Chapter 2 God Bless You - part 1

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Looking up at the apartment from the sidewalk, a faint light leaked from his own room. Shunji Tokame paused, gazing at the window for a moment, then quickly climbed the stairs.

Opening the door, he found the room quiet. Drawn by a warm, pleasant aroma, he headed to the kitchen and lifted the pot’s lid, revealing a delicious-looking nimono (simmered dish) steaming gently.

Slowly crossing the hallway, he entered the room. Beyond the low dining table where the meal was set, his partner, Yorozu Shirosaki, lay curled up like a cat on the bed, eyes closed. He had likely dozed off while studying; university textbooks and notebooks were scattered beside his face.

The soft, comfortable sound of his breathing filled the room. A surge of desire to touch Yorozu’s unguarded, sleeping face rose within him… yet he didn’t want to wake him.

Unable to resist, he gently brushed Yorozu’s smooth cheek with his fingertip. Even though he was careful, Yorozu’s long eyelashes trembled, and his eyelids slowly opened. His sleepy, unfocused eyes gazed up at Tokame, and his lips moved softly, whispering, “Welcome back.”

Crouching down, Tokame leaned over to kiss him. Yorozu responded with a soft sound, pressing his lips back in return. Stroking Tokame’s ear, he murmured, “Dinner’s ready.”

“I see.”

Tokame leaned into Yorozu’s slender, white neck, breathing in his warmth and the pleasant scent. When he pressed his nose against him, Yorozu shook his head playfully, laughing, “That tickles.” Tokame playfully nipped his neck like a cat, wrapping his arms around his back. He pulled Yorozu close, feeling his warmth as the laughter faded away.

Yorozu’s eyes, gazing up at Tokame, glistened as if moistened with unshed tears.

“What about dinner?” Yorozu asked.

“Later,” Tokame replied.

“Are you drunk?” Yorozu questioned.

“I didn’t drink that much,” Tokame responded.

He slipped his hand beneath the hem of Yorozu’s T-shirt, slowly tracing his fingertips along his side, which seemed to cling softly to his touch. Yorozu’s body quivered, and he squeezed his eyes shut. As Tokame traced the slightly damp skin with his palm, his hand brushed against Yorozu’s chest.

“Ah,” Yorozu let out a small gasp. Tokame lightly cupped his chest, prompting Yorozu’s back to arch and his cheeks to flush. Pressing his now-bulging groin against Yorozu on purpose, he pulled his T-shirt up, reaching toward the waistband of his jeans. Just then, Yorozu placed a hand on Tokame’s shoulder, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“…Could you…turn off the light?”

Moved by his partner’s shy request, Tokame gently nibbled on his soft earlobe and whispered, “Later.”

◇:-:◆:-:◇

He was in a dark place. Just as he wondered where he was, he noticed his older sister, Koharu, sitting alone in front of him. His younger brother, Shunsuke, was beside her. So, was this home?

The room was dark, and no one had turned on the light—maybe the electricity had been cut off. But there was nothing they could do about it. People don’t die without electricity, but if food runs out, they will.

At some point, his father appeared, and Koharu and Shunsuke stood up. Tokame began to follow but stopped. The ground in front of him had split open into a deep chasm, like the bottom of a valley. The other side was far away. How had the three of them managed to cross this gap? As he stood there, frozen, their figures faded into the distance and disappeared.

"Hey, Tokame’s kid."

A rough hand grabbed his shoulder, yanking him around. Kawase, a bald-headed man with the look of a yakuza, grinned. The word "death" flashed in Tokame's mind, sending a chill down his spine. Fear overtook him, and his legs began to move on their own. The old house and the chasm were gone, and he was just running down a dark, empty street. The flat, paper-like road stretched on with nowhere to hide. He glanced back. In the dark, he could see only Kawase’s feet, drawing closer. He didn’t want to be caught. If he was caught, he’d be killed.

Suddenly, something caught on his foot, and he fell.

“Damn it.”

He shouted and looked down to see what had tripped him. It was Koharu. She was lying there, unmoving. And it wasn’t just her. Shunsuke and his father were also sprawled out like fish washed up on the shore.

All around him, he was surrounded by people he knew. Wasn’t that his mother over there? And the old man further down—the homeless man who had died on the street that cold day. And beyond him… what was this place? What was happening?

Could he be dead? When…where?

“Tokame-san.”

He was shaken awake, his eyes opening to see his lover’s face peering down at him with concern in the dim light. His entire body was covered in sweat, his heart still pounding as if it might burst out of his chest.

“You were having a nightmare.”

…It had been a long time since he’d had such an awful, helpless dream.

“You’re drenched.”

He took hold of his lover’s hand, which was stroking his forehead, and pulled it closer. Roughly, he kissed him, pressing his body against him, entwining their tongues. His partner, initially surprised, hesitantly responded to Tokame’s urging. Soon, his lover’s arousal grew warm against Tokame’s stomach.

