“Lead me to the light
And take me to the edge of heaven
< The edge of heaven is here >
I am standing in the night
And looking for the edge of heaven
< Sail the endless sea >
We’ll be touching the edge of heaven”
*
“Talk to me, Jiro!”
Silence. Utter and complete.
“Onegai...”
It was a week after Hisashi had kissed Jiro, and it had been worse than the week that directly followed Jiro’s attempt to leave. That week, they had spoken only sparingly. This week, they had barely spoken at all.
Hisashi quickly found himself spiraling into anguished dismay. He never imagined Jiro would react like this, he was utterly unprepared and unequipped to handle it. Only one thing had been revealed to him in the past days, and that was that he could never deny that he felt something for bassist.
The way things were going, the way he felt, he couldn’t help but wonder if there had been some attraction all along. Perhaps Jiro’s cheeriness and brightness had touched him on a hidden, unacknowledged level, had somehow earned more than annoyance from the guitarist. And now that Hisahi had seen this dynamic, emotional, *real* side of the bassist, those feelings were surfacing. After all, he had acknowledged before that he wasn’t entirely straight. If it would be another man – why not Jiro?
Part of him acknowledged this. The other part still somehow couldn’t believe it, couldn’t see it, couldn’t imagine or rationalize them together. But that was not the voice that controlled his actions or emotions.
As he spoke to Jiro now, it was the result of his inability to remain inactive. Teru had needed to drop some sheet music off at Jiro’s house, and Hisashi had asked if he could do it instead. The vocalist had given him a suspicious look – things weren’t exactly great between them at the moment.
Teru was somewhat untrusting, in spite of Hisashi trying to placate him, and in spite of the fact that Jiro didn’t express hostility toward Hisashi at practice, only reclusive, aching silence. The vocalist tried to refuse his request. And although Hisashi had not allowed emotion to overly affect his voice, he had been pleading with his eyes, intense and determined, and Teru had acquiesced, giving him the music.
When Hisashi showed up on Jiro’s doorstep, he had seen the surprise in Jiro’s eyes. The bassist had been expecting Teru, and the smile had broken and fallen from his lips when he saw Hisashi.
But unable to avoid being polite, he had invited Hisashi briefly in – it was, after all, a cold day outside – to take the music and thank him for it. Very little conversation had passed between them in that awkward moment, and then Jiro had murmured another thanks and said goodbye, clearly dismissing Hisashi. He had waited as Hisashi half-turned and put his hand on the door, and then turned away.
And now the bassist was stopped in his tracks, a few feet away, music clenched perhaps too tightly in his fingers, and Hisashi was facing him, hand away from the knob and door still closed.
In response to Hisashi’s plea, he very slowly turned around.
“Nani?” Jiro finally whispered. His bangs fell forward, hiding his face, casting a shadow over his eyes.
“Jiro, please... We need to talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
He never lifted his face, Hisashi could see that his knuckles were white as his hand formed a fist around the paper.
“Like hell!” He raised his voice more in a gesture of frustration and desperation than in anger, but Jiro still flinched.
“What do you want, Hisashi?” Jiro’s voice was soft and controlled, and he finally lifted his eyes to gaze at Hisashi, doing so as if it took a great effort not to flinch away.
“I want to know why,” he said emphatically, gesturing helplessly. He took a few steps forward, both encouraged and drawn by Jiro’s eyes meeting his.
Jiro bit his lip, stared back helplessly, seeming to wait for and dread Hisashi’s continuation.
The bluehead took a deep breath. “Jiro... I don’t understand. When I kissed you...” A flicker of Jiro’s eyes, quickly moving away, momentarily reflecting too many emotions to count. He did not look back at Hisashi.
“It was a mistake,” Jiro cut in, speaking over his hesitating words, voice soft but finding strength in desperation.
“I thought that’s what you wanted!” Hisashi implored, reaching out, closing his hand over Jiro’s forearm. < I want you to look at me, Jiro. I want to understand. >
Jiro was trembling, and he pulled away violently from Hisashi’s touch, jerking his arm back. He then raised the hand to his face, momentarily, almost angrily, brushing it against his eyes. Hisashi let him take that step back, watched without speaking.
Jiro shook his head. “You’re wrong!” he whispered.
“I’d believe you if you didn’t look so upset,” Hisashi returned quietly. He tried to project into his voice real emotion. He tried to erase the old emotions between them, as well as the current awkwardness and concealments, with only his voice, the expression in it.
Jiro didn’t respond. “Please look at me,” Hisashi said gently.
Ever so slowly, Jiro’s eyes returned to him, shining and anguished.
“When you said those things to me... When you kissed me that night, and then told me that you liked me... Was that true? Did it mean something to you?”
Jiro closed his eyes. “Yes,” he whispered.
“And – and when I kissed you, last week... Did that mean something to you?”
Jiro didn’t respond at first, and Hisashi waited, almost not daring to breathe. Finally, Jiro replied. He nodded slowly, unable or unwilling to speak; Hisashi saw his eyes close momentarily tighter.
“Then – then I don’t understand,” Hisashi said quietly, helplessly. “Maybe – maybe I shouldn’t have done that, I didn’t want to hurt you with that kiss, I didn’t want to make you run out of there...”
