunts out, stony, and shoves Shima aside, walking back to the couch.
He doesn’t bother to look behind him, to see if Shima’s following him; he knows he is.
“So what got into you anyway? I mean, we’ve all been curious. Okumura-kun knows you better than me, but you’re stuck with me and my questions. Why did you lash out like that?”
Yukio is pretty sure Shima knows the answer to that; the guy knows him more than he lets on. Neither of them are stupid. But he just keeps pushing and Yukio wants to shut him up so bad, or throw him out, or kill him.
It takes all his willpower to not respond to the questions thrown his way. He’s had his phone on Do not Disturb for weeks now, and he doesn’t intend on reading any of the news articles linked to him by his concerned peers anytime soon. He won’t give in again.
Instead, he stays still in front of the stove, watching water bubble in a pot with all the patience and composure of a painter waiting for paint to dry.
At least, that’s the way he wishes he felt; his left hand white knuckling the handle of the pot objects to that image.
Shima’s leaning on the kitchen counter’s rotting countertop right beside him. Yukio knows he’s caught between staring at him or staring at the pot and wondering if Yukio’s gonna pour it into the pack of Cup Noodles on the counter or toss it in his face. Or well, that’s what he hopes Shima is thinking.
He hopes the man is threatened by his presence. How cringy is that? The media would have a field day with this kind of persona.
But it’s the real him, he knows. He would throw the water in Shima’s face if he was in his right mind, because Shima is being an annoying prick who won’t leave well enough alone. He’s not a good person, and that’s what got him here. At least he’s self aware enough to know he’s both a bad person and cringe.
“C’mon,” he hears from beside him, and if he has to hear Shima say c’mon one more time, the way it’s so drawn out and faux annoyed, he’s going to pull his hair out, his or Shima’s. Preferrably the latter. Give him something to really cry about.
See: bad person.
“Did you hear me?” Shima prods, “I said, your water’s boiling.”
Yukio glances at him briefly, sees Shima with his arm leaned on the counter, propping up his head, tilted and staring right at him with a glint in his eye that’s both humorous and threatening. As is the case with Shima Renzou: azato kawaii, knows how to get what he wants.
He glances back at the water, and sees it’s indeed boiling. He slowly draws the plastic lid of the dollar store noodles open and pours in the water, as delicately as he can manage. His hand shakes from the pressure of grasping the pot’s handle so hard. He doesn’t loosen his grip.
The cup of noodles sits empty and abandoned on the coffee table. Yukio is curled into a ball at the corner of the couch again. Naturally, Shima is the way he was before; annoyingly unwavering.
“So did you like, have a plan when you went and said that shit about that new group? Because it was pretty carefully brutal. Like, kind of impressively mean. Did you calculate how career ending it should be? Because that’d be pretty funny. And sad,” Shima says, so flippantly, not a care in the world. Yukio knows it’s all pretend, that the guy must care if he’s sticking around in his soon-to-be former groupmate’s disgusting shithole of an apartment for nearly a day now.
“Yes, I said all of that on purpose, I wanted to kill my career, leave me alone,” he drawls out, not bothering to open his eyes.
“Hey! Don’t you realize how that’d affect the rest of us? If you’re gonna commit career suicide, do it with something like a dating scandal! Not like an AKB girl is relevant enough to take the hit on her career anymore,” Shima protests.
He’s right; Yukio did think about a dating scandal. But it’d be too messy personally to get involved with someone just to get his contract terminated. He figured badmouthing a rival would be easier to pull off, no matter the residual fallout on his groupmates.
Bad person, Shima doesn’t actually care; both things he keeps reminding himself. He’s finding the latter to be increasingly difficult and the former to be increasingly stronger as Shima stays a thorn in his side.
There’s another jab at his side, this one a little more aggressive. Finally, he thinks, Shima is getting sick of him. It’s only a matter of time until he leaves.
“Hey!” Shima exclaims, “don’t fall asleep on me! I need to know why you chose shit talking. It’s kind of interesting to me as an idol nerd.”
“It was the easiest way and I don’t actually care about any of you enough to care about the blowback. Get off my back,” he mutters from under the thin blanket.
“Jeez,” he hears after a moment, “how harsh.”
There’s no way Shima is actually hurt by that. He’s too cunning to really care.
The thing is: is Shima that cunning?
