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puss_nd_bootsTitle: You Who Are Irreplaceable
Chapter: Standalone
Author: Boots
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Drama, mystery, romance
Warning: Discussion of a past suicide
Pairing: Junji x Mahiro (Kiryu)
Disclaimer: Kiryu is property of BP Records, I own the story only. This fic is also based on elements from the motion picture Bohemian Rhapsody, which is property of 20th Century Fox.
Summary: Mahiro is an actor who has taken the world by storm with his screen portrayal of a beloved, deceased rock legend – until he suddenly starts proclaiming that he’s unworthy of the accolades and awards he’s receiving. Junji, his co-star and lover, tries to get to the bottom of this sudden change of heart – and discovers a startling secret.
Comments: My March vkyaoi challenge fill, using Moodboard 13: Nightlife and Quote 17: “To you who are irreplaceable, to the unchanging wind, to the unending night, always and forever.” See other, spoileriffic notes at the end of the fic.
Junji sat in the bar, over at the far side, enjoying a beer and a rare moment of quiet. He wondered how long it was going to be, though, before that quiet was interrupted. Such moments were rare, you see, when you were a co-star in one of the hottest films of the year, and it was the middle of awards season.
He knew as soon as he was cast that his life was going to become a whirlwind, of course. You didn’t sign on to a biopic of Mizuno – the vocalist of Kogo, one of the biggest bands of the early visual kei era – and think that everything was going to be quiet and mellow. Kogo still had a passionate following, both of original fans and new ones, and Mizuno was a mythic figure – something that tended to happen when popular musicians died young under shadowy circumstances.
The full extent of the craziness, however, wasn’t something he planned on. Like the film becoming the biggest of the year, shattering box office records its first week and continuing to shatter them over and over. Or the number of awards nominations that were pouring in. Or the fact that Junji’s Twitter and Instagram followings had blown up to almost ridiculous numbers.
“And I wasn’t even the star,” he murmured. No, he wasn’t the one tasked with portraying Mizuno onscreen. That . . . was somebody else. Someone . . . who was very special to him.
He pulled his phone out, opening his most commonly used contact, and typed, “Hey, babe, how are you holding up?”
The return text he received was, “The interview is over, thank God. I’m just kind of wandering around Shibuya right now, trying to clear my head.”
“Want me to wander with you?” Junji typed back. “I’m not that far from Shibuya.”
“That would be great.” This was followed by a location. “Ten minutes?”
“I can be there in five.”
Junji pocketed his phone and reached into his pocket for the face mask that was mandatory for going out in public nowadays. He’d found out he couldn’t even go to the conbini without someone approaching him and saying, “Hey, aren’t you the guy who played Shitateya in Kirakuin?”
Yes, discretion was a thing nowadays. God forbid the public, and the press, find out he was romantically involved with the movie’s star.
* * *
He emerged from Shibuya Station and headed in the general direction of 109. He saw the small figure huddled in the leather jacket, with a mask over his face and a cap covering his hair, standing in front of the Starbucks, like he said he’d be.
“Hey, there,” Junji said. “You look inconspicuous.”
“I’d better be. I’ve had a night.”
“The interviewer was a clueless idiot?” They started to walk, crossing the street and turning a corner.
“The usual. He asked me how it felt to be nominated for the Japan Academy Prize right off the bat, of course.”
“Well, you’ve come to expect that, right?”
“Unfortunately. And then there was a bunch of questions about Mizuno. What were my impressions of him living as a bisexual man before that was acceptable, why did I think his music was still popular, what were my takeaways from playing him . . .”
“This guy went to the Cookie Cutter School of Journalism, didn’t he?”
“Oh, that wasn’t the worst. That came after he got done asking me what was next in my career. He took me to a gay district and photographed me in front of a big, pink neon sign that said, ‘BOYS, BOYS, BOYS.’ This was after promising me that the article would be respectful of Mizuno and his sexuality. I mean, Mizuno put up with enough crap about that when he was alive. He doesn’t need it now.”
Junji winced. Mahiro always seemed very protective of the man he’d portrayed on screen. Well, why wouldn’t he? His performance as Mizuno had been extremely intense. He’d inhabited the role unlike anyone Junji had ever seen.
“I’m going to be so, so glad when awards season is over.” Mahiro paused, tipping his head back, studying the tops of the buildings around him. “I thought that something like this was all I ever wanted, but . . .”
“It’s nuts,” Junji said. “I understand, love. And it’s been especially crazy for you. You have to contend with the press, Mizuno’s fans, the people who talk crap about the movie . . .”
“And the awards,” Mahiro said, quietly. “Just . . . the . . . awards.”
“It triples the pressure when there’s a possibility they’re going to give you one of those damn statues,” Junji said, nodding. “And really – in the end, why do they mean so much? The Japan Academy Prize isn’t even attractive. It’s not elegant like the movie awards they give out in America. It looks like a pile of random junk.”
“That pile of junk carries a lot of weight,” Mahiro said, still staring at the top of the buildings.
Junji tipped his head back so he could see the view that was engrossing Mahiro so much. The building tops seemed to be engulfing them, spiraling out in all directions, like columns connecting earth to heaven.
“But it’s a good weight, isn’t it?” Junji said. “For the rest of your life, you’ll be known as Japan Academy Prize Nominee Kurosaki Mahiro, even if you don’t win it. And it’ll kick open doors. You’ll get cast in prestige projects and hired by big-name directors.” He lowered his head and playfully nudged Mahiro. “Hey, if you’re lucky, you might even be cast in the lead if they make another live-action Gundam.”
But Mahiro didn’t answer. He just stared quietly at the tops of the buildings for a moment . . . then lowered his gaze all the way to street level, so he was staring at a manhole cover.
“I don’t know if I deserve it,” he said, softly. “Any of it.”
“What are you talking about, love?” Junji put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed – the most affection he allowed in public. “You were magnificent. You gave the performance of a lifetime. Everyone on the set . . . we were awed by you. I mean, you WERE Mizuno. Even Shitateya himself told me it was like having him back again.”
“I cheated,” Mahiro said in a barely audible voice.
Junji looked baffled. Did he say . . . cheated? How could one cheat with an acting performance? Especially one as brilliant as the one Mahiro gave?
“Mahiro?” he said, softly. “Babe?”
Mahiro blinked and looked at him. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Just . . . just feeling the pressure.”
“It’s okay,” Junji said. “You don’t have to. Hey, I’ve got an idea. Let’s go back to my place, crack a bottle of Suntory, watch something silly on TV and eat a pile of junk food. And then, retreat to the bedroom, and . . .” His hand tightened on his shoulder again. “Hey, whatever happens, happens, right?”
Mahiro suddenly threw his arms around Junji, not caring that they were on the sidewalk. “What did I do to deserve you?” he said.
“Nothing,” Junji said. “You’re just you. That’s all you have to do.”
In the back of his mind, though, he was still mulling over his lover’s words. Cheated? Whatever could he mean by that?
* * *
Junji waited in the corner booth of a restaurant, waiting for the interviewer that was due to arrive. I just hope this guy is less clueless than the one Mahiro had yesterday, he thought.