“You didn’t hurt me,” Jiro replied, voice tenuous but immediate. His eyes slid open. Hisashi waited for him to continue, but he didn’t.
“But... I don’t understand,” Hisashi finally repeated quietly, watching Jiro, wanting to see some sign of – something, anything, he didn’t even know.
Jiro took a deep breath, and when he spoke, the words seemed to pain him. “Don’t you get it?” he whispered. “Hisa... Boys can’t date boys.” He had said those words to Hisashi that day in the alley. “That – that’s not the way it works.
“And – and we’re band members, that makes it even worse. Besides, I... I have a girlfriend.”
That was something that Hisashi knew, but that he had conveniently and consistently been ignoring. Instead, he focused on the first thing Jiro said.
“Jiro... Does it really bother you that much? The fact that – we’re both guys?”
The bassist seemed to hesitate. “I... Yes,” he whispered. He spoke more as if he was trying to convince himself.
“What are you afraid of?”
Jiro wouldn’t answer.
“Does it matter so much – what people think?”
“It *has* to,” Jiro said harshly. “We’re not normal people, Hisashi. We can’t – we can’t just do whatever we want. We’re GLAY.”
Hisashi shook his head. “I don’t believe that, Jiro. We’re not GLAY all the time, sometimes we have to just be us, be ourselves.”
Jiro’s eyes were shimmering and large, staring at him. His lips were silent.
On impulse, Hisashi closed his fingers around Jiro’s shoulders. “What are you afraid of?” he repeated, forcing Jiro not to turn away.
The bassist froze, his muscles tense; he didn’t try to pull away, but still seemed hesitant, he seemed to be undecided and wary.
“I have a girlfriend,” he whispered softly. He didn’t speak it as a response to Hisashi’s question, it was just something he said, the words desolate and pleading. “I-”
He cut off when Hisashi leaned forward, bringing their faces, their lips, close, closer. A curtain of silver hesitation hung between them, and Hisashi did not finish the movement, he stopped those mere inches away.
They hovered there momentarily, eternally. Hisashi couldn’t bring himself to close the distance, to take that step – not when there were tears in Jiro’s eyes, not when Jiro had run away a week ago. He could feel the warmth emanating from Jiro’s body, they shared breath.
And then Jiro’s breath escaped in a sigh. His body seemed to almost wither, to lose its rigid tension, and his eyes slid closed. His hesitation melted into a despairing kiss.
His lips pressed against Hisashi’s forcefully, as if he had given up, as if he wanted this but didn’t want himself to have it.
Hisashi reflexively pulled him closer, so that their bodies almost touched, and he returned the fire of Jiro’s kiss automatically, though he was somewhat numb from surprise.
The kiss drew out, lingered. They sustained themselves on shared breath, on the stolen moment between them, on each other. Only when air was dangerously absent did their embrace break. Jiro pulled away.
“Go home, Hisashi,” Jiro whispered, eyes sliding open to fix only on the ground. He was short of breath, his lips were kiss-bruised.
The guitarist studied him, wanting to reach out and touch him but unable to, willing him silently to look up. But Jiro only spoke again, did not move, did not lift his gaze.
“Go away.” A softer whisper. Pleading.
“....Alright,” Hisashi replied quietly. He looked away, eyes briefly flickering over the surroundings of the room, the things that spoke of Jiro, before he turned around.
< Damn you... Damn everything. Kiss me, now send me away... >
The silence was chill and oppressive, he could hear his own footsteps on the carpet, could hear Jiro’s very soft breathing behind him. He wondered if Jiro could hear the frustrated, cold change in his silence, in his voice, because the other man spoke, haltingly.
When Hisashi opened the door and stepped into the evening, Jiro said: “Hisa...”
< No more, Jiro. I don’t know if it’s worth trying anymore... >
Hisashi closed his eyes briefly, squeezing them shut, but he didn’t stop his passage through the door. Jiro’s voice died and he didn’t try to stop him.
*
That day Hisashi left Jiro’s he made a resolution to himself. Jiro didn’t know what he wanted, he said one thing but acted upon another. Hisashi had tried, he had believed he wanted to pursue something with Jiro, after finding out that Jiro liked him, after considering things in a new light, and he had tried. But that day, as he left Jiro’s house, he decided he would just give up, move on. Get over it.
And he would have succeeded if Jiro had not called that evening.
But Jiro did call. Later that night, after Hisashi had returned home to feed his cat, gone out for a while to get a drink at a bar, and then come home early because he got bored quickly when he was out and alone, the phone had rung.
The last person Hisashi had expected to hear on the other end was Jiro.
<<< “Hello?” he said tiredly into the receiver, glancing down at Ayu who rubbed affectionately against his leg as he leaned against the counter, cradling the phone against his shoulder.
“Anou... Hi Hisa.”
He was silent for a long moment, voice swallowed by his surprise at hearing the deep voice that was unmistakably Jiro’s. “Hey,” he finally returned.
“Umm...” Jiro’s nervousness was apparent. “I – I don’t really know why I called,” he said quietly.
Hisashi didn’t know that there was anything he could say in response, so he merely waited in silence.
“Eh... how’s Ayu?”
