Chapter Text
“Hah?!” Atsumu cries at his manager, waving a yellow envelope in his hand. “I ain’t doing this!”
His manager, Oijiro Aran, sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, a habit that seemed to have formed after babysitting the idol group that the faux blonde was in.
Atsumu, to his credit, waits for ten seconds as his manager counts to ten, his eyes still closed and lips pursed into a thin line, before blurting out, “I don’t even know ‘im! An’ he’s known ta be a jerk Aran-san. An’ ta top that, I’ll hafta travel ta Korea ta do this! Aran-san, please lemme pull out of this one. I promise I’ll be good at the next show. Look, I won’t even yell at the fangirls.”
“As if yer any better, Atsumu. The only reason the PR team's is askin’ ya ta be on the show is that they need ya ta save face after ya totally shot down the fangirls at the last concert. An’ he’s not a jerk. Look, how bad can it possibly be?" Aran reasons. “Ya’ll be filming right here in Japan. No need ta travel to Korea an’ all.”
At the mention of not needing to travel, Atsumu visibly perks up and says, “Wait really? So I can just stay here?”
Aran gives out another one of his long-suffering sighs and mutters, “Did ya not read the contract I gave ya? It literally states that ya won’t need ta travel. I don’t get paid enough fer this shit.”
Atsumu looks down at the envelope in his hands, the tape hanging off on one end, and frowns. In his defense, he had read the conditions, albeit not very thoroughly. It wasn’t as though he was thrilled to be a part of the program and he knew his reputation would recover soon enough after that disaster of a concert, but he also knew he probably should be a bit more mindful of what comes out of his mouth. He does love and appreciate his fans, but sometimes it’s not enough to keep him from blurting out the first thing that comes to his mind, much to Aran’s dismay.
He had stopped reading after he came across the name Sakusa Kiyoomi. Although he didn’t know much about the actor, given his reputation of keeping his private life, well, private . He was the sort of actor that would be praised for a flawless portrayal of a character and was deemed as ‘one of Japan’s most emotional actors’, but criticized for being an inconsiderate and unapproachable individual. To put it simply, the smart, shy kid that middle-school Atsumu would've picked on.
Atsumu wonders if Aran is so insistent on him taking up the offer in the hopes that he pick up some of Sakusa’s mannerisms, mainly his ability to remain silent. He sneaks a glance at his manager and sees chocolate brown eyes already looking at him with his eyebrows raised. Atsumu pouts to make his displeasure more evident than it already was, before reading out loud the letter Aran had so kindly delivered to him:
“Dear Mr. Miya Atsumu,
Greetings from MBC Korea! We hope to find you well.
We would like to invite you to participate in our program as the first Japanese couple alongside nationally-acclaimed actor Mr. Sakusa Kiyoomi in our latest segment, ‘We Got Married’.
The program will be filmed in Japan itself so you do not need to worry about missing any practices or performances. We will plan your weekly missions and activities as a married couple, so all you will need to do is take part in the candid interviews.
We have attached the full contract and conditions along with the details of the show. We are scheduled to start filming in three months so we will be ready to air the first episode by the Lunar New Year.
We wish you all the best,
We Got Married, MBC Korea”
Atsumu groans and throws the piece of paper along with the envelope to the ground in childish retaliation. He stares at Aran and Aran wordlessly stares back until the idol sighs and moves to pick up the papers.
“Fine. I’ll do it.” Atsumu forces out through gritted teeth and Aran slowly exhales in relief. “But only because it’s ya, Aran-san. If it were anyone else, I woulda not even considered it.”
‘And it’s true,’ Atsumu thinks as he looks for a pen to sign the papers. The only reason he’s willing to sign the papers to some ridiculous show where he would be married-- not dating, not engaged, but married, is because he knew Aran would never let the media and press get away with any false rumors and simply because he trusts him not to exploit his popularity and fame.
When he looks at Aran again, the older man is already busy typing away on his phone, probably scheduling slots to fit the new timetable months down the line, so he puts the papers back into the envelope and takes a deep breath, making a mental note to watch a few episodes of the show and to do a little research on Sakusa Kiyoomi so he would be prepared for the chaos he would be thrown into. After all, he’s been in the industry for years now and made the headlines countless times due to his “less than savory behavior”. It would be no different from his life now. He would be fine.