His lover had been in considerably better spirits once they’d gotten back to Junji’s place. They’d eaten popcorn and drank Coke with whiskey and made love like he’d said, and Mahiro hadn’t said a single additional word about not deserving his awards nominations or “cheating.” He’d left in the morning for a meeting with his agent.
I’ll be happy when awards season is over, too, Junji thought. It seems to be taking a lot out of him – a lot more than I thought it would.
While he was waiting, he flipped through his social media feed, searching the hashtag for the movie. There was speculation as to whether Mahiro would win the Academy Prize, with many film critics saying, “It’s probably his to lose – even though the movie didn’t deserve it.”
Junji sighed and rolled his eyes. Of course, the critics didn’t like the movie itself. “Trite,” they’d called it. “Paint-by-numbers biopic.” “The only good things about it are Mahiro’s performance and Kogo’s timeless music.”
Of course they didn’t like it, Junji thought. Critics don’t like anything popular. Well, it’s still up for the Academy Prize for Best Picture, so at least the judges liked it.
A young man in preppy clothes approached the table. “Excuse me, Tokai-san?” he said. “I’m Yamanaka-san, I spoke to you on the phone.”
“Yes, hi,” Junji shook his hand. “It’s a pleasure.”
“No, the pleasure’s all mine. I’ve been a fan of Kogo all my life, and I loved the film.”
“Glad someone did,” Junji said. “I was just reading the critic feed.” He rolled his eyes. “You’d think we insulted their mothers.”
“Critics don’t always know everything.”
“You’re telling me.”
“Anyway, I’d like to get started by asking you a little about the making of the film,” the journalist said. “You had two of the original members of Kogo on-set at all time, yes?”
Junji nodded. “Shitateya and Tsuki, yes. In a way, it was kind of intimidating. You felt a constant pressure to get it RIGHT. But at least I always knew if my performance was on-point – and Shitateya did help me learn how to play the drums like him. He could get pretty tough on me sometimes. I think he was hardest on the stylists, though. He kept saying things like, ‘No, my hair was two shades lighter then!’”
The journalist laughed. “How do you think it affected Mahiro? His performance was . . . well, I don’t even think intense is a strong enough word . . .”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Junji said. “He’d arrive on the set, and he’d be his cheerful self. And then, when we were getting ready to shoot, he’d go in his trailer and meditate for awhile, and when he came out . . . he WAS Mizuno. It was amazing. Voice, mannerisms, everything. He’d stay in character all day, even when the cameras weren’t rolling. It was TOTAL method acting. He even drank melon soda all the time, like Mizuno used to. Then, when we wrapped for the day, he’d go in his trailer and meditate again, and he’d come out as himself.”
Maybe, Junji thought, that’s why he said he cheated? Because he used method acting? Because he stayed in character at all times? But method acting is a legitimate way of doing film. Hell, that’s how Brando achieved his greatest performances. Nobody ever accused HIM of cheating.
“You said he’d meditate?”
“Oh, yes. We’d smell the incense when he came out – it was very strong. Hey, anything to get in the proper headspace, right?”
“So how did the rest of the cast relate to him?”
“Well, when we were on-set? We treated him like he WAS Mizuno. We figured it would help him stay in that headspace and enhance his performance. Even Shitateya and Tsuki did – in fact, Tsuki had to walk away from the set in tears sometimes, because he said it was like Mizuno came back to life.”
And is THAT why he thought he was cheating? Junji thought. Because we helped him? Because we treated him like Mizuno at all times? But . . . that’s professionalism, right? And why is this bugging me so much?
“Well, whatever you did, it worked. He’s already received a couple of awards for the performance, and now he’s up for the big one . . .”
“And I couldn’t be more proud of him,” Junji said. “He deserves it, no matter what . . . anyone says.” I almost said no matter what HE says, he thought. Why did I think that?
“I couldn’t agree more,” the journalist said. “Now, let’s talk about you. Why did you decide to go for this part? Before this, you were mainly known for supporting roles in teen TV dramas.”
“Because I was sick of teen TV dramas,” Junji said, jokingly. “No, seriously, people have told me all my life that I resemble Shitateya, so when the opportunity to play him came up? I knew I’d be a fool to pass it up. It was like I was born to do it. So when the producers gave me an appointment for an audition, I went out right away and found a teacher who’d give me a crash course in drums . . .”
But even as he talked about his own career, the image was in the back of his mind of Mahiro staring at those buildings, then that manhole, saying he didn’t deserve any of his success. Why did he think that way? Why did everyone say he deserved his success . . . except him?
* * *
Later on, he was in his apartment answering E-mails, when on impulse, he pulled up a video of Mahiro accepting the first award he’d won for his performance, the Japanese Movie Critics Award. He was standing at the podium, gripping the award, tightly, looking a bit nervous.
“This award is for Mizuno,” the Mahiro on the screen said. “Visual kei – no, Japanese rock in general – wouldn’t be what it is now if not for him. He has profoundly influenced so many lives – and he is the heart and soul of this film even more than anyone could ever know.”
He raised the award to the heavens and continued, “To you who are irreplaceable, to the unchanging wind, to the unending night, always and forever. Thank you.” He bowed and left the stage, and the audience applauded.
Mahiro had quoted one of Mizuno’s own lyrics at the end, Junji thought, but he chose them carefully, didn’t he? He wanted to convey the very essence of the man he’d played – the wind that is a constant in our lives, like Mizuno’s music, and the night – the shadows – that he always seemed to live in. Hiding his true sexuality, burying his pain and loneliness behind public flamboyance . . .
And, of course, his shadowy death. Nobody knew what happened – Mizuno committed suicide out of the blue. There was speculation that he’d been diagnosed with AIDS or terminal cancer.
No wonder Mahiro threw himself so intensely into playing him. Being Mizuno was a heavy weight to carry.
The video had switched to the afterparty following the awards. The main cast of the film – including Mahiro – was sitting on a shag rug in the corner of a nightclub, swigging champagne directly from bottles as press cameras clicked. Mitsuki, who’d played Tsuki, even poured champagne over Mahiro’s head, and the smaller actor laughed, shielding his award from the bubbly flow.
He looks so happy there, Junji thought. You’d never know there was anything wrong, that he had mixed feelings about the award in his hand.
That picture had been taken a few months after they’d started dating. They’d had chemistry with each other during the filming – at least when Mahiro was out of character – but Mahiro had refused to get involved with a co-star while the cameras were rolling, and Junji agreed. Shortly afterward, though, they’d fallen into a close and loving relationship and made up for lost time.
Maybe not close enough, Junji thought. Maybe I don’t know enough about him. Could he be hiding darkness like Mizuno did? Is that why he feels such a kinship with Mizuno? He’s hiding darkness that might . . . destroy him?
Worry suddenly swept through Junji. That wasn’t going to happen. Not on his watch.
He grabbed his phone and looked for the number of the person who he knew was closest to Mahiro – other than Junji himself. His agent.
She’d started representing Junji also since the movie came out, so she probably wouldn’t think anything was unusual about getting a call from him. She should be done with her meeting with him by now, he thought.