Hisashi glanced back down at his cat. “She’s fine...”
A pause. Then: “I – I wanted to talk to you about earlier.”
“What’s there to talk about?” Hisashi knew his repetition of Jiro’s earlier words was harsh, would sting, but he said it anyway.
Jiro seemed put off by the slightly acidic response, but continued. “I’m... really sorry,” he said softly. “For – for what I did.”
< God, I’m not even sure what you’re apologizing for... Kissing me? Turning me so quickly away? > He didn’t really feel like asking, either.
Jiro continued to stumble through his words. “Hisa, it’s not like – it’s not like I’m trying to hurt you or anything. I just – I don’t know what to do, what I should do, or say, or think. I...”
“Shh,” Hisashi said, quieting the genuine distress in Jiro’s voice. He sighed. “Jiro... I don’t know what to tell you. But – thank you for apologizing, I guess, though you really didn’t have to.”
Jiro seemed relieved. “Really?” he whispered.
< I don’t know what’s going on any more than you do. Or maybe I even know less... I don’t understand why you’re acting like you are. I just... don’t understand anything... >
Hisashi shrugged to the empty room, then remembered to speak. “Yeah...”
Silence. Still awkward. Then: “Anou... I almost forgot. Teru called me a few minutes ago, he and Takuro wanted to know if you wanted to get drinks with them.”
“Why didn’t he call me?”
“I said that I was about to call you. So he told me to ask.”
< I wonder if Teru said something strange in response when Jiro said he was going to call me... > Hisashi breathed a soft sigh, asking: “are you going?”
“....Aa.”
< Okay, so I really shouldn’t go. First of all, Teru’s still kind of pissed at me, I think, and second, it’ll be awkward as hell with Jiro there. But... > He had never prided himself on his sense of logic.
“Alright... Then I’ll go. Where is everyone meeting?” >>>
He had gone out that evening with a guarded demeanor, but he had soon let it dissolve. Teru seemed to forgive him – at least temporarily, while GLAY was out having fun – and Jiro wasn’t quite his cheerful self until he downed a few drinks. It was only then that he perked up. And it was like old times, it was like it was before everything became complicated.
And seeing Jiro like that again, seeing him like he normally was, like he used to be, made Hisashi’s promises from earlier simply dissolve, become filaments of the air that became no more than memories.
So now – he was waiting.
It was a Friday night, the moon was three-quarters full and ghosted across the cloud-waves like a galleon. Hisashi waited somewhat impatiently, somewhat detachedly. Jiro would be arriving anytime now.
It was strange. He didn’t entirely know what was going on, what to expect. They were friends, they were more, they were less. Whenever they were together – that feeling was there. That attraction. It was mutual, it had to be.
And yet – it was never acted up. Glances were cast when one wasn’t looking, thoughts touched upon ideas and words that were never spoken, dreams, less than dreams, conjured images that fled the day. Jiro had a girlfriend, Jiro and Hisashi had each other, would never have each other. Vicious circles, truths and untruths, contradictions.
Hisashi’s thoughts continually chased themselves in circles wherever the bassist was concerned. He simply did not understand. He didn’t know how to even *try* to understand. On some level he didn’t think tonight would be any different. Jiro was going to come over, just – to be there. Hang out. Watch television or a movie, maybe even decide to go to a bar.
And on some level he thought it *would* be different. Somehow. Like something would change. Only he did not know what.
The doorbell finally rang, drawing Hisashi out of his swirling thoughts. He approached he door, opening it swiftly with a greeting ready on his lips.
Jiro’s smile was bright, his words friendly. Only his eyes belied his apparent chipper carelessness. There was a flash of tension in them, as if he, too, was uncertain, and did not know what to do about it.
The evening proceeded well enough, however. They decided to stay in at Hisashi’s suggestion – he had pizza left-over from a previous night that week, and Jiro had no qualms.
“Ne,” Hisashi said as he reentered the living room with the reheated pizza in hand, “what do you want to watch, Jiro?”
The bassist was sitting on the couch cross-legged, Ayu in his lap, purring happily. Hisashi paused, surveying the situation with an arched eyebrow.
“I think she missed me,” Jiro declared, smiling proudly and Ayu ran her head into his hand, begging for more attention.
“She saw you earlier this week, when you dropped off that sheet music.”
Jiro only shrugged and continued to pet her. Hisashi sighed, placing the pizza on the coffee table and grabbing the remote.
“There’s a movie on channel five,” Jiro mused, using one hand to flip through the television listings on the couch next to him.
“Then let’s watch it.”
“I dunno... It’s a horror flick. I don’t like scary movies...”
“All the more reason to watch.” Hisashi smirked coolly, sitting down on the couch as well and glancing at the description of the movie. Jiro frowned, lips forming a slight pout. The only effect this had on Hisashi, however, was for him to recall what it was like to kiss Jiro...
Hisashi’s response was to merely, somewhat quickly, return his eyes to the television and change the channel.
The night wore on. Ayu disappeared halfway through the first movie when Jiro jumped in startlement and the poor cat was sent tumbling to the ground. She trotted off with her tail raised indignantly.
And then one movie turned into two, when Jiro realized the first really wasn’t so bad and agreed tentatively to watching the one that followed. After Ayu abandoned them for quieter, gentler company and the stars winked through the undrawn blinds they were left alone with the soon-dark room.
