Chapter Text
The next evening, the club hummed with low music and soft chatter—the kind of ambient lull that came before the real show began. The crimson lights bled across the floorboards, pooling over the mirrored walls and half-dressed performers. Crimson sat in front of his vanity, dabbing concealer beneath his tired eyes, trying to ignore the way his reflection looked older in this light.
“...Well, you look like shit.”
He didn’t have to glance up to know who it was. Delta stood in the doorway, half in his dancewear, half doing his makeup—one hand holding a handheld mirror, the other applying eyeliner. Multitasking and still killing it. Typical Delta.
“Yeah, thanks, Delta,” Shu muttered, voice dry as he adjusted his fishnets. The sarcasm was his only armor. He went back to applying concealer as he noticed he’d missed a spot, letting out a quiet click of annoyance.
Delta Akane—blader by day, stripper by night. Like Crimson, he lived a double life, though he still kept one foot in the blading world. The two had been mentor and student for years, ever since Delta first joined the Raging Bulls. Though still part of the team, his ranking had stalled and slipped over the last three years, leaving him restless and hungry for any kind of stage to shine. He was 19 now, and he knew his chances of climbing the ranks were slim. Shu saw pieces of himself in the Devolos blader—his drive, his frustration—and couldn’t help but feel protective. When he’d suggested Delta try dancing at the club, the younger blader decided to give it a shot.
At first, Delta had been skeptical about performing in front of strangers, but the mask made it easier. Under the stage name Scarlet, he found that the spotlight was its own kind of battlefield—familiar, intoxicating. To his surprise, stripping gave him the same rush that competition once had. Now, he split his nights between the blur of blading and performance, both worlds drenched in the same neon haze, yet he shone more while dancing—while in the blading world, younger, more promising bladers overshadowed him.
Delta set down his handheld mirror and leaned against the counter beside Shu, eyeliner still in hand. “What’s up with you? Heard you got rented out last night. Didn’t think you’d… do something like that.”
Shu froze mid-motion. His jaw tensed, but his reflection stayed calm. “The client dropped ten grand.”
Delta blinked, jaw falling open. It took him a few moments to regain his composure. “Okay… wow. That’s a lot, but still—didn’t you, like, have… reservations about that kinda thing?” He fumbled with the phrasing, though genuine concern threaded through his tone. “I mean, aren’t you still kind of hung up on… you know?”
Shu exhaled slowly, crossing his arms. “It was Valt. The Valt Aoi.”
“Oh, shit—” The mascara stick slipped from Delta’s fingers and clattered to the floor. His eyes widened, color draining from his face. “Ah, shit! Oh… oh no… Shu.”
“Yeah.” Shu’s voice came out hollow, almost a whisper.
“Well, fuck.” Delta bent down, picked up his dropped mascara, but kept his gaze fixed on the Crimson dancer.
“Yeah.” Shu sighed, letting his head fall back against the chair. “Fuck indeed.”
"Was the sex good at least?" Delta tried to lighten the mood, but winced at his own words—definitely not his strong suit, this talking thing.
Shu let out a humourless chuckle. "Yes. Yes, it was. He must have had a lot of experience."
"Oh..."
For a moment, the music outside felt distant, the laughter muffled. Delta hesitated, then stepped closer—awkward but sincere—as if his mere presence might keep Shu from collapsing under the weight of it all. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing, never had been, but Shu still appreciated the effort. A quiet comfort lingered between them.
“So, like…” Delta began hesitantly, rubbing the back of his neck. “He doesn’t know it’s you, right?”
“No. He doesn’t. That’s the whole reason I agreed in the first place. I kept the mask on the whole night.”
Delta blinked again, expression twisting somewhere between disbelief and pity. “And he still agreed to pay the 10K? To tap someone without seeing their face?”
“Yeah.”
Delta exhaled a low whistle. “Well, that fucking sucks.”
Shu groaned, running a hand through his hair. “You’re telling me.”
Delta leaned against the counter again, chewing on his lip. He didn’t need to explain what he meant. Shu knew. They both did. If Valt was here—throwing around money for strangers’ bodies—it meant he wasn’t looking for love. It meant he was further than ever from the version of himself Shu remembered. And that realization hurt more than Shu wanted to admit.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Just the faint thump of bass through the walls, the warm glow of the room settling over their faces.
Shu broke the silence first. “You think I’m an idiot for saying yes?”
There was a long pause. Shu held his breath. Delta’s eyes softened. Despite no longer officially being Delta’s mentor, he still cared about his appearance in front of the younger blader.
“Nah,” Delta said quietly, his voice soft and honest. “I mean… you. It’s been years that you…” He trailed off, waving his hands vaguely. “I mean, if it were me and, like, Dante walked through those doors and dropped ten grand to fuck me without even knowing it was actually me, I think… I’d probably say yes too.”
Shu let out a quiet, humorless laugh through his nose. It didn’t reach his eyes. Right—he wasn’t the only one stuck with a hopeless crush that had lasted years.
“Well,” Delta said after a beat, pushing off the counter, “I better get going. I’m on in ten minutes. Uh—don’t, like, drown in your thoughts or anything, okay? You still got a killer routine tonight. And, like, um, if you need to talk, we can hit the bar after?”
Shu didn’t answer but lifted a hand in a lazy wave, basically saying there was no need. Delta pursed his lips, gave a small nod and dipped, not pushing the issue further.
Shu—Crimson—sighed again, eyes lingering on his reflection. Which part of him had Valt really seen that night—the man, or just the mask?