The phone picked up, and a crisp voice on the other end said, “Kinoshita Agency, this is Saito Emi speaking.”
“Saito-san, it’s Tokai-san. How are you doing?”
“Junji, I told you that you don’t need to be formal with me. How was the interview?”
“Refreshingly non-clueless. But that’s not what I called about.”
“Oh? You’re not getting harassed on social media, are you?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s . . . it’s Mahiro.” Fortunately, Saito-san knew about their relationship, and could be trusted to keep her lip zipped about it. “You saw him this morning. What kind of mood was he in?”
“Very straightforward and businesslike, really. We talked about his photoshoot this afternoon, with the other Academy Prize nominees. That was about it. Why?”
“He was down last night. He was saying he doesn’t deserve the nomination. That he, well, faked his performance.”
She let out a long sigh. “I had a feeling awards season would do this to him,” she said.
“You did?”
“He’s had it tough, what with the whole estrangement from his parents. That affects his self-esteem sometimes.”
“He didn’t tell me he was estranged from his parents,” Junji said. “I mean, he doesn’t talk about his family, other than his sister – he still sees her. But he’s said nothing about his parents.”
“His sister is the one person he’s still in contact with,” Saito-san said. “His parents and brother . . . I don’t think they’ve said a word to him since he decided to be an actor.”
Well, this was definitely news to Junji. “Why?” he said. “I mean, acting’s a respectable profession. It’s not like back in the early days of kabuki when all actors were considered prostitutes. Why didn’t they want him to pursue what he wants to do?”
“You don’t know that Kurosaki is a stage name, do you?”
Okay, that was out of the blue. “He didn’t say anything to me about that. I . . . I always thought that was his name?”
“No. His real family name is Kamo.”
At first, Junji was puzzled. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it. And then, it sank in. Kamo was the name of the oldest, most respectable practitioners of . . .
“Wait a minute,” he said. “His family are onmyoji?”
“Direct descendants of Kamo no Yasunori” – one of the most famous onmyoji of all time. “His father wanted Mahiro to follow in the family’s traditional footsteps. He was trained in divination and working with the spirits. He had a talent for it, too – especially channeling. But it wasn’t where his heart was. He wanted to be an actor – and he just walked out on the family, moved to Tokyo and signed with me.”
Junji knew the story from there – Mahiro got into a few TV dramas, landed the lead role in one about a teen hacker, and his career was on its way. And then, he was cast as Mizuno when the film’s original leading man backed out . . .
Bits and pieces of the puzzle were coming together. The fact that Mahiro literally seemed to become Mizuno on-set. The fact that the original band members said they felt like they were in their late bandmate’s presence. The family history . . .
“Thank you for your time, Saito-san,” he said. “I’ll talk to you later, all right?”
“Okay! See you at the awards, if I don’t see you sooner!”
He hung up the phone and looked at the time. Mahiro would be at the photoshoot until about five. And then, he’d probably go straight home . . .
Junji felt full of nervous energy, like he was going to burst. He was going to have to wait until then to get his final answers – but he had a feeling what they were going to be.
* * *
He rushed to his lover’s apartment and rang the door. There was a pause, a shuffle of feet, and then the door opened.
“Junji?” Mahiro said. “Why didn’t you text first?”
“Sorry,” Junji said. “I wanted to see you. I need to talk to you, and . . .”
“Have a seat,” Mahiro said. “I’m taking off my makeup from the shoot.”
Junji sat on the couch and looked around the room. There was a traditional woodblock print on the wall, which showed a holy man holding a sheaf of ofuda in his hand. On the table was a large incense burner. The bookshelves contained a number of titles on traditional mysticism.
He’d been here a hundred times before and overlooked it all. Now, he was seeing it with new eyes.
Mahiro’s awards were on top of the bookcase, next to a framed photo of the actors who’d played the members of Kogo, all clustered in the doorway of the dingy, tiny livehouse where the band had played their first shows. It was the only artifact of the film on display.
Mahiro came out, clean-faced, wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants. “What’s wrong?” he said. “You look worried.”
Junji took a deep breath. “I know, Mahiro,” he said. “I know why you said you cheated on your performance.”
Mahiro looked baffled. “I was just feeling the pressure, Junji. Like I said.”
“You used your family’s art during filming, didn’t you?” he said. “When you seemed to be Mizuno on the set . . . it really WAS Mizuno. You were channeling him, weren’t you?”
Mahiro looked down. He wrung his hands, glanced up at the awards, wrung his hands again . . .
“How do you know?” he said.
“Saito-san told me about your family,” he said. “About your training, and your estrangement from them. And during my interview this morning, we were talking about how much you seemed to be Mizuno on-set even when the cameras weren’t rolling. Whenever you went into your trailer, and came out as him, there was a strong smell of incense . . .”
Mahiro looked at the far wall. He reached out and gripped the arm of the sofa. When he spoke, he was still facing away from Junji.
“When I got the role,” he said, “I was thrilled. It was the chance of a lifetime. It’s all I could have asked for as an actor. I started preparing right away – I met with Shitateya and Tsuki, tracked down as many of his friends and lovers as I could, studied every frame of video of him I could find . . .”
He gripped the chair harder. “But there was this nagging voice in my head that said I HAD to get this performance completely right. That I could leave nothing to chance. That if it was the slightest bit off, the fans of Kogo would know, and they’d crucify me. If it was done right, it would make my career, but if I got it wrong? I’d be destroyed. My career would be over – and I couldn’t go back to my family. Not after the break with them. I’d be spending the rest of my life working the prize counter at a pachinko parlor.”
“So you went to the source,” Junji said.
“At first, I just talked with his spirit,” Mahiro said. “I’d summon him and ask questions. I read him the script, and he said it got a lot wrong, but it also got a lot right. It was true to . . . his essence, so to speak. I asked him about his stage moves – and he said he’d walk me through it from the inside. So I channeled him, and we went through some songs, and from that . . .”
“You took it a step further and decided to have him play himself.”
“I don’t know which one of us first came up with the idea,” Mahiro said. “But ultimately, that’s what we decided to do. He memorized the script with my help, and every day, I’d go into my trailer to perform the rite to channel him. And then we’d go out, and he’d play himself.”
“Oh, my God,” Junji said. No wonder he seemed to be another person. No wonder he never broke character. He WAS the character. Mahiro was a mere shell, a container for Mizuno.
“He loved the experience, by the way,” he said. “He loved having the chance to review his own life. He saw all the things he’d do over if he could. And he especially loved the performance scenes. He lived to be onstage. That’s why I always sang when we filmed lives instead of just lip-syncing, even though they dubbed in recordings of Mizuno later. He wanted to sing again.”
“Was it hard?” Junji said. “Carrying around all his pain?”
“He’s moved past the pain now,” Mahiro said. “Though he said he relived a lot of it when we were filming. The worst part for him was being near Shitateya and Tsuki and not being able to tell them it was REALLY him. He said there was a lot he wanted to talk to them about – like why he committed suicide.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“The rumors about him having cancer were true,” Mahiro said. “He held on with it longer than people realize – he was having experimental treatments in secret for years. When he knew he was going into the final stages of it, he didn’t want to put the people he loved through watching him die a lingering, painful death.”