500km away in Tokyo, Sakusa sits in a chair, reading through all the pages sent in a similar yellow envelope as Komori sprays some unidentified product in his hair and his manager, Yachi Hitoka, nervously rambles on about how participating in the program could help to boost his career, not that he needed it, and strengthen the support from his fans.
“This is, after all, the closest they’ll get to knowing anything about your personal life. Or at least have an idea of what you’re like outside the movies. Not that you’re not not entitled to your privacy because you totally are, and I respect that you don’t want your professional life and personal life to overlap, but maybe this will help to divert the-”
“I’ll do it.”
Yachi suddenly stops and stares at Sakusa, disbelief evident on her face before leaping from her seat.
“Wow, okay. That took a lot less persuading than I thought,” Yachi breathes out quietly before quickly adding, “Not that I mind, of course!”
Komori finishes spraying Kiyoomi’s hair and softly pats down the sides to make sure the curls stay put and comments, “Hmm, maybe Kiyo here has a little crush” and wiggles his obnoxious eyebrows.
Sakusa meets Motoya’s eye in the mirror and gives an unimpressed look, causing the photographer-turned-impromptu-hairstylist to cackle and lean forward on the back of the younger man’s chair.
“Alright, alright, I get it. No need to be prickly. It was only a joke,” he says through his grin. And when Sakusa slightly pulls away from him, Motoya takes the cue to lean back, learning from years of knowing the actor. Although Sakusa had never explicitly voiced his discomfort to his cousin, the young photographer had picked up on his aversion and never once asked him to explain. That was probably one of the reasons Sakusa had not pushed him away. And also because they always somehow ended up working together.
“But I am curious,” the shorter man continues. “Why did you agree so easily to Yachi-chan here? I mean, I know you’re not the kind of guy that enjoys these kinds of shows.”
“Same here!” Yachi adds. “I thought it was going to take so much more convincing on my part to get you to sign the contract, not that I would ever force you to do anything you don’t want to do because, god, that would be terrible of me, and-”
Yachi meets Motoya’s eye in the mirror and he raises a single brow and says good-naturedly, “You’re rambling again.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!” Yachi squeaks out, earning a low chuckle from the smaller man. She turns to Sakusa and asks, “So why did you?”
Sakusa looks down at the papers in his hands and frowns. Motoya was right. He didn’t like these kinds of shows- the staged scenarios and scripted conversations to provide fan service and to feed the opinion of the press.
Granted, this particular show did have a lot less scripted conversations but knowing the entertainment industry, they would be receiving spontaneous cue cards and on-the-day scripts.
And he was to be paired with Miya Atsumu of all people. The loud, obnoxious, and talented Miya Atsumu. Not that he’d ever met the star in person. He did keep up with celebrity news and seen his perfectly-chiseled face in one too many articles, but never imagined that they would be working together. The last thing he remembers hearing about the idol is when he had managed to cause a scene in his concert by calling some of his fangirls, ‘squealing pigs’.
To put it simply, Miya Atsumu was the kind of narcissistic, turbulent boy that Sakusa would’ve stayed far, far away from all through his school years.
So why did he sign those papers?
Maybe it was because he felt bad for Yachi for having to deal with the press every time a co-star would comment on his stand-offish behavior and wanted to at least try and pull his weight. Or maybe it was finally about time for him to change the way the media and public viewed him, not that he cared too much about that. Or maybe he felt as though he should give back something to his fans for their support and encouragement. He really isn’t sure.
“Okay, I think we broke him.” Motoya’s voice breaks through his musings and he snaps his eyes forward to see his cousin’s amused smile and Yachi’s ever-worried expression greet him in the mirror.
“No, I just wanted to-” Sakusa begins before a loud knock from the door interrupts him, signaling the start of the photoshoot session for the day.
“Oh, you better go,” Motoya says as Yachi calls out, “We’re coming!”
So Sakusa peels himself off the seat and fights the urge to put on his mask and follows Yachi out the door, thoughts about the upcoming program pushed to the back of his mind.
After all, he’s been in the industry for over half his life, and received harsh criticism left and right since he was seventeen. What more damage could a foreign TV program do? He would be fine.
