いとしいこと

Previous   TOC   Next Even though he’d said, “I never want to set foot on a film set again,” he was practically dragged back there every day. At first, Kakegawa’s unabashedly affectionate behavior in public stunned everyone around them and cast a shadow over Hashimoto’s expression. But once he got used to it, those stares stopped bothering him. The constant squabbles with the director had also become almost routine. It had been exactly two weeks since he’d stormed out of his house and holed up in Kakegawa’s apartment. That morning, he was woken with a kiss, and just as Kakegawa’s lips drifted down to his bare chest, the air turned charged with that dangerous tension that signaled they might tumble straight into sex. Trying to shake it off, Hashimoto gave Kakegawa’s ear a deliberately rough pinch. “I’m not going with you to the set today.” Kakegawa tilted his head. “Why not? Because you can’t stand the director?” “I don’t care about that guy anymore.” When Hashimoto gave a wry...

Previous   TOC   Next 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 t...

Previous   TOC   Next Second Serenade: What Came After When he was made to put on a thick sweater topped with a gaudy windbreaker in a clashing primary color—definitely not what one would call tasteful—and even had a pair of black leather gloves firmly pulled onto his hands, Michiya Hashimoto couldn’t help feeling rather displeased. He hadn’t been keen on coming along in the first place, but when he was told to come, he resigned himself and put on his shoes. A fleeting glance at the mirror in the entryway caught his reflection. The outfit looked cheap, and that made him feel as if he had become cheap too. The thought dampened his mood. Though it was already December, the early afternoon sun made the weather relatively mild. It didn’t feel cold enough to warrant such heavy clothing. But completely unaware of these silent grumblings, his lover took Hashimoto’s hand and led him along. They ended up behind the apartment building, at the bicycle parking area. There, his lover yank...