Second Serenade: Chapter 37

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When he asked if Hashimoto was any good at sewing, Murashita handed him a sewing kit and a set of children's clothes.

“That last shoot tore this part right here. I’d normally ask wardrobe, but they’ve got their hands full. Doesn’t have to be neat—just patch it up real quick, if you would.”

Beside a grimy white van, on a stack of folded cardboard boxes, Hashimoto threaded the needle with trembling hands and set to mending the torn fabric. His hands shook with rage. Steam felt like it might come bursting out of his skull. The stitches he made reflected his foul mood—rough, uneven—but he still handed over the finished garment with a smile. Murashita then thrust a broken pair of black women’s high heels and a roll of vinyl tape in front of him.

“Can I ask you to fix these too? The actress broke the heel on this rough terrain. We’ve only got one more shot left, and it probably won’t even show, so just try to match the height and make them wearable.”

What did they expect him to do with just this? Hashimoto sighed as he lined the broken heel up against the sole. He wrapped the base of the heel with tape and was in the middle of taping it in place when Kakegawa came back. He was dressed differently now—an argyle sweater, black jeans—and had changed his hairstyle and put on makeup. Even Hashimoto, who was used to seeing him all the time, was taken aback by how strikingly beautiful he looked.

Kakegawa gave a cheerful laugh at the sight of Hashimoto struggling with the elegant high heels.

“You’re surprisingly handy, aren’t you, Hashimoto-san?”

Hashimoto ignored him and kept working silently. Suddenly, Kakegawa reached out and grabbed both his hands. He tried to pull away, but Kakegawa didn’t let go.

“You’re so cold.”

Kakegawa muttered it under his breath.

“Do you think I could do this kind of work wearing gloves?”

Hashimoto shot back with sarcasm, and Kakegawa lowered his gaze. Maybe he actually felt bad—thinking that gave Hashimoto a strange sense of satisfaction.

“Sorry.”

Kakegawa looked up and cupped Hashimoto’s chin, kissing him. It wasn’t just a brush—it wasn’t deep, but it wasn’t casual either. Glancing around in a panic, Hashimoto caught a staff member staring at them wide-eyed. Kakegawa released him, furrowed his brow just slightly, and touched his cheek.

“I’ll see you later.”

◇:-:◆:-:◇

Kakegawa seemed to make a point of stopping by to see Hashimoto during breaks between scenes. The last time he came, he slipped a disposable hand warmer into Hashimoto’s pocket—where he’d gotten it, who knew. This time, it was lip balm.

“Your lips are chapped. The makeup artist had a fresh one, so I asked for it.”

Even when Hashimoto said he could do it himself, Kakegawa stubbornly refused to listen. He applied the lip balm himself, then traced over it with his thumb.

“There. All set.”

Curious eyes were on them. People formed a wide circle, watching from a distance as if trying to figure out what was going on. That was exactly what Hashimoto hated, and the more aloof he tried to act, the more Kakegawa insisted on touching him.

“Hey, I heard Kakegawa’s lover showed up. Where is she? Come on, let me get a look at that wicked woman!”

A man pushed through the crowd. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, decked out in shiny patent leather shoes and a long black coat—completely out of place here. A garishly colored shirt peeked out from under the coat’s lapels. The man made a show of scanning the area.

“What the hell? There’s no one here.”

Their eyes met. The tasteless man tilted his head, puzzled, and then suddenly pointed at Hashimoto and shouted.

“Who the hell brought this guy here?! Get him out!”

Hashimoto stumbled back a few steps, shocked not just by the outburst but by the fact that this complete stranger seemed to know who he was.

“It’s me.”

Kakegawa stepped up from behind and boldly wrapped his arms around Hashimoto.

“My very own Dietrich. Handsome, right?”

He kissed Hashimoto on the cheek, right there in front of everyone. It felt like the lights went out in his head. When he chose Kakegawa, when he told his parents about his sexuality, he’d thought he was prepared—but he’d never imagined being dragged around in public like this. He’d wanted to keep things discreet, unnoticed by others. But his younger lover didn’t seem to care in the slightest.

The gaudy man glared daggers at Hashimoto, barely holding back his rage.

“I get it now—what you meant when you said he was a nasty piece of work. You weren’t kidding. Picking this guy of all people? You’ve got some real garbage taste, don’t you.”

Being called tasteless by a man like him made something burn deep in his gut. He didn’t know a thing about him and yet pretended like he did—what gave him the right?

“I’m afraid I don’t know who you are,” he said, still managing to keep his tone polite.

The man pressed a hand to his forehead and laughed breathily. “Don’t know me, huh. Yeah, I figured you wouldn’t remember.”

Then, right by his ear, Kakegawa whispered,

“…Remember what you said before? About that guy who tried selling tickets for some indie film back in the day? That was him. His name’s Yamaoka Hajime. He actually became a director.”

“Oh, that guy. Wow. He really made it, huh.”

Yamaoka’s fists clenched, his whole body trembling.

“You bet I did. Huge success. The same guy you ripped to shreds back then is now the big-shot Director. How do you like that, huh?”

The sneer in his voice made it hard to just let it go. No way he was walking away without saying something.

“I figured you’d be a loser forever, but good for you—guess you managed to find a job the world actually respects. Though you might want to do something about that hideous outfit. Or is that how all directors have to dress these days?”

Silence fell. Then, his face turning beet red, Yamaoka lunged at Hashimoto, only to be held back from behind by several staff members.

“Let me go! I’m gonna punch him!”

Hashimoto sighed dramatically and shrugged.

“Oh come on, violence? That’s so typical of someone with no brain. I always thought being a director was more of an intellectual job, but judging by you, I guess I was wrong.”

Yamaoka, thrashing like a wild beast in a cage, stomped the ground furiously, shouting for them to let him hit him.

“Don’t get so full of yourself just ’cause you’re a homo. Kakegawa’s way too good for trash like you. Like giving pearls to a pig. Maybe it’s your pretty face or that scrawny little body—I don’t know what kind of tricks you pulled to get him.”

That pushed Hashimoto to the edge. He couldn’t stay quiet after being insulted like that. He shot back, voice heavy with sarcasm.

“To think someone who calls himself a director holds such prejudice against minorities… I guess that explains the limits of your work.”

Both of them fell silent, yet the air between them still crackled with tension.

“Whoa… it’s like a mongoose and a cobra,” someone muttered in the back. A slap followed. “Idiot.”

“Director, we have to move on to the next shoot…”

Still held by the shoulders, Yamaoka was dragged away, grumbling the whole time.

As Hashimoto stood there, bristling like an angry cat, Kakegawa gently smoothed a hand down his back to calm him.

“So you knew,” Hashimoto said.

“Yeah.”

“And you still brought me here?”

“I knew… but I just wanted to be with you.”

Leaving the now center-of-attention Hashimoto behind, Kakegawa returned to the set.

Hashimoto… focused intently on adjusting the high heels, as if that could block out the voices around him.

From behind him, a conversation between two unknown staff members drifted over.

“Hey, which one wins again—the cobra or the mongoose?”

“How the hell should I know…”

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