As he slipped his fingers around his lover’s back, his partner’s body trembled. The warmth there, still softened from before, melted into him.

“No…” his partner whispered, shifting his hips with a tearful glare.

“After all this, what do you mean ‘no?’” Tokame murmured, moving his fingers back and forth in that warmth.

“N-no…please…”

His lover’s body twisted over Tokame’s body, writhing. When Tokame teased him just slightly, his lover’s arousal became full, pressing against Tokame’s stomach. The refusal was only in words. Watching his partner’s expressions, so easily lost in pleasure, stirred Tokame’s own arousal, straining eagerly.

He shifted their positions, holding his lover close. Pinning him down, Tokame lifted his legs and pressed himself against that soft warmth.

“Mmm…”

A sweet sigh escaped his lover’s lips. Pressing deep into the narrow warmth, Tokame held him close, letting the heat of their bodies push away the remnants of the unsettling dream.

Just as he began to move, he realized he’d forgotten to wear a condom.

“Sorry. I won’t finish inside.”

“…It’s okay,” his lover whispered, looking up at him with softened eyes.

“You always take care of it afterward.”

After giving him a biting kiss, Tokame fully indulged in the pleasure he sought in his lover’s warm embrace. When they had finished and cleaned up, he still didn’t want to let go. He pulled his lover’s warm body close from behind, letting their warmth blend.

His lover yawned softly and took Tokame’s hand, which was wrapped around his waist, guiding it to his chest. Tokame’s fingers felt the small, raised point beneath them, and he couldn’t resist moving his fingers to rub gently. “I just want to sleep now,” his lover murmured. Reluctantly, Tokame shifted, sliding his knee between his lover’s thighs and lightly nipping at his shoulder. His partner finally gave in, turning to face him, offering a series of gentle kisses as if to calm him.

“What kind of dream were you having just now?”

Tokame paused and then held his lover close. “I forgot,” he said, resting his chin on his shoulder, eyes closing.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

“Departure in fifteen minutes, then.”

The bus engine stopped. They had pulled into a parking area for a break, and the clock had just passed 3:00 PM. They had left Tokyo early in the morning, but they weren’t expected to arrive in Onomichi until early evening.

On the small location bus were ten men, mostly from the props department. Although Tokame had worked on film sets several times, he didn’t recognize a single familiar face among them.

Everyone exited the bus, but with nothing in particular to do, Tokame stayed behind. He pulled the script for the film Fish on the Left Bank out of his daypack and casually flipped through it. Despite having read it many times, he couldn’t help but go over it again whenever he had a moment, imagining how he might approach each shot. As a romance story, it was fairly traditional: a 38-year-old widow falls in love with a 24-year-old young man. How could this be made intriguing…?

He shook off his thoughts and closed the script. The film would be directed by Ishikawa Yusaku, a director who had won the Japan Academy Prize and even had films shown at Cannes. Tokame’s job was to shoot the making-of video for Fish on the Left Bank. It would be better to focus on how to shoot the making-of rather than on the main feature.

The making-of videos included as extras on DVDs often consisted of behind-the-scenes shots and interviews with the director and actors. Some even incorporated a playful storyline or were creatively produced as parodies.

For Fish on the Left Bank, the producer had instructed him to center the making-of video on the lead actor, Sato Kon. Sato, a young 25-year-old rising star with parents who were both famous actors, was a real pedigree in the entertainment world, and this would be his first lead role.

Since it was rare for productions to invest in hiring someone specifically for making-of footage, it was clear they intended to use this film to promote Sato on a grand scale, with the making-of aimed at appealing to Sato’s fan base.

For a commercial film, it was inevitable that sponsors would have input. Fortunately, apart from the “Sato-centric” instruction, there were no other restrictions, so Tokame could shoot as he pleased. For now, he hadn’t created a detailed scenario for the making-of video. Planning too much in advance would only lead him to film according to a script. Since he had the freedom, he didn’t want to create something overly constructed.

This job had come from his acquaintance, Director Okume. About a year ago, after working as part of the crew on Okume’s documentary film, they’d kept in touch, and Okume would reach out whenever an interesting job came up. Originally, the making-of for Fish on the Left Bank was meant to be shot by another up-and-coming filmmaker, but due to a motorbike accident that put him in the hospital, Tokame had been called in at the last minute.

Although Tokame had gained recognition for his short documentary films, as an unknown filmmaker with few connections, he wasn’t about to land any directing jobs in mainstream films. His own work alone wasn’t enough to make a living, so he scraped by with various part-time jobs on set—vehicle staff, props assistant, assistant director support—while trying to survive.

Compared to his days as an adult film director, his income had dropped significantly, and after rent and food, he had nothing left to save. But compared to his teenage years, when he was constantly hungry, he now had a healthy body, could work in something he loved, and slept under a roof. That alone was more than enough.