Another sigh escaped him, and his phone buzzed on the counter. The screen lit up with a name he hadn’t seen in awhile:
Fubuki.
[October 17: 9:35 PM, Fubuki Sumiye]
Fubuki: Hey Shu! Haven’t seen you drop by the club in awhile—everything okay? Hope you can come by soon. I just wrapped up the reports for tonight and… gosh, I don’t even know how you managed to do all of that and train at 16?? You’re built different.
Shu let out a quiet chuckle, fingers hovering over the keyboard. He typed slowly, keeping his tone casual:
Shu: Hey Fubuki. Yeah, I’ll stop by soon. Been busy with some stuff, you know how it is. Also, this is like the 12th time you’ve told me this.
Almost immediately, Fubuki replied:
Fubuki: 12 times is not enough. You’re a goddamn workaholic! But seriously… it’s been way too long since we all hung out. I mean, me, you, Delta, and Lain… we should catch up soon. The OGs. I miss those old days.
Shu leaned back slightly, letting the words settle. A small, wistful smile tugged at his lips. It has been awhile… Maybe seeing them again would be a good distraction, a chance to be just Shu—not Crimson, not a performer, not someone hiding behind a mask. And especially to not think about him.
He tapped back quickly:
Shu: Yeah… it really has been awhile. Let’s arrange a time to meet sometime this week. Looking forward to catching up with you all. And get some rest!"
Fubuki: Sounds good! And yeah, I know I can take care of myself, you know! I’m 20!
Shu: haha. Reach your mid twenties then we'll see.
Fubuki: Ok boomer.
Shu let out a soft laugh and closed his phone. Maybe he’d be okay after all. Alright—enough thinking about him. He was going up right after Delta’s set, and it was time to lock in, to focus. Dancing was his craft, his pride—and tonight, that was all that mattered.
Valt leaned back in the leather chair of his hotel suite, the smoke from his cigar curling around him in lazy spirals. Across from him, Rantaro—Honcho—watched quietly, arms crossed, reading Valt like a book. The dim glow of the city outside the suite’s floor-to-ceiling windows cast long shadows across the room, the neon signs of the nearby club flickering faintly on the walls.
“So… you’re sure it’s him?” Rantaro asked finally, breaking the silence.
Valt exhaled a thick plume of smoke, letting it hang in the air for a moment before answering. “Yes, Honcho. It had to have been.” His fingers tapped the edge of the ashtray nervously. “Fuck… it’s been such a long time. I thought I was hallucinating at first. But god, Honcho… he’s so fucking beautiful. I’d recognize him anywhere—even with that mask on.”
Rantaro observed his best friend. It was always a little jarring to see Valt smoke, but life had been rough on him ever since failing to reclaim his world championship at twenty. Five years had passed, and everyone had grown older—wiser, sharper, hardened by time—but Valt still carried the spotlight and the adoration that came with it. Yet when the cameras were off, when it was just the two of them in this quiet suite, Valt looked like this: tired. Worn. Rantaro knew a big part of his friend’s slow spiral stemmed from the lost connection with the Spryzen blader, Shu Kurenai.
The thought stung. Shu wasn’t just important to Valt; he had been a cornerstone in the lives of all their friends from Beigoma Academy—a constant through the chaos of competitions and growing pains. Time had pulled them in different directions, and the beyblading world had been unrelenting, leaving Valt feeling disconnected from that part of his past. Seeing Shu again, even in such unexpected circumstances, reopened memories and emotions that Valt had tried to bury: the camaraderie, the rivalries, the laughter, the late-night training sessions. And especially the love he had carried for Shu ever since they were kids. Valt had just been too stubborn—or too blind—to realize it at the time.
Rantaro leaned forward slightly, voice low but firm. “Well, what are you gonna do about it? You didn’t tell him you knew, so you can’t just walk up and act like everything’s alright.”
Valt ran a hand through his hair, frustration tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Shit, I know, Honcho! I was planning on telling him in the morning… see where he wanted things to go. But when I woke up, he was already gone!”
Honcho raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “And now?”
Valt’s eyes flicked to the floor, then back to the window. Neon lights from the streets below reflected off the glass, blurring into streaks. “Now… I don’t know. I can’t just—” he exhaled sharply, grinding the cigar between his fingers. “I can’t just walk into his life like nothing happened. I basically… I basically paid him to sleep with me. How the fuck do you even start fixing that?”
Honcho leaned back, studying his friend carefully. “You keep going to the club. You keep showing up. Maybe eventually, you’ll figure out a way to talk to him without it being weird.”
Valt let out a long sigh, the weight of the night pressing down on him. “Yeah… I’ll keep going. I just… I need another chance. I need to see him.”
“And when you do, will you tell him?” Rantaro pressed. “You’re going to have to tell him that you know who he is at some point, Valt.”
“I know.” Valt groaned, hating how Rantaro—once as much of an airhead as him—was suddenly the more grounded one. “I’m scared. Once he does know, I don’t even know if he wants to see me again after… everything.”
A pause settled between them, heavy as the smoke in the room. Valt’s eyes drifted upward, recalling the piercing crimson gaze of Shu behind the mask. Regret twisted in his chest, but beneath it lingered something else—a spark, stubborn and defiant.
“I just… I don’t want to lose him again, Honcho.”
“You won’t,” Rantaro said, voice steady, almost certain. “No matter how Shu reacts, you’re not giving up that easy, are you?”
Valt shook his head, letting a small, almost bitter laugh escape. “No… not this time.”