Junji felt a lump in his throat. He could only imagine what the entire experience was like for Mahiro. First, the heavy weight of channeling a spirit for the entire length of filming, and then having people praise his performance, when it wasn’t really HIM . . .
“Nobody can know,” Mahiro said, quickly. “Nobody can know any of it. I’ll be exposed as a fraud.”
“You aren’t a fraud, Mahiro.”
“Yes, I am. I’m getting the awards, but I didn’t give the performance.”
“But you ARE a brilliant actor. I’ve seen the work you did before this film, Mahiro. The one about the boy who was dying. The hacker series. You were amazing. You got an award for your TV acting, didn’t you?”
Mahiro nodded toward the shelf, at one trophy that stood apart from the film ones. “Best Supporting Actor, yes.”
“Did you do any channeling then? Or was it all you?”
“No . . . that was REAL acting.”
“Well, then, you do have it in you, don’t you? And now that this movie has kicked down the door to theatrical films, you can show the world what you’re really about. You can use your REAL acting skills. And if I know you? You’re going to blow the world away. You’re going to make everyone forget this performance – because you’re going to surpass it.”
Mahiro reached over and put his hand on Junji’s. Junji gripped it.
“This experience . . .” Mahiro said. “It’s made me determined to prove myself. To do an acting role without help from my family’s art, and make it my own.”
“And you will,” Junji said. “Ten years from now? You’ll have a whole ROW of those awards. And you’ll have EARNED them. Don’t think of this as cheating. Think of this as opening a door to the next phase of your career.”
“It WILL be,” Mahiro said.
“There you go!” Junji said. “That’s the spirit!” He hugged him. “And I’ll be with you every step of the way – even if I can’t do it publicly.”
They clung to each other for a long moment, Mahiro resting his head on Junji’s shoulder. And then, he said, “He liked you, you know.”
“He did?”
“Well, first of all, he liked your performance. He said you were so much Shitateya that he wanted to punch you in the smug face sometimes.”
“That sounds like what he’d say about Shitateya.” The vocalist and his drummer had an outwardly prickly relationship sometimes, but there was never any doubt that they were best of friends and loved each other like brothers.
“But he liked you as YOU. And he knew that I was thinking of going out with you after the shoot was over, and I was no longer . . . you know.”
“When your head was occupied just by YOU,” Junji said.
“Exactly. He kept goading me about asking you out, and he said he was going to haunt me after the shoot if I didn’t do it.”
“Well, I have a lot to thank him for, don’t I?”
“We both do,” Mahiro said, softly.
They clung to each other and kissed, as a breeze blew through the apartment – even though none of the windows were open. The curtains fluttered slightly, and a sunbeam seemed to be directed at the picture of the actors playing the members of Kogo.
It was as if Mizuno was showing his approval.
* * *
On the night of the Japan Academy Prize presentation, Mahiro was very calm. He smiled and waved at fans, answered press questions graciously, and posed for pictures with both the film’s cast and the real Shitateya and Tsuki – who were going to perform during the show in a supergroup featuring members of contemporary visual kei bands.
Just before they went in to take their seats, Mahiro found Junji on the red carpet as the latter was talking to two actors he’d worked with in TV. “Guess what?” Mahiro said.
“Your bow tie is crooked?” Junji said.
“It is?” Mahiro looked panicked.
“Yes, it is, but I’ll fix it.” Junji twisted the tie. It sprang back into the crooked position. He twisted it again.
“Anyway,” Mahiro said, “Guess who just got cast in the new Inagaki Baku film?”
“Whoa,” Junji said. “That’s one heavy director. How many awards does he have?”
“About a whole roomful. He came up to me and said he’d written a heist script and he wanted me for the lead. I don’t even have to read for him.”
“Awesome!” Junji gave up on the tie and patted Mahiro on the back. Again, he had to be very careful with public displays of affection. Some things hadn’t changed from Mizuno’s day.
“I’m going to give him the best performance anybody ever gave,” Mahiro said. Lowering his voice, he added, “And it will be all ME.”
“Of course, it will,” Junji said. He had no doubt that Mahiro was going to take that determination to prove himself and turn it into a performance that would eclipse any other he’d ever given – including this one.
Much, much later, after a seemingly endless number of awards and speeches and more speeches and STILL more eternal speeches, Mahiro’s name was called as the winner of the Best Actor award. He bounded toward the stage with energy and hoisted the statue that Junji had once called a “pile of junk.”
“This award,” he said, “is for Mizuno. He inspires me, just like he inspires young people all around the globe to this day. His passion, drive, creativity and originality are legendary – and may we all channel a bit of it in our everyday lives.”
Junji applauded thunderously with the rest of them. But only he knew the significance of the word “channel.”
“But this award is also for every young person with a dream,” Mahiro added. “Everyone who’s facing adversity and objection when it comes to doing what they really want to do. I say, we all should live like Mizuno in that case. Push past adversity. Go for it, no matter what it takes. Use every means at your disposal. Because when you arrive on the other end, and that dream is within your grasp . . . the world is suddenly a better place.”
He’s at peace with what he did to get that award, Junji thought. He’s thinking of it as a means to an end, as the way to prove himself once and for all, that his family was wrong to object to his acting career.
“And so, I say to him, and to all you dreamers . . .” He held the trophy up to the heavens and recited, ‘To you who are irreplaceable, to the unchanging wind, to the unending night, always and forever.’”
The audience leapt to its feet in a standing ovation as Mahiro left the stage. Junji was clapping harder than anyone.
Next to him, Mitsuki was saying, “Well, that’s it. Mahiro got the big one. The Kogo chapter in our lives is officially closed.”
Yes, Junji thought. The Kogo chapter is closed. Mizuno’s spirit is free now. And maybe it’s time for it to close, and for all of us to move on. Especially Mahiro.
“It is,” Junji said. “But something else is about to begin, isn’t it?”
END NOTES: The concept of an actor actually channeling the deceased public figure he’s playing onscreen was a half-formed idea I had sitting around for awhile – until Bohemian Rhapsody and its fandom gave me a framework. When browsing through the tag for the movie on Tumblr out of curiosity – since it seemed to trend very, very often – I came across fans joking about Rami Malek channeling Freddie Mercury, or communicating with his spirit. Boom, the half-formed idea became a fully formed one. The names in this story are all drawn from Bohorap: Mizuno = Sailor MERCURY, Kogo = Empress (Queen), Tsuki = May (Brian May), Shitateya = Tailor (Roger Taylor), and Kirakuin = Killer Queen (since I figured that would be easier to put into Japanese than Bohemian Rhapsody). Many of the details of Mahiro in this fic are also drawn from Rami Malek – previous TV role as a hacker and TV acting awards, becoming romantically involved with a co-star, crooked bow tie on the biggest awards night of his life. (Bohorap has also shattered box office records in Japan and won the Japan Academy Prize for Best Foreign Language Movie.) The song Mahiro quotes in his award speeches is actually my prompt quote and is by Luna Sea, not Queen or Kiryu.