The AV production company Kaleido Fish, his former stomping ground, often called him for part-time work. But after the company passed to the CEO’s son, its performance had plummeted, shifting to low-budget, low-cost productions with a harder edge in an attempt to improve profits. This change in direction lowered the quality of their work, drove away their previous fans, and trapped them in a downward spiral. Out of loyalty to the former CEO, Tokame had helped out whenever they called, but even Kaleido Fish had declared bankruptcy two weeks ago.

With the gap left by the loss of work at Kaleido Fish, the offer to shoot the making-of video had come at the perfect time. Even though it was “just” a making-of, he was genuinely happy to have been asked to shoot.

Taking on this job had left things awkward between him and his partner, Yorozu Shirosaki. The day Tokame spoke with the film’s producer, he returned home to find Yorozu waiting in his room.

Yorozu’s family ran a love hotel and lived together in a room on the hotel’s top floor. Their living space wasn’t very large, and though Yorozu had previously used one of the damaged guest rooms as a study, the hotel had recently repaired it and put it back into use, leaving him without a study space.

He seemed to use the university and public libraries as well, but with limited hours and often overcrowded seating, he had started using Tokame’s room as his study. Though Tokame had told him not to worry about it, Yorozu often made dinner as a thank-you gesture… but, initially, Tokame couldn’t have called it delicious.

With Yorozu’s meticulous personality, it seemed he disliked any part of the food being undercooked, so whether it was fish or meat, he would overcook it until it was tough and dry. Tokame wasn’t particular as long as he got full, so he never complained about Yorozu’s cooking, though he was occasionally met with an apology: “I’m sorry it doesn’t taste good.” His partner’s dedication to studying had gradually spread to his cooking, and his skills were improving bit by bit.

Since Yorozu often stayed over, Tokame’s friend Yoshida would tease him, calling it “semi-cohabitation.” Coming home to find the lights on in his room gave him a sense of relief. Feeling someone’s presence nearby was something Tokame hadn’t experienced in a long time.

When Tokame told Yorozu about the making-of video job and the location shoot, he was happy for him and said, “That’s great!” But the moment Tokame mentioned it would last nearly a month, Yorozu’s expression tightened.

“It’s a domestic shoot, right? Why would it take so long?”

Tokame had gone on location shoots as a lighting or props assistant before, but even then, the longest trip had been four or five days.

“It’s an all-location shoot in Onomichi. Once the filming starts, I’ll be there the whole time.”

Yorozu pressed his lips together tightly, sulking like a child. Thirteen years younger than Tokame and still a college student, his partner was both well-behaved and understanding. Despite being only twenty, he was mature for his age. Tokame had occasionally had to cancel plans at the last minute, but Yorozu had always accepted it if it was for work.

“Do you remember… that we’d planned to go on a trip together?”

“You’ll have time off in September too, won’t you? We can go then…”

He was interrupted mid-sentence by a sharp voice, uncharacteristically harsh: “I already have a part-time job scheduled in September.”

“You said you’d be free in late August, so I made sure to leave that time open.”

When Tokame’s job at Kaleido Fish was wrapping up, he had arranged to take a week off for a summer vacation, planning to use that time to go on a trip with Yorozu. When the producer mentioned the location shoot would last nearly a month, Tokame remembered their plans, but figured they could just reschedule, thinking that, as a college student, Yorozu would have a long enough summer break to accommodate it.

“I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you next time.”

“I was… really looking forward to it.”

Yorozu fell silent, looking down. If he had yelled, Tokame could have apologized; if he had cried, Tokame could have comforted him. But Yorozu just quietly held in his anger, and Tokame found himself at a loss for words. After a tense silence, his partner lifted his head sharply.

“…It’s work, so it can’t be helped, right? Besides, with the making-of, what you film will stay around, so it’s a good job, isn’t it?”

Yorozu was trying to put on a brave face, but his cheeks were tight, and his eyes didn’t hold a smile. Feeling pained, Tokame pulled him close, and Yorozu clung to him as if he had been waiting for it, gripping Tokame’s shirt tightly.

“I really was looking forward to it.”

The tearful voice stung his ears, and a sharp pang of guilt cut through Tokame’s chest. Twice before, they had made plans to travel together, only for Tokame to cancel at the last minute—once because a shoot ran over into the next day, and once because an old friend had asked for help with a shoot.

Sometimes, even when they planned to have a meal out together, he would end up making Yorozu wait for hours. Since becoming a freelancer, being the lowest on the totem pole meant getting pushed around even more. When it came to part-time work, there were practically no set hours. The set was always hectic, and given everything from weather conditions, the actors’ health, to equipment issues, things rarely went as planned. Tokame knew this all too well, so he didn’t complain. Yorozu never once complained about waiting for hours, but Tokame hated making him wait and eventually stopped going out to eat with him altogether.