Three months later, Atsumu awkwardly fiddles with the silver ring on his middle finger as he tries to get out of the van without falling on his face while Aran paces back and forth in front of the van, phone pressed to his ear and occasionally letting out a stream of words too fast for Atsumu to understand. It was probably Suna on the other end.
The idol group had traveled together with Atsumu to grab lunch at a newly-opened restaurant before their daily practice. And if Atsumu was here with their manager, the only other person that could cause their manager such distress would be Suna. Or Bokuto. Or Hinata. Or Hoshiumi.
Really, it could be anyone. It wasn’t hard to get Aran going.
The blonde hops out of the van and shivers slightly at the sudden winter wind that causes his unzipped coat to flare slightly, inviting the cold air in.
He'd spent far too much time the night before trying to pick out an outfit that he liked, the sudden urge to want to impress Sakusa giving way to simmering anxiety at the prospect of meeting him.
He's wearing a pastel pink sweater, a pair of frost-white fitted joggers, and white sneakers, complete with a Dijon trench coat. He has a set of matching silver rings and a bracelet on his right hand.
It looks effortlessly stylish. For winter, at least.
His leg bounces, his body trying to physically manifest his nervous energy. He's had three months to prepare for this program and has spent the first week after signing the contract staying up till ungodly hours watching video after video of Sakusa's interviews and behind-the-scenes cuts.
And although he would rather die before admitting it, he had spent a considerable amount of time watching the movies and shows Sakusa had acted in, starting from ones where he was a teenager just entering the scene, to deeply passionate movies that either left him crying or horny. Sometimes both.
Atsumu knows that Sakusa, objectively, is good-looking. Handsome even- a sharp jawline, a nose every plastic surgeon would kill for, a perfectly sized forehead with those trademark twin moles that have slowly grown on him. He has that brooding air to him that makes him seem mysterious and has all his fans drooling after him, although Atsumu suspects it’s less an act and more his personality. Not that he would know. He was, after all, well aware of how tightly the entertainment industry controlled the public image of its celebrities.
Aran finally makes his way toward Atsumu, pocketing his phone in a coat similar to the idol’s. He gently grabs the younger man’s elbow to direct him towards a building a few meters down the street.
“Apparently Suna got them lost on their way ta the studio. Which is complete bullshit ‘cause he’s a literal nomophobiac, an’ I know he knows how ta use MAPS.ME,” Aran grumbles. “I mean, ya don’t even need internet ta use MAPS.ME!”
Atsumu lets out a huff of laughter. “Nomophobiac?”
Aran lets out a chuckle, running his fingers through his hair and says, “Yeah. Nomophobia. No-mobile-phone-phobia. Shortened to nomopobia.”
“Are ya jokin’?” Atsumu deadpans. It’s not often that he’s the one on the receiving end of a terrible joke.
At this, Aran finally barks out a laugh, the tension from his shoulders draining. “No. I found it in the Urban Dictionary.”
At this statement, Atsumu’s expression morphs into one of confusion. “There is so much to unpack there. Ya didn’t even look up the word. Ya went into Urban Dictionary. Who does that? What were ya even doin’ on the website?”
Aran just rolls his eyes and sarcastically replies, “Ha-ha, very funny. But nomophobia is actually a word.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question.”
Aran doesn’t reply this time, but just opens the door to a tall building with a giant Yomiuri TV hanging at the top of the structure.
“MBC is borrowing one of their studios while they film in Japan,” Aran explains. “I think we’re on the 9th floor or somethin’.”
9. ku. An unlucky number symbolizing agony and torture.
Atsumu looks around the vast space they just entered as they walk towards the information kiosk up ahead and a friendly-looking woman sitting at the desk.
“Ohayō gozaimasu. How can I help you?” she asks.
“Oh, uh, we’re here ta work with MBC Korea. I think they shoulda already told ya about us,” Aran replies.
“Oh, you must be Miya Atsumu and Aran Oijiro then. Welcome,” She chirps as she reaches across her desk to pick up two hanging name badges and hands them over to Aran, who takes them and hands one to Atsumu.
“You will be stationed on the 8th floor. There should already be direction cards there. Make sure to always have your badges on you because you won’t be able to run the elevator without them.” She pauses before adding, “And I think that’s about it.” She smiles and points to her right and says, “The elevator is in that direction. Have a great day.”
