Work Text:
Maki created the perfect atmosphere: dim lighting, scented candles, a playlist of flowing rivers as background music, closed the blinds, grabbed a blanket, and curled up on the furniture in his recording studio. He's been trying to write the title track for his next album for four hours. He's written seven songs, which he considers good enough to be on the album but not excellent enough to be the title track. He's even debating whether those songs should be included at all, given their similarity in content to his previous album. What will his fans say, Maki wonders: another teenage boy writing about his first heartbreak? Maki understands that the success of his first two albums is due to how he connected with young people and those in their early twenties who felt a connection to those first times, but bringing up that theme again could stagnate him, could bore him, could even end in failure. And so, one negative thought after another floods his mind, filling him with stress and anxiety, and once again, his inspiration has vanished. He tears the sheet of paper from the notebook, which contained only three words, crumples it, and throws it in the trash can. For the eighth time in the last four hours, he fails to get the crumpled paper ball in.
Maybe he should sleep. Maybe he should ask his producer to get him a writer.
Knock knock.
Someone knocks softly on the door, as if they know Maki is trying to concentrate and don't want to interrupt, but at the same time, they are.
"Come in," he shouts. He no longer cares about the atmosphere; he just wants to go home.
Maki's face lights up when she sees it's Harua entering the recording studio, carrying a tray with burritos and Coca-Cola. "I didn't mean to interrupt your sacred time of inspiration, but I can't let you starve. Your fans expect an album, not a funeral."
"Nobody goes to anyone's funeral, or maybe they will. My producer might kill me if I don't have the song ready, and I have zero ideas, and nothing inspires me. This is too frustrating." He goes into the room and sits down on the couch, inviting Maki to eat.
"Take it easy. I've never seen an artist get inspired when they're up against the clock."
"I have two weeks. I signed a contract, and there are only two weeks left." Maki quickly unwraps his burrito and takes a huge bite. he hadn't realized he was so hungry; his tomach, which had been silent, suddenly growled. Harua, on the other hand, ate slowly, his bites smaller and more deliberate, reflecting the contrast with Maki's anxious state.
"Maybe I can help you with something?" Maki shakes his head and takes a sip of Coca-Cola to swallow the giant bite he's chewing. "You've already done so much for me today by feeding me."
"I meant the song." Maki is silent for a second.
"Wouldn't you have a problem with your company? I mean, our companies are competitors."
Now it's Harua's turn to be silent, thinking about what to say. He shifts on Maki's sofa, which, although small, feels like miles between them. He plays with the burrito wrapper and stares intently, avoiding Maki's direct gaze.
"You know I wouldn't mind giving you a song or a melody as long as you succeed. That's all I want for you. That's what I've always wanted."
Maki doesn't know what to say. He's stunned by his friend's words. They didn't feel like empty words or comforting platitudes, like when a friend says they'll be there for you through thick and thin. This felt like a promise, something life-or-death, something important. Harua speaks again, this time looking directly into Maki's eyes with a small smile, as if what he just said hadn't directly affected his heart. "But if you feel so immoral about receiving one of my songs, then use me. Use me for inspiration. Yes, I know it's a bit self-centered of me, but if you still haven't found inspiration, look for it in the things around you. You can use me, for example, and that way you don't have to give me credit." Harua doesn't let Maki say anything. He simply gets up, dusts off his pants, throws the burrito wrapper in the trash, and with a touch of sarcasm and joking tone says goodbye. "Anyway, I think I should head back before some paparazzi finds my location and realizes I'm visiting the recording studio of my supposed musical arch-nemesis."
And even though the door closed, the playlist stopped. At some point, Harua's words echoed throughout the room in Maki's mind. "Use me for inspiration." "That's what I've always wanted for you." Harua's visit didn't even last 15 minutes, but Maki spent the whole night awake thinking about all the words he said and used them to write songs. "Use me"—why did he use that word out of all the ones he could have used? The worst part was the number of lines that came to him from that word. "You say I can use you, how much of you can I use, how much of you can I take. What if I cross the line? Will you take a step back?" The first time, it felt very strange writing lines with that tone, considering it was his best friend who had inspired him. But it had worked. Even if that line didn't make it into the final song, at least he wasn't stuck before it even arrived. So he took it seriously, hoping Harua would lead him to something else for this album, or at least that his inspiration would take him to another song. He let his body slide down the sofa until he fell abruptly to the floor. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, and remembered when he met Harua at that trainee company. They had been close ever since and had promised to debut together, but then the company terminated their contracts because they went bankrupt. It's funny to look back on it now, but at the time it was very painful. They each went their separate ways professionally, signing with different record labels. It wasn't their intention to keep their friendship a secret; in fact, they never needed to show anyone their friendship. But when they finally debuted and achieved success almost simultaneously, social media exploded, creating a narrative of rivalry that each of their companies exploited to further their musical careers.
They didn't question it; they just moved on. Harua has been that friend who has been there through thick and thin, when he fell in love for the first time there was he, when his heart was broken there was he, when he was depressed there was he, when he needed a hug there was he, when the growing fame was drowning him there was even when he was drowning too, when he wrote his first songs there was even when the external comparisons about their musical careers began there was silently.
But he was also there for happy moments, like when he won his award for best new artist, when they cook, dance, laugh, and do karaoke. Just thinking about these things, Maki realizes that he isn't grateful enough to his friend; he simply accepts his presence and that it always brings joy or positive moments.
Maki likes this idea and writes about it:
I grew so used to your presence, your endless glow,
I forgot how rare true happiness can be and how it can grow.
I took for granted the joy you freely gave,
not knowing some would fight, some would fall, some would crave.
Yet you gave it so freely, with no need for a name,
a gentle kind of happiness untouched by fame.
You’ve always been here, even when no one could see,
the brightest light guiding the darkest parts of me.
You were the star that carried me through the night,
the quiet flame that always made everything right.
But when did I start looking at you this way?
When did you become more than the light of my day?
When did your presence become my deepest desire?
When did my heart begin calling you something higher?
When did I stop wanting just your light to appear,
and start wishing for you to always be near?
When did a simple truth become my everything?
When did my heart decide you were the song it would sing?
Sometime in the early morning, Maki started writing about the face and the piercings in Harua, with descriptions so detailed that at some point he had to delete some lines because of how specific they were. And he got scared when the sun came up and filtered through the window blinds because in one night he had written more than 100 pages about Harua. He wrote about their friendship, about the past, the present, and even the future, and he got scared because he never thought he would write things the way he did about his friend. Because he no longer sees him as a friend, and it scares him to know that all those thoughts and feelings were always there, and only now can he see them.
The sound of a notification snaps him out of his trance, and after almost 10 hours, he checks the notification bar on his phone.
Rua: I hope you didn't take my comment seriously; there are more interesting things to be inspired by. 21:09
Manager: Change of plans, the executive directors want you to present the songs for this week, come to my office tomorrow.
21:07.