Tokame had made sure to set aside a full week during summer break so that they could finally go on a trip together. When Yorozu said, “Someplace cool would be nice,” the choice naturally fell on Hokkaido. Airfare was too expensive, so they’d borrow a friend’s car and drive wherever they felt like. Yorozu was very excited, often bringing guidebooks to Tokame’s apartment and saying, “I want to go here,” and “I’d love to see that.” Tokame himself had been to Hokkaido several times for shoots, so the destination wasn’t novel to him, but he found Yorozu adorable as he eagerly talked through their plans. For all that “adorable,” Yorozu was about Tokame’s height, slim yet with a strong build, and his features were, if anything, mature.

“Sorry,” Tokame muttered, rubbing his partner’s back. He wanted to cherish him, yet somehow, he always ended up pushing him to the side.

“Oh, right,” Yorozu said, gripping Tokame’s arm tightly.

“Can I come to Onomichi with you?”

Surprised, Tokame responded, “Huh?”

“While you’re in Onomichi, I’ll come too. If I’m nearby, we can meet up whenever you’re free, right?” Yorozu’s eyes sparkled, bright like a puppy’s.

“This shoot isn’t going to stick to a schedule. Even if we make plans, I’ll end up making you wait.”

“That’s okay. I can go sightseeing alone while I wait.”

“It’s me who’d mind. Just knowing you’re waiting would keep me on edge.”

The happiness on Yorozu’s face wilted like a flower drooping. He glanced down briefly, then lifted his head resolutely.

“Then, I’ll work as a part-timer on the set. That way, you won’t have to worry about me waiting, and I can make some money too…”

“Hey, this isn’t some play time.”

Yorozu’s face froze. His expression twisted, and his eyes grew teary. Tokame regretted it immediately—he had been too harsh. He was the one who had broken the promise in the first place…

“Look, what I meant by ‘not play time was—”

Without warning, Yorozu grabbed a pillow off the bed, drew back, and whacked Tokame with it, hard.

“H-hey!”

After three solid hits, Yorozu tossed the pillow aside, glaring fiercely at him.

“You don’t care about me at all!” he shouted angrily, grabbing his messenger bag and storming out of the room. Tokame was left stunned by his partner’s outburst. Snapping back to reality, he scrambled to follow, but by the time he reached the apartment’s bike rack, Yorozu’s bicycle was already gone.

It had been ten days since then. Tokame had sent messages daily, but Yorozu hadn’t replied. He wouldn’t answer his calls, either. Tokame had been tied up with back-to-back gigs and ended up leaving for the long-term shoot in Onomichi with things unresolved after their fight.

No… it wasn’t just that he was too busy to see him. The pace of work hadn’t really changed. It was simply that, since Yorozu had stopped coming over, Tokame hadn’t been able to see him.

Tokame put the script back in his daypack and took out his cell phone. There were still no replies to his messages, no voicemails, no missed calls. Ever since they’d started dating, they had never gone this long without any contact. Shoving the useless phone back into his bag, Tokame leaned heavily against his seat, slumping down.

…Would it end with them breaking up like this? Just thinking about it made him feel deeply weighed down. Yorozu wasn’t especially good with words and, if anything, he was clumsy. Always careful, he’d often seem to be watching Tokame’s reactions, and unless Tokame pulled him close, Yorozu wouldn’t openly show affection, which was frustrating and yet endearing.

Tokame knew that Yorozu had always harbored a quiet, steady affection for him. The feeling of being cared for was comfortable, bringing a sense of peace. Even after a bad dream, it was reassuring to know he wasn’t alone.

To be honest, he didn’t want to break up. But with their age difference, the broken promise, and the fact that he hadn’t been able to spend enough time with him, he couldn’t deny his shortcomings. Now, with Yorozu unreachable, he wasn’t sure how to repair their relationship. He should have met him sooner and apologized in person, but it was too late for that now. The shoot would keep him away until early September.

The fifteen-minute break ended, and the crew began filing back onto the bus. Before everyone was seated, the bus started moving slowly.

“Hey.”

About ten minutes after they were back on the road, a voice came from the seat behind him. A slim guy leaned forward. He looked a few years younger than Tokame, maybe in his late twenties. He had thin eyebrows, an ear full of piercings on the right side, and short, dyed blond hair—the kind of look you’d expect from a former delinquent who hadn’t moved past his younger style.

“Got a smoke on you?”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Oh, okay.”

A voice called from the back, “Isono, weren’t you supposed to quit?”

“Shut up!” he yelled back, then leaned over and peered intently at Tokame.

“Were you at the staff meeting?”

Since Tokame was a last-minute replacement for the making-of, he hadn’t attended the all-staff meeting held before the shoot began.

“No.”

Isono nodded, satisfied. “I figured. Guess actors take the location bus too now. So much for the budget, huh?”

He thought Tokame was an actor, and Tokame couldn’t help but give a wry smile.