Aran thanks her and bows his head, making his way towards the elevator, and Atsumu, belatedly realizing that the conversation had ended, rushes after Aran and calls out a rushed “Thanks!” behind his back.
“Why’d ya just leave me there Aran-san!” Atsumu whines as he takes his place next to Aran, a pout making its way on his face.
“Oh, quit whinin’. I didn’t leave ya anywhere. An’ besides, it’s not my fault ya never keep up.”
The blonde let out a squawk of protest. “That’s not fair! An’ besides,” the younger man imitates, “it’s not as if ya’d let me do the talking.”
“‘Cause god knows where we’d be if ya did,” Aran fires back, causing Atsumu to grumble incomprehensibly under his breath.
The taller man sighs. “I’m just jokin’. Ya’d be fine without me. Probably in one too many sticky situations, but fine.”
But before Atsumu can respond, the elevator dings, and the doors slide open.
“Woah,” Atsumu breathes out, taking in the luxurious elevator with its walls decorated with shiny black material so that it reflects whoever is inside. “This shit is real fancy.”
Aran makes a small noise of affirmation as he places the name tag over the scanner before pressing the button with the number 8 on it.
8. Suehirogari. A lucky number representing prosperity and growth. It only makes sense that they would want to be situated on the eighth floor. The Koreans were equally as superstitious.
“I mean it seems kinda overkill for a television network company,” Atsumu thinks aloud.
The older man hums thoughtfully before replying. “Nah, media companies need ta be pretty flashy to get the attention of investors. I mean, they’re airing the news, anime, music videos, special programs, advertising an’ god-knows-what-else. That takes a lot of money an’ most of it is going ta come from the investors. They need ta be able to impress them.”
Atsumu takes a moment to process the information before saying, “A bit like me then.”
Aran lets out an amused huff and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sure. Exactly like you.”
“Hey! What is that supposed ta mean?” Atsumu cries.
Aran starts to laugh, and Atsumu, who could never keep a straight face when someone else laughs, feels laughter threaten to escape his lips so he presses them into a thin line and tries to hold it in.
And Aran, seeing the blonde contorting his face to keep himself from laughing, laughs harder and finally tips Atsumu over the edge.
They double up in laughter, tears forming in the corner of their eyes. Atsumu throws himself across one of the sides of the elevator, grabbing the railing as his legs threaten to give way as Aran leans forward with his hands on his knees, head bowed and shoulder shaking from the force of his laughter.
Atsumu has no idea why they’re laughing. All he knows is that as long as the older man continues laughing, he won’t ever be able to stop.
So it’s Aran, unsurprisingly, who recovers from the laughing fit first. He straightens up and pats down his coat, breathing slightly labored and a smile still on his face. Atsumu on the other hand continues to laugh uncontrollably, his laugh now soundless as he clutches onto the railing for dear life.
The elevator dings, signaling their arrival on the desired floor, and the door slides open to reveal none other than the Sakusa Kiyoomi on the other side.
Aran smiles politely and extends a hand, which Sakusa doesn’t take, but lets out a quiet greeting instead. Aran awkwardly drops his arm to the side and returns the greeting.
Half of Sakusa’s face is covered by a black surgical mask, and he’s wearing black jeans that hug the frame of his long legs perfectly, a navy-blue mock neck sweater, a stylish grey topcoat, and white converse. There’s something inexplicably sexy in how casual the outfit looks.
Aran steps out of the elevator and only then does Sakusa seem to notice the Atsumu. Atsumu tries hard to stop laughing and actually offer some form of greeting, but his body betrays him and he can’t seem to get any words out so he ends up biting his lip hard enough to draw blood in order not to laugh in the other man’s face.
Sakusa stares at him, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and annoyance. “Hello.”
“H- hi,” Atsumu wheezes out, his voice still far too breathy and slightly high-pitched.
They stare at each other for a moment longer before Sakusa asks, “So are you planning on stepping out soon so we can use the elevator?”
And when Atsumu doesn’t respond, he adds, “Sometime today would be nice.”
The blonde’s seemingly self-willed giggling contrasts sharply with the feeling of annoyance that flares in his chest, but he steps out nonetheless without a word. Only when he passes Sakusa, does he notice a petite blonde woman behind him.