Chapter: Standalone
Author: Boots
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Drama, mystery, romance
Warning: Discussion of a past suicide
Pairing: Junji x Mahiro (Kiryu)
Disclaimer: Kiryu is property of BP Records, I own the story only. This fic is also based on elements from the motion picture Bohemian Rhapsody, which is property of 20th Century Fox.
Summary: Mahiro is an actor who has taken the world by storm with his screen portrayal of a beloved, deceased rock legend – until he suddenly starts proclaiming that he’s unworthy of the accolades and awards he’s receiving. Junji, his co-star and lover, tries to get to the bottom of this sudden change of heart – and discovers a startling secret.
Comments: My March vkyaoi challenge fill, using Moodboard 13: Nightlife and Quote 17: “To you who are irreplaceable, to the unchanging wind, to the unending night, always and forever.” See other, spoileriffic notes at the end of the fic.
Junji sat in the bar, over at the far side, enjoying a beer and a rare moment of quiet. He wondered how long it was going to be, though, before that quiet was interrupted. Such moments were rare, you see, when you were a co-star in one of the hottest films of the year, and it was the middle of awards season.
He knew as soon as he was cast that his life was going to become a whirlwind, of course. You didn’t sign on to a biopic of Mizuno – the vocalist of Kogo, one of the biggest bands of the early visual kei era – and think that everything was going to be quiet and mellow. Kogo still had a passionate following, both of original fans and new ones, and Mizuno was a mythic figure – something that tended to happen when popular musicians died young under shadowy circumstances.
The full extent of the craziness, however, wasn’t something he planned on. Like the film becoming the biggest of the year, shattering box office records its first week and continuing to shatter them over and over. Or the number of awards nominations that were pouring in. Or the fact that Junji’s Twitter and Instagram followings had blown up to almost ridiculous numbers.
“And I wasn’t even the star,” he murmured. No, he wasn’t the one tasked with portraying Mizuno onscreen. That . . . was somebody else. Someone . . . who was very special to him.
He pulled his phone out, opening his most commonly used contact, and typed, “Hey, babe, how are you holding up?”
The return text he received was, “The interview is over, thank God. I’m just kind of wandering around Shibuya right now, trying to clear my head.”
“Want me to wander with you?” Junji typed back. “I’m not that far from Shibuya.”
“That would be great.” This was followed by a location. “Ten minutes?”
“I can be there in five.”
Junji pocketed his phone and reached into his pocket for the face mask that was mandatory for going out in public nowadays. He’d found out he couldn’t even go to the conbini without someone approaching him and saying, “Hey, aren’t you the guy who played Shitateya in Kirakuin?”
Yes, discretion was a thing nowadays. God forbid the public, and the press, find out he was romantically involved with the movie’s star.
* * *
He emerged from Shibuya Station and headed in the general direction of 109. He saw the small figure huddled in the leather jacket, with a mask over his face and a cap covering his hair, standing in front of the Starbucks, like he said he’d be.
“Hey, there,” Junji said. “You look inconspicuous.”
“I’d better be. I’ve had a night.”
“The interviewer was a clueless idiot?” They started to walk, crossing the street and turning a corner.
“The usual. He asked me how it felt to be nominated for the Japan Academy Prize right off the bat, of course.”
“Well, you’ve come to expect that, right?”
“Unfortunately. And then there was a bunch of questions about Mizuno. What were my impressions of him living as a bisexual man before that was acceptable, why did I think his music was still popular, what were my takeaways from playing him . . .”
“This guy went to the Cookie Cutter School of Journalism, didn’t he?”
“Oh, that wasn’t the worst. That came after he got done asking me what was next in my career. He took me to a gay district and photographed me in front of a big, pink neon sign that said, ‘BOYS, BOYS, BOYS.’ This was after promising me that the article would be respectful of Mizuno and his sexuality. I mean, Mizuno put up with enough crap about that when he was alive. He doesn’t need it now.”
Junji winced. Mahiro always seemed very protective of the man he’d portrayed on screen. Well, why wouldn’t he? His performance as Mizuno had been extremely intense. He’d inhabited the role unlike anyone Junji had ever seen.
“I’m going to be so, so glad when awards season is over.” Mahiro paused, tipping his head back, studying the tops of the buildings around him. “I thought that something like this was all I ever wanted, but . . .”
“It’s nuts,” Junji said. “I understand, love. And it’s been especially crazy for you. You have to contend with the press, Mizuno’s fans, the people who talk crap about the movie . . .”
“And the awards,” Mahiro said, quietly. “Just . . . the . . . awards.”
“It triples the pressure when there’s a possibility they’re going to give you one of those damn statues,” Junji said, nodding. “And really – in the end, why do they mean so much? The Japan Academy Prize isn’t even attractive. It’s not elegant like the movie awards they give out in America. It looks like a pile of random junk.”
“That pile of junk carries a lot of weight,” Mahiro said, still staring at the top of the buildings.
Junji tipped his head back so he could see the view that was engrossing Mahiro so much. The building tops seemed to be engulfing them, spiraling out in all directions, like columns connecting earth to heaven.
“But it’s a good weight, isn’t it?” Junji said. “For the rest of your life, you’ll be known as Japan Academy Prize Nominee Kurosaki Mahiro, even if you don’t win it. And it’ll kick open doors. You’ll get cast in prestige projects and hired by big-name directors.” He lowered his head and playfully nudged Mahiro. “Hey, if you’re lucky, you might even be cast in the lead if they make another live-action Gundam.”
But Mahiro didn’t answer. He just stared quietly at the tops of the buildings for a moment . . . then lowered his gaze all the way to street level, so he was staring at a manhole cover.
“I don’t know if I deserve it,” he said, softly. “Any of it.”
“What are you talking about, love?” Junji put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed – the most affection he allowed in public. “You were magnificent. You gave the performance of a lifetime. Everyone on the set . . . we were awed by you. I mean, you WERE Mizuno. Even Shitateya himself told me it was like having him back again.”
“I cheated,” Mahiro said in a barely audible voice.
Junji looked baffled. Did he say . . . cheated? How could one cheat with an acting performance? Especially one as brilliant as the one Mahiro gave?
“Mahiro?” he said, softly. “Babe?”
Mahiro blinked and looked at him. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Just . . . just feeling the pressure.”
“It’s okay,” Junji said. “You don’t have to. Hey, I’ve got an idea. Let’s go back to my place, crack a bottle of Suntory, watch something silly on TV and eat a pile of junk food. And then, retreat to the bedroom, and . . .” His hand tightened on his shoulder again. “Hey, whatever happens, happens, right?”
Mahiro suddenly threw his arms around Junji, not caring that they were on the sidewalk. “What did I do to deserve you?” he said.
“Nothing,” Junji said. “You’re just you. That’s all you have to do.”
In the back of his mind, though, he was still mulling over his lover’s words. Cheated? Whatever could he mean by that?
* * *
Junji waited in the corner booth of a restaurant, waiting for the interviewer that was due to arrive. I just hope this guy is less clueless than the one Mahiro had yesterday, he thought.