“I’m handling the making-of. The original guy had an accident, so I’m filling in. They said I could take either the lighting or props bus, and lighting was full.”

Isono blinked a few times, looking surprised, then scratched his pierced ear, sheepish. “Oh, I see. Making-of, huh. I don’t know, I feel like I’ve seen your face somewhere before. Weren’t you in some bit part or something?”

“There was a time, back when I directed AV, that I’d show up in the making-of segments…”

Isono clapped his hands, exclaiming, “That’s it! You did that love hotel series, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

The bus swayed right, and Isono’s slim frame tilted heavily. “Whoa,” he muttered, steadying himself and then settling on the armrest beside Tokame. He narrowed his eyes and grinned.

“That love hotel series was good stuff. All the actresses had real skill, and the cutwork was meticulous. It bugs me if stuff like props shift around when a cut changes, but none of that happened there. And what I thought was really amazing was…”

Isono lowered his voice, looking around as if to ensure privacy.

“…the realism of the, you know, fluid. Was that real?”

“Nah, it was fake about ninety percent of the time.”

When Tokame told him in a whisper, Isono looked visibly disappointed, eyebrows drooping.

“I thought it might be fake since there was so much of it, but the texture was so realistic…”

“The company had its own special formula for it. The president even ordered us to keep the recipe a secret from other companies.”

Isono snorted with laughter. “A top-secret recipe for fake semen—seriously?”

“I could still make it today if I needed to… not that there’s any use for it now.”

As Isono laughed heartily, someone called from the front, “Hey, pipe down! Some people are trying to sleep.” “Yeah, yeah, sorry,” Isono muttered, scratching the back of his head and hunching his shoulders.

“…You’re funny. What’s your name?” he asked, his face still grinning.

“Tokame.”

"Tokame? How’s that written in kanji?"

“With the characters for ten and turtle.”

“Ten turtles? That’s a lucky name. Sounds like you’d live a long time with a surname like that. I’m Isono. Props department.”

Isono slid over and plopped himself down next to Tokame.

“I work on modern films too, but my specialty’s props for historical dramas.”

Tokame was surprised by the contrast between Isono’s tough, streetwise look and his focus on period dramas involving kimono and hakama.

“My granddad worked as a prop master for historical dramas at Toga Studio. I want to do the same, but period dramas are practically extinct now. There’s no work. So, I can’t just sit around waiting—I take what I can get in modern productions too.”

He let out a sigh and crossed his arms. Isono seemed talkative, chatting for a while before eventually dozing off beside Tokame. Soon, the bus was filled with the soft sounds of snoring, like a lullaby. Tokame also drifted off, not deeply asleep but dozing.

A jolt shook the bus, waking him up. Sunlight streaming in through the window had shifted far westward. The rows of houses had thinned out, and beyond them, he could see the ocean. The calm water glimmered under the fading light.

Seeing the sea triggered memories of his family, almost like a reflex. White on the dark water of night… He didn’t feel sad. Not sad, but something inside him always stirred a little uneasily.

It had been over ten years since he’d lost his family. No matter how old he grew, no matter how mature he thought he’d become, the sensation of that faint unrest remained, as achingly familiar as ever.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

They arrived in Onomichi just after 5 PM, as scheduled. Before heading to their lodging, a small inn, the bus made its way up to the location set on a hillside—a single house where they’d be filming the next day.

“I’ve heard Onomichi’s got a lot of hills,” Yoshida had mentioned, but the reality was beyond Tokame’s expectations. Once they entered the residential area along the mountainside, they encountered nothing but narrow paths and staircases, barely wide enough for people to pass each other. Not only could the bus not get through, even regular cars could only go partway, meaning they’d have to carry all the equipment up the slope to the house themselves.

Tokame joined the props team, carrying a low dining table and a bundle wrapped in a furoshiki up the slope. The sight of a line of grown men hauling large items up the hill, like a line of worker ants, drew curious gazes from locals peeking out from their yards or second-floor windows.

The house where the protagonist, Asanaga Hisae, lives sat atop a small hill overlooking the sea. But aside from the scenery, it was an unremarkable, old, two-story house. Originally abandoned and badly damaged, the set and props teams had arrived three weeks earlier to repair and remodel it, adding a veranda and constructing a sunroom. The additions blended seamlessly into the old structure, a testament to the set team’s skill and attention to detail.

Despite being a standalone house, it was small. In a studio, they could build an open set with removable walls and ceilings, allowing the camera to move freely. But with such a small house, the rooms were inevitably cramped, limiting the range of angles and movement, making it a true test of the cameraman’s skill.

The realism of the setting for cinema was different from the realism of real life. Still, he appreciated the director’s dedication to capturing a natural, nuanced authenticity.

As soon as Tokame stepped inside, he found the place packed with people like a crowded train. The props team had already started arranging the equipment they’d brought in for the next day’s shoot, followed closely by the lighting crew, who were setting up the initial lighting positions. By prepping as much as they could today, they’d be able to start filming smoothly first thing in the morning.