The question keeps him up that night, staring at the ceiling from the same corner of the couch, all sweaty and gross, occasionally glancing at Shima’s snoring face opposite him.
Has he fallen into Shima’s trap?
Which one: the idol or the person?
These are the things that keep him up, instead of the rent bill or grocery money like a normal person’s nighttime thoughts. Instead of the horrible things he said about that new group, the bridges he’s surely burned with his actions, how he hasn’t spoken to his brother in nearly a month. It’s Shima occupying his thoughts, now.
It won’t last much longer. It can’t.
Shima shakes him awake by the shoulder the next morning. In his shock, Yukio almost punches him, and he kind of wishes he did.
“It’s 9 a.m., dude! I got shit to do and you’re lying here!”
“Exactly, and it’s a Sunday, you don’t have anything to do,” Yukio drones.
Shima groans, pretending to be frustrated. Yukio knows he’s pretending, because if he wasn’t, he would’ve given up last night.
It’s been a whole day of this and more. Yukio is exhausted.
Shima leans his weight onto Yukio’s shoulder more. Yukio, reluctantly, looks up at him, sees that trademark smirk above him.
He knows Shima is purposefully letting the silence hang between them. It’s awkward and tense; both of their doing. Yukio looks him in the eye, doesn’t look away like the clumsy teenager he was when he started in this industry. He knows what he’s doing, even at rock bottom.
Shima leans in – more weight on his shoulder, Yukio feels, but it doesn’t hurt enough for him to shove Shima off – and whispers in Yukio’s ear.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, carefully, “and neither are you.”
Yukio goes back on what he thought and shoves Shima away from him, abruptly sitting up. “You don’t tell me what I’m doing,” he yells.
Shima stumbles back, briefly shocked, but just as quickly covers it up. He’ll survive long in this industry with this kind of willpower. Good for him.
“’Don’t tell me what to do?’ How old are you, again?” Shima taunts.
“I meant what I said. Fuck off,” he says, enraged.
“You heard me! You’re stuck with my ass. Better get used to it.”
“And if I do anything about it?” Yukio threatens, emptily. He absentmindedly notices his fist tightening.
“What, you’re gonna go outside? That’s a success story for me,” Shima jeers.
“So I’m just a fucking project for you? A quick fix-it on the side for fun while your schedule is free?” Yukio hears his voice rising in pitch. How stupid, how pathetic that he’s getting worked up over this. He thought he lasted long, but really, it’s only been a day. He thought he was doing well up against Shima and yet he’s cracking. He made it this far masquerading as a professional in the industry, brought it down by his own hand, and the only thing making tears prick in his eyes is his annoying groupmate that doesn’t know when to give up.
Yukio knew when to give up, when he sat in front of their manager and the company’s higher ups, as they told him he’d be put on hiatus for the next six months.
He thinks Shima would’ve fought it. But that’s the difference between them, isn’t it? Shima wants to be here. Yukio wanted out as soon as Rin climbed up in the rankings up and over him.
Like everything with him, it comes down to jealousy. It’s all he’s made up of; a lousy imitation of his brother who has more talent in his fingertip than any amount of skill Yukio has in his whole body. He’s always been jealous, he’s always had that vice, and even when he decided he was tired of it and wanted out, he has to deal with the wildcard that decided to make him his fixer-upper project.
How lucky he is to have someone like Shima Renzou in his corner. And, he realizes, that’s exactly what Shima Renzou the idol would like to hear.
Shima the person, on the other hand, may be a mystery, but Yukio thinks he has him pegged; he doesn’t know when to throw in the towel. That’s the difference between them: strength.
And strength is what has Shima standing, smirking above him, arms proudly crossed.
Yukio lets his hands slowly slide from covering his face, dropping into his lap. He stares down, listlessly, energy depleted.
“By the way,” Shima starts, “your hiatus is up next week. Just thought I’d let you know,” he drops lightly, the cherry on top to this disastrous morning.
Shima walks towards him and leans in towards his ear again.
“I meant it when I said I’m not going anywhere. You can call me Renzou,” he whispers.
Fast forward to that afternoon, and Yukio is going outside for the first time in three weeks, mask over his face, given to him by Renzou.
He looks beside him and sees Renzou’s matching mask, a white KF94.
Yukio doesn’t have to see through the mask to know Renzou is smirking under it.