Neither man noticed the distance between them diminishing. The second movie was intense, drew them in and made the darkness more oppressive, the silence more threatening. In search of a mutual sense of comfort they seemed to inch together on the couch, melting toward each other because there was nothing else to provide reassurance.
It was only when Jiro suddenly emitted an exclamation of frightened surprise and latched onto Hisashi’s arm that Hisashi became starkly aware of their position. The movie became only a pinprick of light, returned to a harmless flash of meaningless pictures, and the gray darkness provided a certain sense of clarity. Senses roared to focus on himself, on Jiro next to him. Touching him.
He could smell the slightly musky scent, something that was originally and completely Jiro. He could feel a pulsating warmth from the fingers that were wrapped tightly around his arm, the leg pressed against his thigh, warmth that was strangely intoxicating. He could hear Jiro’s soft breaths, slightly catching with the intensity of the movie.
He looked down slightly, moving only enough to cast his eyes upon the figure at his side, pressed against his side and who had made him grow tense. His gaze flickered over the tousled, soft hair, the oblivious and slightly frightened cast of his countenance. He heard the threatening music from the movie, but he no longer knew the plot, he no longer cared.
And perhaps his gaze was too intense or too long, he did not know how long he let it remain resting where it was. But suddenly the grip on his arm loosened, and Jiro shifted slightly, eyes moving to meet Hisashi’s. Freezing there.
Words and lifetimes passed between them in that moment, as their gazes locked and muscles froze. Jiro’s eyes were wide, caught the dim light and reflected it two-fold, warm, deep brown but portraying the open expression of a deer caught in headlights.
Hisashi could only gaze back.
*
Jiro tried to jerk away suddenly, desperately, as his heart raced and conflicting emotions collided in his mind. He pulled his fingers away from Hisashi as if burned. He *was* burned, the touch scalded him, a fire reached more deeply than he could let himself admit.
But he was halted before he could pull any further away.
“Don’t run away, Jiro.” Warning. Pleading.
Jiro felt himself shaking. “I... I should go now,” he said softly, tearing his eyes from Hisashi’s dark and magnetic gaze, pretending to let Hisashi’s words slide around them when they instead pierced his heart.
“You don’t have to.” Hisashi’s voice was now a whisper, almost trembling.
< No... > He shook his head mutely and slightly to himself, kept his eyes carefully and desperately away lest he be unable to break that gaze a second time. “It’s late,” he murmured.
“Stay here.”
< No.... > Like a moan in his head, echoing, desperate.
“You don’t know what you’re asking of me,” Jiro whispered. < You’re asking too much... I cannot – I cannot stay here any longer. Because if I do, I’ll... >
“I’m asking nothing *of* you, I am asking only what you are afraid of.”
The sudden vehemence in Hisashi’s voice made him close his eyes.
< I cannot look at him... I cannot... If I do... >
Maybe Hisashi knew he was growing weaker, maybe the guitarist knew how the prolonged closeness of his body affected Jiro, because he continued, husky voice brimming with emotion that was uncharacteristic and that sought to reach deeply.
“This is about us, Jiro.”
< My name on his lips... Oh God... >
“This isn’t about anything or anyone else. What do you want?”
< Want... >
His hands were visibly trembling, now. He felt cold and too hot, shivering from both sensations. His resolve was breaking, cracking, dissolving.
“I want to leave,” he choked out. < Before I let this happen.... This, this which I want... >
His eyes were still closed, they were his last form of self-control because the other barriers had withered away, battered down by Hisashi’s emotion and heat. He felt Hisashi’s breath ghost against his face, felt proximity increase with a thread-like quiver, and he knew Hisashi had leaned forward.
“What do you *want*?”
< God help me, I can’t do this anymore... I can’t.... >
His entire body was trembling, the heat and the presence of another lithe body, of Hisashi, was far too powerful, was something he could not resist. He was utterly defeated.
“I want you...”
The words slipped from his lips like a helpless, anguished sigh. < You, Hisashi, you... Something forbidden, something I should not have... >
Thoughts drowned in a kiss like flower petals in the dying snow. Hisashi’s lips claimed his and there was nothing he could will himself to do in order to resist. It was too perfect, too sweet, too overwhelming, utterly consuming.
< Forbidden... But oh God, it’s Hisashi... >
He moaned into Hisashi’s mouth, sinking backward, down, giving way under the barest compulsion of Hisashi pressing against him. His numb fingers clutched Hisashi’s arms, tangling in the material of his sweatshirt, and he pulled the guitarist with him. Their mouths never broke contact. Their kiss was fierce, almost frantic, and Jiro’s thoughts were flying, flying away and scattering at this single touch, this kiss, this complex suggestion of his desire.
It had been too long, he had *wanted* this for too long. It had been suppressed for too long, and now emotions and sensations overflowed within him, and he was frantic to catch them all, remember them, withhold them. He could not control or understand his actions, he did not command his arms to wrap around Hisashi’s waist, pulling him closer; he did not think about arching up into the slim body pressed against his, seeking more heat, more contact. He could only feel, he could not think or believe or breathe. Just feel.