Knowing he’d only be in the way if he stayed, Tokame quickly retreated to the yard. He wanted to capture some shots of the setup process but didn’t have the nerve to start filming in the chaotic room, so he gave up on the idea.

As the evening drew on and the sun hung over the ridge of the mountains, the light remained intense, and it was still hot. Moving to the eastern side of the building, now shaded, he found someone already there—a thin man with streaks of gray hair, wearing glasses and a polo shirt. He looked to be in his fifties.

“Hello,” Tokame greeted, and the man exhaled a puff of smoke before returning the greeting with a simple “Good afternoon.” As Tokame searched his memory, the man’s face started to feel familiar—could this be Director Ishikawa Yusaku? He had seemed larger when Tokame had seen him on TV, but in reality, he might not even be 170 cm (5’7’’) tall.

Director Okume, who’d introduced Tokame to this job, was of the same generation as Ishikawa and had once shared a story: “He’ll smile at you and go, ‘Let’s try that one more time,’ then end up doing 78 takes for a single scene. The guy’s a demon.” Tokame had also heard about Ishikawa’s tendency for multiple takes from staff who’d previously worked with him on other sets.

“Excuse me, are you Director Ishikawa?” Tokame asked.

“Yes, that’s me,” he replied, tilting his head with a slightly puzzled expression. He seemed to be wondering why Tokame was confirming his identity, considering they’d already had a staff meeting.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Shunji Tokame. I’ll be filming the making-of video in place of Tsuzuki, who was hospitalized. I look forward to working with you,” Tokame introduced himself, bowing.

“Oh, right,” Ishikawa nodded lightly. “The producer mentioned there’d be a replacement. It’s a pleasure to have you on board as well.”

Ishikawa smiled warmly. Despite his reputation for doing multiple takes, he didn’t exude the intimidating aura typical of a famous director; his tone was polite, and he seemed personable.

“You were introduced by Director Okume, right? What’s he up to these days?”

“I heard he’s heading to Fukuoka next week to shoot a documentary on kagura performances.”

Ishikawa chuckled softly.

“He’s still into that, isn’t he?”

Ishikawa was, according to Okume, the most successful of their generation. Tokame had seen all of Ishikawa’s films. A common thread in Ishikawa’s work was an underlying sense of suffocation; his meticulously crafted shots were impressive but exhausting to watch. By contrast, the landscape scenes offered a breath of freedom, balancing each other to create a unique rhythm. His films weren’t purely entertainment—they leaned more toward art, often with complex storylines. In fact, a simple script like this one was a rare choice for him.

Okume, on the other hand, only directed documentaries. While he had a small but passionate fanbase, his work was never commercial. Tokame appreciated both approaches: Okume’s gentle, realism-centered imagery, and Ishikawa’s delicate, artistic visuals—each had its own charm.

“I like documentaries too, but with those, you tend to shoot what matters most to you at the start. So, no matter how great that first film is, it’s hard to keep up the momentum. You end up searching for themes because you want to film, not the other way around.”

Since Tokame had no disagreement with that, he responded, “True enough,” as a form of agreement. Ishikawa then looked up intently at him.

“I’ve seen one of your works, actually.”

Surprised, Tokame drew a sharp breath.

“Oh, thank you.”

He marveled at Ishikawa’s interest in lesser-known documentaries by unknown directors, but Ishikawa gave a wry smile.

“Your AV stuff, though.”

Tokame smiled, realizing where this was going. “I worked on a few of those, yeah.”

“And I’ve seen quite a few of your films myself,” Tokame said. The images of sky and mountains from Ishikawa’s films drifted through his mind.

“I especially like the landscapes. The way they open up and release tension.”

Ishikawa nodded, extinguishing his cigarette in a portable ashtray.

“Yeah, with how rigid my films tend to be, I figure people need that break from it in the scenery.”

He gazed out toward the sea. This time, he’d probably feature the open sea in that same spirit. Tokame remembered another film where Ishikawa had used the sea impressively—though that one had been set not in the Seto Inland Sea but the Sea of Japan.

Someone came over to call him, and Ishikawa headed inside the house.

By a little after 7 PM, the prop setup was mostly complete, and the crew left the site, heading for the inn that would be their home for the next month. The bus stopped at a run-down inn near the coast. Stepping out, the scent of salt hit Tokame’s nose, stirring up an odd sense of restlessness deep inside him. Despite being so close, the Seto Inland Sea was so calm that the sound of waves was barely audible.

The room assigned to Tokame was a tatami-floored guest room, about 20 tatami mats in size (approximately 33.2 m² or 357 ft²), with peeling plaster in the corners and yellowed tatami mats, like unharvested rice stalks. Seven people from the props and vehicle teams would be sharing the room, and everyone lined their suitcases and duffle bags along the walls, staking out their territory. Tokame placed his sports bag near the entrance, away from the window.

