Kamen Rider Evil

He closed the article and opened the chat with his manager again, he could only smirk at the panic in the text message. Something about his image to the public. But, well, Ace didn’t really care all that much. Really he thought it was hilarious the way the article phrased everything about his Close Relationship.

Ace leaned back into the cushions of his couch, copying the link to the article. Then he swiped to a different chat, pasting the link into it. He sent the text to Michinaga with a taunting caption about their secret relationship. 

He was impressed that somebody had spotted the bassist in the crowd in the first place. But then, his dark liner and leather clothes stood out amongst the suits and evening gowns. Jyamar Gardens wasn’t necessarily an unknown band either, they had their own streak of fame, especially overseas. 

>damn it, really? 

The pianist snorted, watching Michinaga type multiple texts of colourful language about the situation. It wasn’t like either of them were actually hiding it, they weren’t. They just ran in entirely different circles with little overlap outside of a certain rich youtuber they both happened to know.

<Will you still be coming to my performance tomorrow?

>obviously, i already used it as an excuse to get out of band practice.

And that was that. Ace liked a little drama, it kept things fresh. But what he had really come to care about was how Michinaga felt. It was a bit embarrassing, having fallen into this sort of indescribable yearning for the bassist. But his happiness was quickly becoming part of Ace's priorities.

He’d always been a bit of a romantic, part of why he didn’t really bother trying to date. But his eyes lingered on several other texts Michinaga had sent complaining about Beroba and Daichi’s recent bullshit, his smile never really left his face. 

Ace groaned, dropping his phone beside him on the couch. He brought his hands up, running them up his face and through his hair, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. It was too late for him now, the yearning was catastrophic. Embarrassingly utterly catastrophic. 

He stood from his couch with a sigh, stretching his arms behind him. He needed to practice, not think about Michinaga’s pouty expression.

Ace adjusted his scarf one last time before stepping out onto the stage, bowing to the polite clapping of the audience. He stood straight and made his way to the piano situated in the center of the stage. He’d done hundreds of performances at this point, recitals of course, but a favourite opening act to high end parties.

But he put his all into every performance, it was second nature. Ace sat on the bench, inhaling a soft breath of air. He adjusted the sheet music and then got comfortable in his position. The murmuring died down and he began to play. 

There was no song he couldn’t master, no piece beyond his skill. And while he always had an old master locked in his lineup, his true love was for his own compositions. Composing music came more naturally to him than playing it did, it was a true reflection of self, above all else.

Ace opened his eyes as he played, halflidded and only partially glancing at the sheet music. He almost never played with his eyes open, losing himself to the feeling of the keys and the sound of the piano in the concert hall. He played for himself, for his joy. The only job he had ever really enjoyed. 

But he turned his head slightly, dark eyes sweeping over the seated audience. He was never hard to spot, seated near the aisle for a quick escape if he got too annoyed. He never dressed up either, the dim glint off his leather jacket easily caught Ace’s eye. 

His expression was always deceivingly soft when Ace played, arms crossed but loose. It was something that would fuel Ace’s ego if it weren’t for his own feelings. He turned his head inwards once more, eyes closing as he continued to play the piano. 

Many of his latest pieces were dedicated to Michinaga, but that fact was beyond him. Ace had never said so, and he knew the bassist wouldn’t assume so either. But they were, the romantic melodies betraying his emotions beneath the surface he put up. 

The performance was well received and he bowed once more before leaving the stage. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a certain man also standing and leaving. Usually Ace stuck around for the party, but it was rare he could get Michinaga to stay for too many of them in any given time period.

So with his bag on his shoulder, he made his way out of one of the back doors. A camera flashed and he squinted against the light, blinking a few times. “Ukiyo Ace!” He smiled despite his annoyance, unfortunate, his little escape door was breached. 

“Excuse me but I have somewhere to be..”

“Are you meeting up with Azuma Michinaga again? Rumours are you two have been seeing each other!”

“We’re friends, yes.”

Now no longer blinded by the camera, Ace realised it was a small crowd. Fans, press. He bit back the click of his tongue. He tried to look over them, around them. Usually Michinaga was back here smoking, waiting for him. But the telltale scent of his strawberry cigarillos wasn’t apparent in the crisp air.

A pen and paper were shoved into his hands and he plastered on a smile as he quickly scribbled his signature onto it, handing it back just as quickly. “If you’ll excuse me,” he attempted to use his height to get through the small gathering, but they were incredibly persistent. He signed a Hal Leonard songbook he recognised as the one he once recommended to his fans. 

“Move.” A harsh voice caught his attention and the young man in front of him was swiftly brushed to the side. Ace’s hand was grabbed by a warm one, and he was tugged through the rest of the crowd he’d been trapped by. 

There it was, that sickly sweet smell of strawberry and tobacco. 

“Quick get a photo!”

And Ace smiled in time for the camera to click, Michinaga however, covering his face with his free arm. The latter was much more used to annoying press, the difference between Japanese paparazzi and those overseas very notable. Michinaga just pulled him away though, flipping off one of the cameras and rendering the photo unusable.

Michinaga let go of his hand, grabbing the helmets off the back of his motorcycle. Ace took his from him, pulling it over his head and clipping it as he mounted the back of the bike. Michinaga got on with a huff audible even through his helmet, kicking up the kickstand.

“Hold on.”

Ace barely had time to grab his waist before the motorcycle roared to life, not bothering to hide his grin behind the tinted visor. The motorcycle screeched through the parking lot, weaving between too expensive cars and successfully ditching the nosy photographers. 

“We’re really in it now, rich boy.”

Michinaga’s voice came through in the bluetooth on the helmet and the pianist squeezed his waist. “Is that a problem, Micchan~?” Ace teased him, head resting against his back. The bassist scoffed, taking a sharp turn down an alleyway that made Ace laugh. Always an attitude with him.

“For you probably.” He answered truthfully, a punk band was always going to have controversy and scandal, he was used to it. 

“Aww, care what happens to me?”

“Hah! In your dreams.”

Ace’s smile remained on his face though, holding onto him tightly as he blazed through the night streets without a care for safety. After a few moments of relative silence, the sounds of the city being the loudest thing. Michinaga’s head came back, the back of his helmet gently bonking against the front of Ace’s. 

“Maybe! Is that so bad?”

The speed picked up and Ace wondered if he was going to kill them both, he wouldn’t put it past him. But just as quickly as it picked up, it died down, the motorcycle screeching to a stop at a red light. Michinaga’s shoulders rose and fell with effort, breathing hard, Ace could feel it, see it. 

“Still coming to the show this Friday?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Michinaga adjusted how he sat, revving the bike a few times. Ace opened his mouth to say something else, but the light switched and the motorcycle took off again at a speed that partially threw him back. He was reminded why he preferred to drive.

“Then no,” he finally answered, barely avoiding a car that laid on the horn. “It isn’t so bad.” 

“You can be sweet when you want to.”