His lover had been in considerably better spirits once they’d gotten back to Junji’s place. They’d eaten popcorn and drank Coke with whiskey and made love like he’d said, and Mahiro hadn’t said a single additional word about not deserving his awards nominations or “cheating.” He’d left in the morning for a meeting with his agent.
I’ll be happy when awards season is over, too, Junji thought. It seems to be taking a lot out of him – a lot more than I thought it would.
While he was waiting, he flipped through his social media feed, searching the hashtag for the movie. There was speculation as to whether Mahiro would win the Academy Prize, with many film critics saying, “It’s probably his to lose – even though the movie didn’t deserve it.”
Junji sighed and rolled his eyes. Of course, the critics didn’t like the movie itself. “Trite,” they’d called it. “Paint-by-numbers biopic.” “The only good things about it are Mahiro’s performance and Kogo’s timeless music.”
Of course they didn’t like it, Junji thought. Critics don’t like anything popular. Well, it’s still up for the Academy Prize for Best Picture, so at least the judges liked it.
A young man in preppy clothes approached the table. “Excuse me, Tokai-san?” he said. “I’m Yamanaka-san, I spoke to you on the phone.”
“Yes, hi,” Junji shook his hand. “It’s a pleasure.”
“No, the pleasure’s all mine. I’ve been a fan of Kogo all my life, and I loved the film.”
“Glad someone did,” Junji said. “I was just reading the critic feed.” He rolled his eyes. “You’d think we insulted their mothers.”
“Critics don’t always know everything.”
“You’re telling me.”
“Anyway, I’d like to get started by asking you a little about the making of the film,” the journalist said. “You had two of the original members of Kogo on-set at all time, yes?”
Junji nodded. “Shitateya and Tsuki, yes. In a way, it was kind of intimidating. You felt a constant pressure to get it RIGHT. But at least I always knew if my performance was on-point – and Shitateya did help me learn how to play the drums like him. He could get pretty tough on me sometimes. I think he was hardest on the stylists, though. He kept saying things like, ‘No, my hair was two shades lighter then!’”
The journalist laughed. “How do you think it affected Mahiro? His performance was . . . well, I don’t even think intense is a strong enough word . . .”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Junji said. “He’d arrive on the set, and he’d be his cheerful self. And then, when we were getting ready to shoot, he’d go in his trailer and meditate for awhile, and when he came out . . . he WAS Mizuno. It was amazing. Voice, mannerisms, everything. He’d stay in character all day, even when the cameras weren’t rolling. It was TOTAL method acting. He even drank melon soda all the time, like Mizuno used to. Then, when we wrapped for the day, he’d go in his trailer and meditate again, and he’d come out as himself.”
Maybe, Junji thought, that’s why he said he cheated? Because he used method acting? Because he stayed in character at all times? But method acting is a legitimate way of doing film. Hell, that’s how Brando achieved his greatest performances. Nobody ever accused HIM of cheating.
“You said he’d meditate?”
“Oh, yes. We’d smell the incense when he came out – it was very strong. Hey, anything to get in the proper headspace, right?”
“So how did the rest of the cast relate to him?”
“Well, when we were on-set? We treated him like he WAS Mizuno. We figured it would help him stay in that headspace and enhance his performance. Even Shitateya and Tsuki did – in fact, Tsuki had to walk away from the set in tears sometimes, because he said it was like Mizuno came back to life.”
And is THAT why he thought he was cheating? Junji thought. Because we helped him? Because we treated him like Mizuno at all times? But . . . that’s professionalism, right? And why is this bugging me so much?
“Well, whatever you did, it worked. He’s already received a couple of awards for the performance, and now he’s up for the big one . . .”
“And I couldn’t be more proud of him,” Junji said. “He deserves it, no matter what . . . anyone says.” I almost said no matter what HE says, he thought. Why did I think that?
“I couldn’t agree more,” the journalist said. “Now, let’s talk about you. Why did you decide to go for this part? Before this, you were mainly known for supporting roles in teen TV dramas.”
“Because I was sick of teen TV dramas,” Junji said, jokingly. “No, seriously, people have told me all my life that I resemble Shitateya, so when the opportunity to play him came up? I knew I’d be a fool to pass it up. It was like I was born to do it. So when the producers gave me an appointment for an audition, I went out right away and found a teacher who’d give me a crash course in drums . . .”
But even as he talked about his own career, the image was in the back of his mind of Mahiro staring at those buildings, then that manhole, saying he didn’t deserve any of his success. Why did he think that way? Why did everyone say he deserved his success . . . except him?
* * *
Later on, he was in his apartment answering E-mails, when on impulse, he pulled up a video of Mahiro accepting the first award he’d won for his performance, the Japanese Movie Critics Award. He was standing at the podium, gripping the award, tightly, looking a bit nervous.
“This award is for Mizuno,” the Mahiro on the screen said. “Visual kei – no, Japanese rock in general – wouldn’t be what it is now if not for him. He has profoundly influenced so many lives – and he is the heart and soul of this film even more than anyone could ever know.”
He raised the award to the heavens and continued, “To you who are irreplaceable, to the unchanging wind, to the unending night, always and forever. Thank you.” He bowed and left the stage, and the audience applauded.
Mahiro had quoted one of Mizuno’s own lyrics at the end, Junji thought, but he chose them carefully, didn’t he? He wanted to convey the very essence of the man he’d played – the wind that is a constant in our lives, like Mizuno’s music, and the night – the shadows – that he always seemed to live in. Hiding his true sexuality, burying his pain and loneliness behind public flamboyance . . .
And, of course, his shadowy death. Nobody knew what happened – Mizuno committed suicide out of the blue. There was speculation that he’d been diagnosed with AIDS or terminal cancer.
No wonder Mahiro threw himself so intensely into playing him. Being Mizuno was a heavy weight to carry.
The video had switched to the afterparty following the awards. The main cast of the film – including Mahiro – was sitting on a shag rug in the corner of a nightclub, swigging champagne directly from bottles as press cameras clicked. Mitsuki, who’d played Tsuki, even poured champagne over Mahiro’s head, and the smaller actor laughed, shielding his award from the bubbly flow.
He looks so happy there, Junji thought. You’d never know there was anything wrong, that he had mixed feelings about the award in his hand.
That picture had been taken a few months after they’d started dating. They’d had chemistry with each other during the filming – at least when Mahiro was out of character – but Mahiro had refused to get involved with a co-star while the cameras were rolling, and Junji agreed. Shortly afterward, though, they’d fallen into a close and loving relationship and made up for lost time.
Maybe not close enough, Junji thought. Maybe I don’t know enough about him. Could he be hiding darkness like Mizuno did? Is that why he feels such a kinship with Mizuno? He’s hiding darkness that might . . . destroy him?
Worry suddenly swept through Junji. That wasn’t going to happen. Not on his watch.
He grabbed his phone and looked for the number of the person who he knew was closest to Mahiro – other than Junji himself. His agent.
She’d started representing Junji also since the movie came out, so she probably wouldn’t think anything was unusual about getting a call from him. She should be done with her meeting with him by now, he thought.
The phone picked up, and a crisp voice on the other end said, “Kinoshita Agency, this is Saito Emi speaking.”