“That all you brought?”

Isono, who’d settled in next to him and sat leaning on his suitcase, pointed at Tokame’s flat, well-used sports bag.

“Yeah, just this and my daypack.”

“But you’ll be here a month! Isn’t that a bit light?”

“We’re not headed to the heart of Africa. I can buy anything I need here.”

“True, but…” Isono nodded, eyeing Tokame’s worn bag. “Still, that bag’s seen some years, hasn’t it?”

Just then, the door slid open, and a bearded man poked his head in.

“Oh, Wakibuchi, what’s up?” Yashiro, from the vehicle department, who had been driving the microbus all day, tilted his head.

“Hey, Yashiro-san. Mind if I join you guys here? The other room’s the same size as this one, but it’s got eleven people.”

Behind him, the inn’s owner ducked his head apologetically. Apparently, whoever organized the lodging had tried to be considerate by grouping colleagues together, thinking they’d be comfortable in a Japanese-style room. But with eleven people, there wasn’t even enough room to spread out futons.

“Everyone’s fine with it, right?”

No one objected to Yashiro’s suggestion, and Wakibuchi eagerly moved his things to their room. Though his scruffy beard made him look older, he seemed to be in his forties, with a sturdy build that would be fitting for someone who practiced judo.

Wakibuchi sat down next to Isono, and, meeting Tokame’s gaze, he smiled warmly. “Sorry for barging in on you guys.”

“Yeah, packing eleven people into the same layout as here? They could’ve spread us out a bit more,” Isono commented casually, lying on his back. The two seemed to know each other.

“Totally. Over there, there wasn’t even room to put my feet down,” Wakibuchi chuckled, settling cross-legged on the tatami. Although he was older, his demeanor was friendly and easygoing. The name Wakibuchi brought to mind a legendary cameraman who had won multiple awards at international film festivals and was considered a master in the industry. He had worked with Ishikawa on numerous films but had retired shortly before his seventieth birthday due to health issues.

Wakibuchi’s son had been the cameraman for Ishikawa’s last two films, and the script listed him as the cameraman for this one as well. Given the man’s age and appearance, Tokame thought this might be him, though he didn’t much resemble his famous father.

Since the inn didn’t provide meals, they had to go out for dinner. Tokame joined a group from the props department, and Wakibuchi tagged along. While eating and drinking at a nearby izakaya recommended by the inn staff, it became clear that Wakibuchi was indeed the master’s son and the cameraman for this shoot.

“I’m not exactly like my old man, but the director took a liking to me. It’s not easy, though. I’ve worked with him and my dad so many times, so I can’t exactly go against him. I’m totally under his command,” Wakibuchi said with a laugh. Since Wakibuchi had taken over, Ishikawa’s visual style had shifted slightly. The oppressive atmosphere remained, but the cuts had grown livelier, giving the scenes a fresher feel.

Initially, everyone had been on their best behavior, eating politely, but as the alcohol flowed, the mood grew more relaxed. Stories started spilling out—from grueling shoots to surprising quirks of actors and actresses—things that would never be shared in public.

“I’m making a prediction!” Isono, red-faced and fully drunk, raised his beer glass high.

“This film is going to be a swampy mess. No doubt about it.”

“That was a given the moment we joined Ishikawa’s team. Don’t forget the legendary 105 takes,” replied Hyakkoku, the youngest in the props team, a twenty-year-old who was built like a sumo wrestler and whom Tokame had originally mistaken for a set construction crew member. Tokame had heard it was 78 takes, but apparently, there was an even higher record.

“Having a lot of takes isn’t the problem. I like the way Ishikawa frames his shots. But that third assistant director, Shimabara, he’s the worst. As soon as we arrived today, he was like, ‘Uh, I think this isn’t what I requested?’ He’d already approved this vase ahead of time, damn it!”

Isono slammed his glass on the table. Film shoots were brutal, and a single director couldn’t manage everything alone, so three assistant directors were assigned. They were ranked as chief, second, and third ADs, each with specific roles: the chief managed the overall filming and schedule, the second handled costumes, and the third oversaw props and set pieces.

The third AD (assistant director) was the one who dealt most frequently with props, meaning Isono was in contact with him the most. If this third AD was unreliable or unorganized, the entire props and art team would end up with extra, unnecessary work.

With famous directors, it was common for them to repeatedly work with the same trusted staff. Once you’d collaborated, the workflow was easier to manage. Ishikawa had personally chosen Wakibuchi as his cameraman, but the rest of the staff didn’t seem fixed, possibly leaving those choices to the producer.

"People definitely have compatibility with each other, don’t they?"

Despite his large frame, Wakibuchi didn’t seem to handle alcohol well; he hunched over, sipping slowly as he spoke.

“What I’m curious about this time is how well Chief AD Habu and the director will get along.”