He had kissed Hisashi that day a week ago because he simply couldn’t resist, he couldn’t. Hisashi had been too close, it had been impossible to not take that chance, to not take that taste. And that taste had lingered upon his mind, his thoughts, his lips consistently, fading but never dying because as much as he told himself to he could not let go.
And now that sweetness was renewed and he was drowning wholly in Hisashi, in his heat and in his passion, passion Jiro shared and could no longer flee. But there was a tang to that taste now, a pulse, a need. The fierceness of their desires mixed, produced a taste that was somehow stronger, more promising and tantalizing and irresistible. He choked on it’s strange sweetness, depended upon it to sustain him.
That first, endless kiss broke with a gasp. Air rushed to fill his lungs. But air was not what he needed. He slitted his eyes open, enough so that he might gaze upon the face above him, graze his eyes over the flushed skin and the dark lashes, the parted lips and perfect elegance.
It was only a moment, long enough to assure himself of the beauty pressed against him, to assure himself that whether it was a dream or a nightmare it was not yet over, and then he lifted his chin, seeking those lips desperately.
He had given up, on himself and his self-control, relinquishing any hope of regaining control of either with a breathless sigh just before their mouths met again. It was deep in the night, they were alone, completely and absolutely. The universe was outside the house, locked away and unable to matter. The stars were blind and innocent and hung in the sky, filaments of heaven.
But Jiro found his own sinful heaven in Hisashi, in his presence, eyes, and lips. And they were alone, in the night. Just them. Together.
When this second kiss broke a hollow effect rushed around Jiro.
The noises of the television suddenly became audible, reaching through his passion-threaded cocoon. The darkness changed from solidity to translucency, and objects gained a more real form because Jiro’s mind was not swept away by Hisashi’s lips.
Hisashi’s fingers grazed his face, with one hand he danced a soft pattern across Jiro’s cheek and jawbone. Jiro’s eyes slid slowly open, fully this time, and with a compelling twist of time Hisashi’s gaze was revealed and met his at the same moment. Jiro’s breathing was heavy and ragged, was mirrored by the guitarist. Few sounds broke the stillness of the room. The movie, which somehow seemed more distant. Their breathing. Jiro’s heartbeat which echoed in his own ears.
As he stared back at Hisashi his thoughts were stalled, he couldn’t think. He could only swallow air that seemed somehow stale, feel their shared, pulsating heat. Hisashi’s words reflected back to his mind from earlier, suddenly had an echo that was deeper, that was a premonition or a promise, Jiro did not know which.
< ‘Stay here.’ >
< ....I cannot leave... Not when you’re looking at me like this, with things in your eyes that I can hardly believe, maybe I cannot believe them. But I want to, I want to... >
< I’m too weak, I cannot leave if you ask me to stay. I don’t want to leave... >
“Jiro....”
< Emotion in your voice. Desire, something that might be deeper, or that might not even be there. But real, trembling emotion. Warmth. >
There was hesitation in Hisashi’s eyes now. Amongst the dusky stars and the darkness of passion was a resigned reluctance, an uncertainty.
And then he shifted, very slightly. But even that slight movement took some heat with it, was a prelude to Hisashi pulling away.
“Ask me to stay,” Jiro whispered, freezing Hisashi’s movement by tightening his arms around his waist and with the desperate, pleading quality of his voice.
< If you ask me to stay I cannot say no. But I am not weak enough that if you try to let me go I might just make it, I might just leave... >
Hisashi’s eyes locked with his.
“Onegai...” His own voice, less than a whisper now.
And then Hisashi’s body relaxed against him, and he leaned forward. His breath brushed against Jiro’s cheek, lips hovered next to his ear. Jiro was suddenly breathless.
“Tonight – stay with me,” he whispered.
Jiro shivered at the hot, moist brush of his breath. He couldn’t find words, they had abandoned him, had become somehow meaningless, unable to express enough. He merely nodded, very faintly, but Hisashi knew.
Gently the guitarist drew away and sat back, pulling Jiro up to a sitting position with him. The bassist blinked uncertainly in the dim room, there was a sense of unreality about him. His nerves skittered with a sudden anxiety, and he could feel that his cheeks were still flushed.
“Go to my room,” Hisashi said quietly, gaze soft and intense in the darkness. “I’ll be there in a minute, ne?”
Somewhat hesitant, Jiro nodded. Before he had a chance to rise, however, Hisashi learned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips, chaste, lingering, and then gone. But it was enough to both calm Jiro’s anxiety and make his heart skip a beat.
He offered a small smile as Hisashi drew back, and then rose gracefully, breaking their contact and feeling a swirl of cold air, and left the room, walking noiselessly down the hall to the door that he knew led to Hisashi’s room.
His pulse was unsteady and each beat seemed to echo in the dark halls around him. Passion-dusted eyes had adjusted to the dimness, and he turned on no lights as he traversed the corridor and approached Hisashi’s room. His body felt strange, distant and anticipatory. He felt himself to be somehow detached, as if this was a dream that he was watching from beyond a glass cage. At the same time his mind and thoughts were still riddled with emotion.
Desire. Confusion. Joy. Fear. Warmth. Uncertainty. It all ran together in a vast, meaningless watercolor upon the canvas of his experiences and memories.