‘His manager, probably,’ he thinks and bows his head slightly in her direction. She returns the gesture with greater enthusiasm and hurries in after the actor.
“Well, he seems nice.” Atsumu hears her say and the soft scoff that follows that statement before the doors of the elevator close with a soft thud.
‘What an asshole,’ Atsumu thinks as he walks towards Aran who’s leaning against the wall of the corridor and tapping his dress shoes against the tiled floor in impatience.
“Well, that took ya long enough,” Aran says as he pushes off against the wall and falls in step next to Atsumu.
“Well, he was bein’ an ass,” Atsumu grumbles.
Aran raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Really? It sounded like he was makin’ a joke ta me.”
Atsumu stops in his tracks and gapes disbelievingly at his manager. “Are ya jokin’ right now?”
Aran keeps walking, looking behind his shoulder. “Well, ya were also kinda an ass. Ya didn’t even greet him properly.” And when the younger man doesn’t follow him, he turns around and faces Atsumu. “Stop poutin’ an’ hurry up. We’re gonna be late.”
Atsumu jogs to catch up to his manager but continues to pout. “An’ where was he goin’ anyway? Doesn’t he hafta be here too?”
“I don’t know, Atsumu,” Aran sighs. “I just got here too.”
They walk the rest of the short corridor in silence until they get to a door with a piece of paper reading MBC Korea stuck on it.
Aran barely finishes knocking before the door swings open to reveal a stout, middle-aged man with aviator glasses. “Ah! You must be Miya-san and Aran-san! Come in, come in,” he exclaims, ushering them into a meeting room with a rectangular table in the center with paper strewn across it and six chairs on either side.
“My name is Lee Heesoo. I am the director of the show,” he introduces himself as he sits in the middle seat and gestures across to the Japanese pair. He has a slight accent but it’s almost unnoticeable and it takes Atsumu aback. “Sakusa-san just left for a brief lunch break, so while he’s gone, I’ll explain the schedule and answer any questions.”
Atsumu and Aran both bow their heads in greeting and take the seats opposite the director.
“Thank you for having us, Lee-san,” Aran replies.
“The pleasure is all ours,” the director tuts, and before he can say anything else, Atsumu interrupts him.
“Not ta be rude or anythin’, but how’s yer Japanese so good?”
Aran awkwardly chuckles and kicks him under the table, and Atsumu has to clench his teeth to not visibly wince.
Lee laughs, unoffended, and explains, “I actually studied film studies in Japan for five years, so I have had time to study the Japanese language although my reading and writing skills are next to non-existent.”
The young idol nods and the director laughs again before grabbing a random sheet of paper to his side and sliding it across the table so it’s situated in front of them. “This is the rough outline of the activities we would require you to do. Contrary to the program in Korea, we will not be requiring you to live together in a house. But we will arrange for you to be with each other for most of the day. None of the activities will require you to perform any “sexual” acts, but romantic gestures will be encouraged.”
Since most of the information was already given to them prior to the meeting, Atsumu lets his mind wander and takes in the room around them. It’s small, with beige walls and a few potted plants near the windows, an air vent in the ceiling, and a carpeted floor– highly unusual for Japanese buildings. He unconsciously strokes the carpet with his shoes.
“... and so the wedding scene will be filmed later today as scheduled.” At the mention of the word ‘wedding’, Atsumu suddenly tunes into the conversation.
“What?”
He feels Aran give another sharp kick and this time he doesn’t manage to hide his wince.
“Of course. Atsumu here is all ready ta begin.” Aran smiles at the director and turns to Atsumu with a warning glare. “Aren’t ya?”
Atsumu lets out a nervous chuckle. “Yeah. Uh, I was… born ready.”
Aran stares at him disbelievingly while Lee just laughs and says, “That’s great! I’ll show you to the dressing rooms and we should be ready in a few hours.”
They get up from the table and walk out of the meeting room and enter the neighboring room where a variety of clothing hang from the racks and shelves upon shelves of accessories and hats and belts.
“We’ll get you suited up before we do your make-up and hair, and someone will come to call you when we’re ready,” Lee informs them before walking out the door.
The door shuts with a definitive click and Atsumu turns towards the endless rows of clothing, thoughts of a wedding heavy on his mind.