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“Hello?”
“Am I a good singer?”
Anna doesn’t answer right away, which makes Kiyoi’s stomach crumple in on itself. The answer must be no, even though his mother used to laugh and clap along to his siblings’ horrible sing-alongs and swear talent must run in the family. Maybe he’s as delusional as they were. He doesn’t give up so easily and stubbornly explains, “I’m considering branching into that area. Professionally.” If the agency will allow it. But they’d probably be relieved to steer him into idol-hood, all televised and so heavily image-based, away from the stage, which he’s currently trying to claw his way into tooth-and-nail. When Anna does answer, she sounds surprised.
“I have no idea; I haven’t heard you sing.”
He frowns. He’s sure he’s hummed around her, but that’s different, so fair enough. He’s never belted anything out on set, because he always strives to conduct himself as professionally as possible when he’s outside his house. Inside, he’s crouched on the bathroom floor, back up against the closed door, half trying to listen through it to make sure Hira doesn’t creep over. Not that he’s hiding from his boyfriend. He’s not cowering in the shadows of his own home. He’s not embarrassed or insecure or anything like that. He’s just...
He can’t come up with a decent excuse and glares at the bathroom tile like it’s responsible for all his problems. At least it’s clean tile. Hira must clean it regularly, because Kiyoi doesn’t. Hira’s good at stuff like that. Housekeeping. Cleaning. Cooking. Turning Kiyoi into a blushing mess that can’t function right. Anna asks, “What does Hira think?”
Kiyoi balks. “What?”
“Well, I’m sure he must’ve heard you sing at some point, especially if it’s an interest of yours and you live toge—”
Kiyoi barks, “No,” and immediately regrets cutting her off. How rude. She’s older than him. And far more successful. He respects her and tries to demonstrate that. But he’s used to snapping at his psychotic boyfriend and sometimes slips into his natural self around others, something he has to work on. He lowers his voice and tries to explain, as calmly and reasonably as possible, “I can’t trust Hira’s opinion.”
“Why not?” He can hear the smile in her voice. “He obviously has good taste; he’s with you.”
Kiyoi resists a wry laugh and chooses not to vent about how no one should ever trust any of Hira’s opinions on anything and Kiyoi is the only sane thing to his taste; he also worships a plastic duck and anthropomorphizes pebbles and would swear dirt tasted great if Kiyoi had just walked on it. “He thinks I’m good at everything.”
Anna chuckles. “Could he be right?”
Kiyoi sighs. “If I hum a few bars next time I see you, could you give me a real opinion?”
“Why not try right now? I’ve got a few minutes to spare.”
Before Kiyoi can stop himself, he’s grumbled too honestly, “That would summon Hira.” Like a demon from hell. He’d climb up through the floorboards with wide eyes and his goofy, suspicious disguise, and Kiyoi’s skin would crawl before his clothes fell off, and they’d end up having shameful sex on the bathroom floor because Hira would applaud his singing to no end, and that would feel great for a little bit, until reality hit home again that it’s not a true reflection of Kiyoi’s talent and also he swore they wouldn’t do it on the floor anymore. He’s developing too much back pain from having sex in bad spots and he doesn’t know how to explain the issue to his agent.
Anna chirps, “You guys are so cute,” so maybe her opinion can’t be trusted either. Kiyoi’s face heats anyway.
He grits out, “That’s nice of you to say,” when what he means is, we’re the opposite. They’re the worst. They’re the sort of couple that would sicken him in a drama and he’d write a bad review over. He can’t explain that to Anna, because he wants her to respect him.
Somehow, she says, “Okay, then. I’d be happy to hear you sing sometime.”
And he slumps with relief, replying, “Thanks.”
“Any time.”
She hangs up. He does too.
Then he’s left on the bathroom floor, frowning at the tiles, clutching his phone in both hands.
He could probably race to the bedroom without having to see Hira again. But they haven’t had dinner yet, and he assumes Hira’s going to make him dinner. He wants Hira’s homemade dinner. Hira’s an excellent cook. He’s good with his hands. He makes top-tier croquettes and knows all of Kiyoi’s most embarrassingly erogenous zones.
Kiyoi sighs and begrudgingly gets up. He makes his way to the living room, where he left Hira, where he finds Hira still sprawled out across the floor, full starfish, staring dazedly at the ceiling. He’s obviously still having his irreligious religious moment, even though it’s been half an hour since Kiyoi dared to serenade him with a generic pop song from an anime opening that he swore he could do better than the singer. He didn’t expect Hira to ask him to do so. It’s not like he had to prove it. But he did. He nudges Hira’s foot with his own, maybe kicking a smidgen harder than necessary. It’s supposed to snap Hira out of his reverie, but Hira only asks, shaky and reverent, “Is g-g-god going to sing again?”
Kiyoi snaps, “Never again!” and then blushes hotter at the realization that he assumed Hira meant him. Called him god. Obviously, he’s not a god. Sometimes Hira acts like he is, and sometimes Hira acts like the rubber duck is, and other times Hira seems to mean some more conventional, intangible force that’s all powerful yet bored enough to maneuver him and Hira into each other’s lives like pawns on a chess board. Hira’s brain is impossible to decipher.
So it makes Kiyoi jump, shocked, when Hira abruptly cries out and snaps up, tossing both arms around Kiyoi’s leg. He splutters, “No, please, s-s-sing—!”
“Never!”
“But—!”
“Gah, gross!” All Kiyoi can think is: how is this cute?! Because it’s not; it’s crazy. Anna’s so wrong. Hira’s so nuts. Kiyoi’s so burdened. He frantically shakes his leg until Hira’s grip slackens enough for Kiyoi to escape, and he flees to their bedroom to hideout until dinner.
When it’s ready, dinner’s big. And delicious. Hira glumly bows over it, apologizing profusely for “over-stepping his station”, for asking too much when he’s already so blessed. Kiyoi grunts, “It’s fine,” and says he might join a boy band.
Hira whispers something like, “Kiyoi’s my bias,” and faints on the spot.
Which really doesn’t mean anything but makes Kiyoi warm anyway, so he’s ready to go when Hira wakes up, right there on the dining table, which might be slightly better for his back than the floor. They’re not cute; they’re awful.