He entered Hisashi’s room, slipping inside still in silence, crossing the threshold from one dim darkness into another. He took two steps inside, and then hesitated there, steps stopping because there was no where else to go and he did not know what to do
So he just stood there, shivering slightly, eyes trailing across the objects that were silhouetted by the darkness, that were shimmering with the scattered strands of moonlight that crept inside. Everything spoke of Hisashi, maintained some reflection of the guitarist. Jiro gazed around him, unseeing and almost unthinking. His thoughts were scattered, detached. But his emotions were real, his feelings—
He released a soft gasp at the kiss on his neck, the warm lips. Hisashi’s arms slid around him.
His eyes slipped closed as he was pulled back securely against Hisashi. The arms around his torso were lithe but strong, and so warm, comfortable... Jiro let his hands creep up, covering Hisashi’s arms with his, fingers brushing against the back of gentle, callused hands.
But he bowed his head forward. The action created hesitation, and Hisashi drew back slightly.
“Jiro...?” he whispered.
Jiro trembled at the murmur spoken near his ear. When he spoke his voice was very soft but steady. “Is this right?” he whispered, tracing an idle, meaningless pattern on the back of Hisashi’s hands.
“Does it feel right?” Hisashi’s arms tightened slightly, pulling them together more closely, warmly.
Jiro shuddered, but could not answer. < I can’t turn back now, I know it. I’m too weak to say no and walk out of here, but... >
“Jiro...” Again, his name on Hisashi’s lips was a spark to his desire. “It doesn’t matter. Do what feels right.”
Jiro closed his eyes, standing rigidly now because all he wanted to do was relax against Hisashi, sink into him, be swallowed by the night and disappear to where time would stop and this didn’t have to end.
< What feels right...? This, *this* does... >
Hisashi was pressed against his back, all Jiro wanted was to feel him like this, taste him again...
< ‘What do you want?’ >
< You... >
Heat, passion. Passing between them, hovering around them. Mutual, tempting, consuming.
< ‘What feels right.’ >
< ...You. >
He submitted without words, relaxing and turning his head, offering his lips to Hisashi as a sigh escaped him and that last barrier between them, that last struggle within Jiro’s mind, dissolved. It dissolved in a kiss, dissolved in a touch.
Hisashi disentangled their arms and guided Jiro to fully face him, the soft kiss never breaking. It was passionate but somehow restrained, tentative although neither man was uncertain. Only once Jiro faced Hisashi and felt arms tight around his waist did the kiss intensify. Hisashi’s tongue ran across his lip, and Jiro pressed against him, welcoming the sensation, searching for a deeper embrace, deeper kiss.
Seconds fell away like the crystal grains of sand in an hour glass, and soon he felt fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. Jiro took this moment of distraction to slip one hand upward and angle Hisashi’s head slightly back, away, exposing the flesh of his neck. He pressed his lips there hotly, fervently, tasting what was purely Hisashi, purely enthralling.
The slim fingers wavered and then fully stalled, stopped, as Jiro teased the soft skin with his teeth, alternating between a sharp pinprick and a soothing sweep of his tongue. He was rewarded with a moan spilling from Hisashi’s lips, he felt the slight vibration through Hisashi’s throat. The sound was intoxicating.
And then Hisashi’s fingers remembered their course, and Jiro’s shirt was pushed off his shoulders by slim, skilled fingers, was sliding to the ground where it would remain for the rest of the night, forgotten. Before he could rid Hisashi of his impeding sweatshirt, however, hands slid up his chest and to his face, tilting him forward for a deep kiss. When Hisashi drew back, after his teeth grazed Jiro’s lower lip, after he nibbled on it, sucking gently – only then was his sweatshirt removed, and Hisashi guided Jiro’s trembling fingers.
But even that wasn’t enough, heat was trapped, sought exchange and release between them. Their hands were searching, roaming, ghosting across each other, feeling the hard planes and soft flesh. Jiro shivered at each sensitive touch, shuddered at the feel of Hisashi’s hands passing over his chest, his torso, his back, exploring and fervent.
Somehow between one shiver and the rest, as he was caught in a dreamlike state of ecstasy with only the stars as his witness, as his eyes were closed and he was desperate to remember how it felt to be touched, to be touching, more clothes became absent. Between one breathless moment and the next his jeans were on the floor, Hisashi’s with them, and touches were growing more daring, desperate.
< It doesn’t matter if it’s right... It doesn’t, I can’t let it, I can only feel... Feel you, feel this need, this ache to be next to you, with you, in your thoughts... >
Desire pooled within him like a fire, gathering and growing with every inflaming touch. His eyes flickered open – or maybe that had already been open, he didn’t know, because he didn’t see more than flashes of color, emotions and thoughts and feelings clouded his eyes – and he focused only when he felt Hisashi’s hands slide down his waist and hesitate there.
His fingers teased the top of Jiro’s boxers but his hands were still, hesitating, hovering, their touch light like the mere suggestion of contact, like a butterfly’s passage. Jiro’s eyes slid open to see Hisashi’s face, to focus on the eyes that found his.
“Jiro...”
Hisashi was breathless, his voice was husky with his passion and even that was enough to affect Jiro’s thoughts, affect his pulse.