With a mouthful of onion rings, Hyakkoku spoke up, his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. “Isn’t that Chief Assistant Director Habu the son of Jinya Habu?”

Sleepy-looking Isono perked up, wide-eyed. “Wait, the son of Director Habu?”

“That’s right,” Wakibuchi nodded. Jinya Habu was a celebrated film director who had won the Japan Academy Prize for Best Director. His renowned work, The Moon and Hydrangeas, was one of many commercial hits. If Ishikawa leaned toward the artistic side, Director Habu was solidly in the entertainment realm.

“I hear he’s set to direct a major film next year. Until now, he’d been working under his father, but apparently Director Habu wanted him to toughen up on an outside set before going independent, so he personally asked Director Ishikawa to take him on. You know, Director Habu is Ishikawa’s mentor.”

Wakibuchi explained, gesturing with his sake cup, while Hyakkoku leaned forward eagerly.

“I actually worked with the Habu team last year and met Habu Junior. He was good, really managed the set well, even stood his ground with his dad. I think he’s got the makings of a big shot.”

Though Hyakkoku seemed impressed with the young Habu, Wakibuchi gave a wry smile.

“Yeah, I think he’s capable of handling the job. But Director Ishikawa, despite his gentle demeanor, is extremely particular. Habu’s a natural leader, with his emotions out in the open, so I’m a little worried about that. I think it was two films ago that the director and the AD didn’t get along, and it was tough on everyone around them. Anyway, it’s just a bad feeling I have, and I hope it doesn’t come true. Ishikawa’s team is already grueling with all the retakes, and if the director and chief AD don’t see eye to eye, it’d be pure hell.”

“C’mon, don’t talk about hell before we even get started!” Hyakkoku protested, and Wakibuchi scratched his head, apologizing, “Sorry, sorry.” After about another hour of drinking, they left the izakaya. Hyakkoku, who had gotten a phone call, stopped by a telephone pole outside to answer it. With no other option, Tokame and Wakibuchi supported a thoroughly drunk Isono between them as they started walking back.

“So, Tokame-kun,” Wakibuchi began as they made their way along the salty-scented night road, steadying Isono’s heavy, relaxed body.

“Yes?” Tokame replied.

“…Let’s keep what I said about Habu and the director between us. It’s just my personal take, after all.”

“Understood.”

Tokame knew well how quickly relationships could sour on set from a single word or rumor. He’d seen directors, actors, and crew members grow tense with each other over the smallest comments; he’d learned firsthand that loose lips were dangerous.

“Your main focus is documentary work?” Wakibuchi asked as they walked.

“Yes. But since that doesn’t pay the bills, I also do part-time work on set and help out with Director Okume’s projects.”

Wakibuchi nodded. “I like Director Okume’s work—nothing flashy, but there’s this warmth to it that’s hard to describe. His Kenya film was great, wasn’t it?”

“I was actually part of the crew for that one.”

“Oh, really? I heard it took over a year to film. I thought Okume must have serious dedication, but you’re pretty tough too.”

“It was a good experience—there were definitely challenges, but I learned a lot.”

By the time they finished talking about Africa, they’d arrived back at the inn. It was just before midnight, and some of the crew had already gone to bed, so they quietly made their way to their rooms, careful not to disturb anyone.

Back at the inn, they laid Isono, who had been silent the entire way in his drunken stupor, down onto a futon, where he immediately started snoring loudly. Wakibuchi, perhaps too tired to bother, collapsed right on top of his futon without even changing out of his clothes.

With the baths open 24 hours except during cleaning times, Tokame decided to take a shower. It was past midnight, so there was no one around, nor did he sense anyone would come in.

Tokame rubbed his hand over his groin. For the next month, he’d be sharing quarters, and the only true privacy he’d get would be in the bathroom. Remembering his lover’s passionate expressions, he felt himself rising, climaxing onto the cold, white tile. Though his body felt relieved, a grayish haze seemed to settle over his heart.

For the past year, with Yorozu by his side, he’d rarely needed the company of his own hand. A drip of water fell from his damp hair, snapping him back to reality, and he quickly washed the remnants of desire down the drain.

When he returned to the room, the lights were out, and it was dim. Carefully stepping between the futons packed closely together, he found his spot, lying on his stomach as he pulled out his cell phone from his daypack. Once again, there was no call or reply from his lover.

“…Are you really planning to go forever without contacting me?”

He muttered to the silent phone. Then, he typed out a message: I’ve arrived at the location in Onomichi. Shooting starts tomorrow. Sending it, he immediately regretted it—this wasn’t the kind of thing to send in the dead of night. It was more like harassment than an update. He clutched the phone tightly, burying his face in the pillow.

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T/N: Starting from this chapter, Konohara-sensei begins dropping names left and right—good luck keeping track of who’s who! I nearly had an aneurysm myself 😅 Plus, the entertainment world isn’t my cup of tea, so I struggled too 😂