“Saito-san, it’s Tokai-san. How are you doing?”
“Junji, I told you that you don’t need to be formal with me. How was the interview?”
“Refreshingly non-clueless. But that’s not what I called about.”
“Oh? You’re not getting harassed on social media, are you?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s . . . it’s Mahiro.” Fortunately, Saito-san knew about their relationship, and could be trusted to keep her lip zipped about it. “You saw him this morning. What kind of mood was he in?”
“Very straightforward and businesslike, really. We talked about his photoshoot this afternoon, with the other Academy Prize nominees. That was about it. Why?”
“He was down last night. He was saying he doesn’t deserve the nomination. That he, well, faked his performance.”
She let out a long sigh. “I had a feeling awards season would do this to him,” she said.
“You did?”
“He’s had it tough, what with the whole estrangement from his parents. That affects his self-esteem sometimes.”
“He didn’t tell me he was estranged from his parents,” Junji said. “I mean, he doesn’t talk about his family, other than his sister – he still sees her. But he’s said nothing about his parents.”
“His sister is the one person he’s still in contact with,” Saito-san said. “His parents and brother . . . I don’t think they’ve said a word to him since he decided to be an actor.”
Well, this was definitely news to Junji. “Why?” he said. “I mean, acting’s a respectable profession. It’s not like back in the early days of kabuki when all actors were considered prostitutes. Why didn’t they want him to pursue what he wants to do?”
“You don’t know that Kurosaki is a stage name, do you?”
Okay, that was out of the blue. “He didn’t say anything to me about that. I . . . I always thought that was his name?”
“No. His real family name is Kamo.”
At first, Junji was puzzled. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it. And then, it sank in. Kamo was the name of the oldest, most respectable practitioners of . . .
“Wait a minute,” he said. “His family are onmyoji?”
“Direct descendants of Kamo no Yasunori” – one of the most famous onmyoji of all time. “His father wanted Mahiro to follow in the family’s traditional footsteps. He was trained in divination and working with the spirits. He had a talent for it, too – especially channeling. But it wasn’t where his heart was. He wanted to be an actor – and he just walked out on the family, moved to Tokyo and signed with me.”
Junji knew the story from there – Mahiro got into a few TV dramas, landed the lead role in one about a teen hacker, and his career was on its way. And then, he was cast as Mizuno when the film’s original leading man backed out . . .
Bits and pieces of the puzzle were coming together. The fact that Mahiro literally seemed to become Mizuno on-set. The fact that the original band members said they felt like they were in their late bandmate’s presence. The family history . . .
“Thank you for your time, Saito-san,” he said. “I’ll talk to you later, all right?”
“Okay! See you at the awards, if I don’t see you sooner!”
He hung up the phone and looked at the time. Mahiro would be at the photoshoot until about five. And then, he’d probably go straight home . . .
Junji felt full of nervous energy, like he was going to burst. He was going to have to wait until then to get his final answers – but he had a feeling what they were going to be.
* * *
He rushed to his lover’s apartment and rang the door. There was a pause, a shuffle of feet, and then the door opened.
“Junji?” Mahiro said. “Why didn’t you text first?”
“Sorry,” Junji said. “I wanted to see you. I need to talk to you, and . . .”
“Have a seat,” Mahiro said. “I’m taking off my makeup from the shoot.”
Junji sat on the couch and looked around the room. There was a traditional woodblock print on the wall, which showed a holy man holding a sheaf of ofuda in his hand. On the table was a large incense burner. The bookshelves contained a number of titles on traditional mysticism.
He’d been here a hundred times before and overlooked it all. Now, he was seeing it with new eyes.
Mahiro’s awards were on top of the bookcase, next to a framed photo of the actors who’d played the members of Kogo, all clustered in the doorway of the dingy, tiny livehouse where the band had played their first shows. It was the only artifact of the film on display.
Mahiro came out, clean-faced, wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants. “What’s wrong?” he said. “You look worried.”
Junji took a deep breath. “I know, Mahiro,” he said. “I know why you said you cheated on your performance.”
Mahiro looked baffled. “I was just feeling the pressure, Junji. Like I said.”
“You used your family’s art during filming, didn’t you?” he said. “When you seemed to be Mizuno on the set . . . it really WAS Mizuno. You were channeling him, weren’t you?”
Mahiro looked down. He wrung his hands, glanced up at the awards, wrung his hands again . . .
“How do you know?” he said.
“Saito-san told me about your family,” he said. “About your training, and your estrangement from them. And during my interview this morning, we were talking about how much you seemed to be Mizuno on-set even when the cameras weren’t rolling. Whenever you went into your trailer, and came out as him, there was a strong smell of incense . . .”
Mahiro looked at the far wall. He reached out and gripped the arm of the sofa. When he spoke, he was still facing away from Junji.
“When I got the role,” he said, “I was thrilled. It was the chance of a lifetime. It’s all I could have asked for as an actor. I started preparing right away – I met with Shitateya and Tsuki, tracked down as many of his friends and lovers as I could, studied every frame of video of him I could find . . .”
He gripped the chair harder. “But there was this nagging voice in my head that said I HAD to get this performance completely right. That I could leave nothing to chance. That if it was the slightest bit off, the fans of Kogo would know, and they’d crucify me. If it was done right, it would make my career, but if I got it wrong? I’d be destroyed. My career would be over – and I couldn’t go back to my family. Not after the break with them. I’d be spending the rest of my life working the prize counter at a pachinko parlor.”
“So you went to the source,” Junji said.
“At first, I just talked with his spirit,” Mahiro said. “I’d summon him and ask questions. I read him the script, and he said it got a lot wrong, but it also got a lot right. It was true to . . . his essence, so to speak. I asked him about his stage moves – and he said he’d walk me through it from the inside. So I channeled him, and we went through some songs, and from that . . .”
“You took it a step further and decided to have him play himself.”
“I don’t know which one of us first came up with the idea,” Mahiro said. “But ultimately, that’s what we decided to do. He memorized the script with my help, and every day, I’d go into my trailer to perform the rite to channel him. And then we’d go out, and he’d play himself.”
“Oh, my God,” Junji said. No wonder he seemed to be another person. No wonder he never broke character. He WAS the character. Mahiro was a mere shell, a container for Mizuno.
“He loved the experience, by the way,” he said. “He loved having the chance to review his own life. He saw all the things he’d do over if he could. And he especially loved the performance scenes. He lived to be onstage. That’s why I always sang when we filmed lives instead of just lip-syncing, even though they dubbed in recordings of Mizuno later. He wanted to sing again.”
“Was it hard?” Junji said. “Carrying around all his pain?”
“He’s moved past the pain now,” Mahiro said. “Though he said he relived a lot of it when we were filming. The worst part for him was being near Shitateya and Tsuki and not being able to tell them it was REALLY him. He said there was a lot he wanted to talk to them about – like why he committed suicide.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“The rumors about him having cancer were true,” Mahiro said. “He held on with it longer than people realize – he was having experimental treatments in secret for years. When he knew he was going into the final stages of it, he didn’t want to put the people he loved through watching him die a lingering, painful death.”