Jiro couldn’t speak, he didn’t have the breath or the patience to. He felt intensely hot and felt a shimmer of sweat upon his skin, saw that same gleam upon Hisashi, on his slender shoulders and naked chest. But that heat wasn’t enough, and he pressed his fingers that were trembling against Hisashi’s hands.
He guided them down, pressed against them and forced them to move. Fingers responded tentatively and smoothly, but slowly. Breath by breath, inch by inch, he felt those hands slide further down his sides, felt them slide against his moist skin and under the waistband, over his hipbones, as they forced the boxers down, lower, off.
There was a heavy blush upon his face when he felt the air touch him, surround him, when he knew he was naked, standing there in the night before Hisashi. His eyes skittered only momentarily across Hisashi’s features; when he saw the other man’s eyes not looking at his face but as his body, scouring his figure, he bit his lip, flushing and looking quickly away before those dark eyes could meet his.
But in the next moment he was kissed softly, intensely, and the quivering fear and embarrassment was soothed, pushed away. And then his nudity was matched, as Hisashi shed the last of his clothes and only the moonlight covered them, the moonlight and their eyes.
Jiro was caught breathless, his eyes swept over Hisashi’s gloriously naked body with a deep sense of awe, with a renewed, fervent desire. He was slender and perfect, heart-wrenchingly beautiful. Jiro’s heart was pounding, his breath was short. He wanted to touch him, to feel him, it was all he could think, there was room for nothing else in his racing thoughts.
But he couldn’t move. There was a certain helpless fear upon him, a nervous shiver that countered the passion, that made him uneasy in this new, unreal situation. But Hisashi read that in his eyes, he saw it in Jiro’s gaze and he was there to soothe the fear away, speaking very softly. And although his voice was breathless, it was remarkably steady, his eyes were intense and direct, and this helped still Jiro’s fluttering nerves.
“Lay on the bed.”
His words wrapped around Jiro, were warm and reassuring, promising. Jiro nodded, eyes large and reflective in the moonlight, and he let Hisashi guide him backward until they reached the bed, where he then let himself sink backward, be pressed down. Hisashi did not follow, did not allow Jiro’s seeking arms to pull him down as well until the bassist shifted, was laying on the bed with his head near the pillows. Only then was Hisashi there again, pressed against him, hot and heavenly.
It was a dream, it was something Jiro could not believe but he could neither draw away from. Their lips met in desperate, searching kisses as Jiro was utterly carried away by the intensity of emotion within him, as he was only able to watch as he was swept away, watch and be unable to even want to stop it from happening.
“Jiro...”
His name on Hisashi’s lips was enough to rouse his flailing, starry consciousness. He forced himself to focus on the words, to understand them.
“Do...”
It was Hisashi faltering this time, his voice was caught with either hesitation or passion, Jiro could not comprehend which.
“Are you sure you – want this...?”
Passion was boiling within him, there was a great ache that only Hisashi could soothe. He couldn’t think, he could only answer in a breathless moan.
“Yes... Yes...”
A soft kiss against his lips, lingering and promising but not deep like the others. And then Hisashi pulled away and a whimper escaped Jiro’s lips. Hisashi had spoken, and he was now only a few feet away, but that lack of his proximity was intensely uncomfortable, made Jiro feel suddenly more desperate, made his need intensify. Part of him knew Hisashi had murmured something about lotion, but he was no longer in any condition to think coherently. He could only dream, experience this dream. Only feel.
That expanse of seconds felt like a lifetime. But finally, finally, Hisashi returned to him, his presence was close, warmth closer. He felt the barest touch of fingers on his leg; Hisashi’s fingers skimmed against his inner thigh, tracing a small pattern up, and Jiro gave in to the coax, parting his legs at the gentle compulsion.
His pulse quickened. Another whimper. He felt Hisashi move, felt a presence now shift carefully over him, and his eyes flickered open when one hand stroked his face, when fingers swept gently and soothingly across his flushed, sweaty cheek. Hisashi was above him, supported himself with on hand while with the other he softly traced Jiro’s face. His face dipped down, his lips brushed Jiro’s ear.
“Wrap your legs around me.”
The whisper was unsteady, his voice was trembling as Jiro’s body was trembling. The bassist complied, feeling a clash within him of anxiety and passion, but letting his body take the lead. Time stood still, raced by with his pulse. Heat was hovering, gathering. Breath was short.
And then – the first sensation of penetration. A cry rose in Jiro’s throat but was caught, he released a breathless gasp at the pain that struck him. Fire bloomed, he was unprepared for the feeling. Reflexive tears stung his eyes.
Hisashi pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to his lips, offering sweetness to counter the fire, and he stopped moving. Jiro returned the action frantically, trying to force his thoughts upon that taste instead of upon the painful sensation of being entered. Slowly he adjusted, his thoughts were calmed. It was only then that the kiss broke because he broke it.
He pulled his face away, ever so slightly, and nodded, flickering his eyes open to see Hisashi’s gaze on his face, filled with both passion and concern. But even with his nod, Hisashi hesitated.
“Daijoubu?” he asked softly, breathlessly.
Jiro couldn’t speak. He could only nod again, eyes closing once more and brows drawn slightly down at the sensations within and without him.
