May Your Roses Have No Thorns

Harua’s voice carries before she sees him, his voice slightly hysterical as Ren holds opens the practice room door for her.

“No, no— that’s not a mastering issue, that’s a monitoring problem. If it sounds flat in here, it’ll sound dead everywhere else.”

There’s laughter. Someone mutters an apology. Hakaze steps inside, Ren not far after.

Her idiot protege’s standing barefoot on the rug, hair half-tied back, sleeves pushed up, pointing at a screen frantically. The practice room is overfull with choregraphers and dancers, and one designer, for some reason, who keeps trying to get him to look at something on his tablet. Hakaze waylays that particular one and peers at the screen: it's designs for the album jacket. They're very...Harua-heavy, even for solo album covers.

"Tacky," Ren observes. 

"He looks good," Hakaze defends, loyally. Then: "Are there any versions that aren't just a collage of his face?"

The designer clicks through a few more haplessly, and seems to gauge from their expressions that it's back to the drawing board. He leaves with his shoulders slumped.

Harua finally notices them.  “What? Have you both joined forces to scare my whole team away?"

“Shut up, worm, we're helping,” Hakaze says, the same time that Ren says, “Your dancers’ blocking is atrocious.”

The choreographer looks offended, but then turns and sees Ren. Ren makes direct eye contact with him when he crushes his dreams: “The formations are visually flat. The venue of Harua’s first stage is going to have more of a curved stage, the choreo needs to have more texture for it to have impact.”

“It’s the remix,” Hakaze says, thoughtfully. “They’re doing something conceptually arty-fartsy for the first stage, and Fuma and I were too busy to handle it. This mix is on the strugglebus, Harua, you sure this is what you want for opening? I could lock Fuma in the basement for ten minutes and he can cook up something better.”

“Oh my god there’s two of them now,” Harua says in a dead monotone. “I know you both hauled ass to make this happen, but it’s my album. Unless you want to tell me how cool I look and that my album sales will kick Ren’s album sales’ ass, I really don’t need you two in my peanut gallery.”

“But it could be so much better, Harua,” Hakaze says with a smile, while Ren nods next to her, completely serious. Harua stands firm, shooing them until they obediently sit in a corner of the room. Hakaze crosses her legs as the song plays again and the dancers go through the choreo, revising here and there.

“That leap is wildly impractical,” Ren leans in to murmur in her ear, at one point. “Harua’s going to drop his mic for sure.”

“Not to mention how off-pitch he’s gonna go.”.

Their thighs brush together, and the air feels intimate, close. Hakaze realizes that this is the first time they were alone since he came to find her at the studio; she thinks, clearly, in his voice: I’ll ask you out.

She goes very red without her permission. Ren hums questioningly at the choked noise she makes, but doesn’t comment; his hand hovers so close to hers. He's sitting way too close. She can smell his cologne.

This is disgraceful. She’s thirty years old.

Miracle of miracles, Harua’s song ends right then, saving her from having to do something drastic to save her own dignity.

“Well?” Harua calls, panting. “I could hear you haters from all the way here. Lay it on me.”

“I liked that it didn’t have that terrible bridge anymore,” Hakaze offers. When he pouts, she laughs. “Don’t make that face, I’m not serious. I’ll talk to the sound technicians about adjusting some of the balances, that should fix how some parts sound kind of flat. But other than that, it was really good, Harua. I told you this concept was a great fit.”

He beams. “Thanks, Hakaze!”

At his expectant gaze, Ren shrugs. “Keep an eye on your position when you’re practicing.” When Hakaze elbows him, he scowls. “What?”

“It won’t kill you to say something nice as well!”

“I think he’s allergic,” Harua confides.

Ren sighs, looking at both their faces. He’s changed, too: it seems unbelievable that he’s even indulging them. Hakaze feels a quick, sharp burst of nostalgia for the man she’d met on the balcony, who wouldn’t have considered this for even a second.

“It was one of your best yet, Harua,” Ren says, his gaze direct and honest. “Fans are going to love it.”

Harua turns stunned eyes to Hakaze, and she smiles, shrugs. All these different versions of themselves, reflected through time. Ren on the balcony, in the convenience store. Five years ago, scowling at her across the studio.

Harua’s expression gentles, and he sits on the stage, cross-legged, and leans his face on his palm.

“Both of you are coming to the launch party, right?” he asks.

“Maybe.”

“Hakaze,” he whines. “I’m bringing my partner.”

Her eyes widen. “Really?”

“I don’t know. Seeing you two be so lovey dovey and get away with it made me jealous. I want to be gross too!”

Hakaze throws a rolled-up bandage at him.

Ren sighs. “Don’t start. We just got done being grilled by PR.”

“Ohoho? Have they seen all the comments that are like does Ren really think we’ll be jealous if he’s dating Hakaze Shinomiya, bitch I’m jealous of him. Hand her over.”

Hakaze throws more stuff at him. “I’ll make them cancel your album again.”

“And let you two argue some more about what’s best for Neonite as foreplay? No thanks.” He stands up and calls for practice to start from the top.

Ren’s gone red again. Under the obnoxious remix of Harua’s title track, he mumbles, “Does everyone presuming we’re together make you uncomfortable? I can ask them to stop, formally.”

“They might not be wrong. We won’t find out until you ask me out again.”

His eyes go dark, pupils dilating under the brightness of the practice room. “Any spoilers?”

He groans when she shakes her head. “Wouldn’t want to ruin the moment.”