Junji felt a lump in his throat. He could only imagine what the entire experience was like for Mahiro. First, the heavy weight of channeling a spirit for the entire length of filming, and then having people praise his performance, when it wasn’t really HIM . . .
“Nobody can know,” Mahiro said, quickly. “Nobody can know any of it. I’ll be exposed as a fraud.”
“You aren’t a fraud, Mahiro.”
“Yes, I am. I’m getting the awards, but I didn’t give the performance.”
“But you ARE a brilliant actor. I’ve seen the work you did before this film, Mahiro. The one about the boy who was dying. The hacker series. You were amazing. You got an award for your TV acting, didn’t you?”
Mahiro nodded toward the shelf, at one trophy that stood apart from the film ones. “Best Supporting Actor, yes.”
“Did you do any channeling then? Or was it all you?”
“No . . . that was REAL acting.”
“Well, then, you do have it in you, don’t you? And now that this movie has kicked down the door to theatrical films, you can show the world what you’re really about. You can use your REAL acting skills. And if I know you? You’re going to blow the world away. You’re going to make everyone forget this performance – because you’re going to surpass it.”
Mahiro reached over and put his hand on Junji’s. Junji gripped it.
“This experience . . .” Mahiro said. “It’s made me determined to prove myself. To do an acting role without help from my family’s art, and make it my own.”
“And you will,” Junji said. “Ten years from now? You’ll have a whole ROW of those awards. And you’ll have EARNED them. Don’t think of this as cheating. Think of this as opening a door to the next phase of your career.”
“It WILL be,” Mahiro said.
“There you go!” Junji said. “That’s the spirit!” He hugged him. “And I’ll be with you every step of the way – even if I can’t do it publicly.”
They clung to each other for a long moment, Mahiro resting his head on Junji’s shoulder. And then, he said, “He liked you, you know.”
“He did?”
“Well, first of all, he liked your performance. He said you were so much Shitateya that he wanted to punch you in the smug face sometimes.”
“That sounds like what he’d say about Shitateya.” The vocalist and his drummer had an outwardly prickly relationship sometimes, but there was never any doubt that they were best of friends and loved each other like brothers.
“But he liked you as YOU. And he knew that I was thinking of going out with you after the shoot was over, and I was no longer . . . you know.”
“When your head was occupied just by YOU,” Junji said.
“Exactly. He kept goading me about asking you out, and he said he was going to haunt me after the shoot if I didn’t do it.”
“Well, I have a lot to thank him for, don’t I?”
“We both do,” Mahiro said, softly.
They clung to each other and kissed, as a breeze blew through the apartment – even though none of the windows were open. The curtains fluttered slightly, and a sunbeam seemed to be directed at the picture of the actors playing the members of Kogo.
It was as if Mizuno was showing his approval.
* * *
On the night of the Japan Academy Prize presentation, Mahiro was very calm. He smiled and waved at fans, answered press questions graciously, and posed for pictures with both the film’s cast and the real Shitateya and Tsuki – who were going to perform during the show in a supergroup featuring members of contemporary visual kei bands.
Just before they went in to take their seats, Mahiro found Junji on the red carpet as the latter was talking to two actors he’d worked with in TV. “Guess what?” Mahiro said.
“Your bow tie is crooked?” Junji said.
“It is?” Mahiro looked panicked.
“Yes, it is, but I’ll fix it.” Junji twisted the tie. It sprang back into the crooked position. He twisted it again.
“Anyway,” Mahiro said, “Guess who just got cast in the new Inagaki Baku film?”
“Whoa,” Junji said. “That’s one heavy director. How many awards does he have?”
“About a whole roomful. He came up to me and said he’d written a heist script and he wanted me for the lead. I don’t even have to read for him.”
“Awesome!” Junji gave up on the tie and patted Mahiro on the back. Again, he had to be very careful with public displays of affection. Some things hadn’t changed from Mizuno’s day.
“I’m going to give him the best performance anybody ever gave,” Mahiro said. Lowering his voice, he added, “And it will be all ME.”
“Of course, it will,” Junji said. He had no doubt that Mahiro was going to take that determination to prove himself and turn it into a performance that would eclipse any other he’d ever given – including this one.
Much, much later, after a seemingly endless number of awards and speeches and more speeches and STILL more eternal speeches, Mahiro’s name was called as the winner of the Best Actor award. He bounded toward the stage with energy and hoisted the statue that Junji had once called a “pile of junk.”
“This award,” he said, “is for Mizuno. He inspires me, just like he inspires young people all around the globe to this day. His passion, drive, creativity and originality are legendary – and may we all channel a bit of it in our everyday lives.”
Junji applauded thunderously with the rest of them. But only he knew the significance of the word “channel.”
“But this award is also for every young person with a dream,” Mahiro added. “Everyone who’s facing adversity and objection when it comes to doing what they really want to do. I say, we all should live like Mizuno in that case. Push past adversity. Go for it, no matter what it takes. Use every means at your disposal. Because when you arrive on the other end, and that dream is within your grasp . . . the world is suddenly a better place.”
He’s at peace with what he did to get that award, Junji thought. He’s thinking of it as a means to an end, as the way to prove himself once and for all, that his family was wrong to object to his acting career.
“And so, I say to him, and to all you dreamers . . .” He held the trophy up to the heavens and recited, ‘To you who are irreplaceable, to the unchanging wind, to the unending night, always and forever.’”
The audience leapt to its feet in a standing ovation as Mahiro left the stage. Junji was clapping harder than anyone.
Next to him, Mitsuki was saying, “Well, that’s it. Mahiro got the big one. The Kogo chapter in our lives is officially closed.”
Yes, Junji thought. The Kogo chapter is closed. Mizuno’s spirit is free now. And maybe it’s time for it to close, and for all of us to move on. Especially Mahiro.
“It is,” Junji said. “But something else is about to begin, isn’t it?”
END NOTES: The concept of an actor actually channeling the deceased public figure he’s playing onscreen was a half-formed idea I had sitting around for awhile – until Bohemian Rhapsody and its fandom gave me a framework. When browsing through the tag for the movie on Tumblr out of curiosity – since it seemed to trend very, very often – I came across fans joking about Rami Malek channeling Freddie Mercury, or communicating with his spirit. Boom, the half-formed idea became a fully formed one. The names in this story are all drawn from Bohorap: Mizuno = Sailor MERCURY, Kogo = Empress (Queen), Tsuki = May (Brian May), Shitateya = Tailor (Roger Taylor), and Kirakuin = Killer Queen (since I figured that would be easier to put into Japanese than Bohemian Rhapsody). Many of the details of Mahiro in this fic are also drawn from Rami Malek – previous TV role as a hacker and TV acting awards, becoming romantically involved with a co-star, crooked bow tie on the biggest awards night of his life. (Bohorap has also shattered box office records in Japan and won the Japan Academy Prize for Best Foreign Language Movie.) The song Mahiro quotes in his award speeches is actually my prompt quote and is by Luna Sea, not Queen or Kiryu.
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Date: 2019-03-20 12:17 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2019-03-20 01:20 am (UTC)Thank you for sharing and participating in the challenge!!
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