The guitarist covered his lips again before continuing.
Another bubble of agony rose in Jiro’s throat, and reflexively he bit down in response to the fiery pain. His teeth closed over Hisashi’s lip, and it must have been painful, but the guitarist did not pull away, the only expression of his hurt was the twitch of one hand as it was pressed against the covers, that Jiro would never see.
Jiro forced himself not to flinch, to concentrate on the kiss, and Hisashi slowly, as gently as possible, proceeded. Jiro lifted his hands to grasp Hisashi’s shoulders, giving him something warm and solid to cling to. When the need for air became compelling and they were forced to break, Hisashi dropped quick kisses to Jiro’s face, and then his breath brushed across Jiro’s ear. He whispered soft words, sweet nothings, to counter the pain.
And then slowly, slowly, a spark of pleasure flared within. Jiro grew accustomed to the unfamiliar sensation, his tight grip on Hisashi’s shoulders loosened slightly. They began to build a rhythm.
Another burst of pain struck him as Hisashi pulled out slightly, and his nails dug into Hisashi’s flesh, he squeezed his eyes tighter. But the sensation was quickly replaced by pleasure when Hisashi thrust back in, pleasure with the promise of ecstasy within it.
He moaned as emotion grew within him, as already built-up emotion stirred. Heat overtook him, fire consumed his body, made him want to melt into Hisashi, feel like he already had. He lost himself in the sensations, in the roar of passion. Pain became less, with every drop in pain, pleasure grew exponentially.
He lifted his hips unconsciously as the first white stars flickered on the edge of his vision, behind his closed eyes. He increased the depth of their union, reaching for it automatically, desperately, hips rising in time with Hisashi.
He felt detached, he felt faint. His body lost physical meaning, the universe disappeared and it was only him and Hisashi, in the night and together, alone, together.
Deeper, faster. More frantic.
He clung to Hisashi lest he be swept away in the spiral that tried to pull him, his fingers spasming, clinging to the slick, warm shoulders. White light danced behind his eyes, flashes of ecstasy, climactic pleasure. The rhythm was no longer steady, it was wavering, he could feel pressure within him, against him, he was drowning in it.
Bright flashes. White.
“Oh... God...”
White. Too bright. Overflowing with light, with passion.
“Hisa...”
His cry turned into a deep, aching moan and he came, Hisashi’s name on his lips, Hisashi’s countenance in his mind. His seed spilled against Hisashi’s lean torso, he felt some warm drops on his own stomach, meeting the trembling, sweat-slicked skin. And then a moment later he felt Hisashi’s body shudder, felt the singular, unfamiliar sensation of Hisashi coming inside him.
The brightness in his mind flared once and then collapsed in upon itself, coalescing into something too pivotal and glittering to describe or understand before drifting to a fine dust. Darkness grew around Jiro, the silhouetted objects became more tangible and real and his now-opened eyes were able to focus.
He bit back a surprised gasp as Hisashi slid out of him, a spark of pain catching him unaware. But he felt too sedated and the last shimmerings of bliss were too near that it didn’t last, didn’t matter. Then he felt Hisashi all but collapse on top of him, shuddering arms giving way.
He welcomed the body pressed against him, welcomed the exhausted kiss that was pressed to his lips. There was a strange sense of completeness in the way they were pressed together, wet bodies seeming to meld, melt together. He sighed against Hisashi’s lips as the other man pulled away.
They shared a long glance that was merely looking, eyes not searching or hiding but simply meeting, staring. And then Hisashi murmured that he would be right back, and he carefully extricated their limbs, gracefully rising from the bed.
Jiro’s eyes trailed across his figure for as long as he was visible, and when he disappeared from sight, Jiro let his head roll to the side, eyes fluttering closed. There was a strong lethargy upon his body, a sated exhaustion that was tempting him toward sleep. Even his thoughts were distant, he knew that tomorrow they would be clamoring.
And he knew that maybe this had been a mistake, tomorrow maybe he would think of it that way, maybe he would regret it, but...
< It can’t be wrong.... Something that feels this right... >
He murmured Hisashi’s name when he felt a gentle sweep across his torso, turning his head in time to see Hisashi placing something – a terry cloth towel – on the nightstand. And then there was a large blanket settled over him, and Hisashi was slipping beneath it with him.
Soon their bodies were touching again and Jiro shifted so that he lay on his side, one arm snaking across Hisashi’s chest of its own accord, his body acting on its own free will, responding with what felt right. He pressed his face into the crook of Hisashi’s shoulder, burying himself in Hisashi’s scent, and he felt the fingers of one of Hisashi’s hands idly play with his hair.
< Something that feels this right... It can’t be wrong... >
He murmured “oyasumi” into Hisashi’s neck, feeling that compulsion toward sleep strong upon him, feeling utterly safe and protected, if just for this night, this moment, if just while the stars were his only witnesses, the stars and Hisashi.
“Oyasumi, Jiro.”
Hisashi’s voice was a murmur, a whisper, less than a whisper because Jiro was already spiraling into oblivion, sinking away from reality, the reality he had abandoned earlier that evening when he agreed to stay.
He drifted into sleep with Hisashi’s arms around him.