Tired
Close your eyes see dreams of tomorrow
Tired
The weeks are turning to eternity
*
He crawled toward consciousness as if through a sweetly-musky shell. He was intensely comfortable in warmth and in sleep, and he did not want to face the day. Part of him was simply adverse to waking up, but part was also dreading the day, the sunlight, was aware of what had happened and what reality he would have to face.
But he couldn’t escape, couldn’t stay sleeping forward as much as he wanted to. He couldn’t stay with the person at his side.
It didn’t matter what he wanted.
Jiro let himself sink into full consciousness, but he did not yet open his eyes, allowed himself to instead cling to that blissful darkness for a few long moments.
Last night was fresh in his memory; it had been only a few hours ago, but he already felt as if he would never be able to forget.
Gentle touches, passionate kisses. Endless embraces, wet skin. < Hisa... >
He felt a soft kiss pressed against the back of his neck, sensed and felt movement breaking the stillness. He let his eyes slide open. He was laying on his side, facing the window – Hisashi was behind him, he had one slender arm loosely laying across Jiro. Jiro could hear his quiet breathing, feel his warmth.
He wanted to pull away. But he instead remained where he was, having not the strength to make himself draw away.
“Hisa...”
Silence greeted this soft murmur. He knew Hisashi was awake, but he also knew that Hisashi was wary because of the tone of his voice. He would be wary, too. He continued.
“Last night... shouldn’t have happened.”
“....Why?”
Jiro bit his lip. “Because...” He trailed off. Because it just shouldn’t. Was that really a reason? His mind said yes, said that he didn’t *need* a reason in the first place. But his heart said no.
“It just... shouldn’t,” he repeated, his voice a whisper. Hisashi lightly stroked his arm, as if in an offer of comfort. Jiro lay still.
“Jiro...” Hisashi seemed hesitant. Because of that faltering – Jiro should have just let it go, he should have let those unspoken words collapse in upon themselves, dissipate in silence. Instead:
“Nani?” he asked softly.
Hisashi’s fingers stopped stroking his arm. “Will you... tell me why? Why you’re scared of – of this?” Jiro knew what he meant by ‘this’. “GLAY – us being celebrities – that’s not the only reason, is it?” Hisashi’s voice was quiet and careful.
Jiro closed his eyes. “No...”
“Then... why?”
< Because people won’t accept it. They will hate us, hurt us. I’ll lose my family. We could lose everything... >
< And how could I do that to you? To myself, but let alone you... >
He couldn’t answer, the words were locked in his mind. He shifted, and Hisashi complied, giving him room. Jiro turned to his other side, so that he could see Hisashi. The slender guitarist had now rolled onto his back, but his eyes remained on the bassist, intent and open. Jiro’s deep brown eyes were large.
“Hisashi, I – I can’t. Ask me... another time.”
Hisashi soothed him immediately. Jiro knew by his eyes that he was frustrated, but he did not press for Jiro’s response, not now. “Okay,” he agreed softly. And then his eyes very briefly skittered away. Again, he seemed hesitant.
“Jiro.... Do you – regret last night?”
His words slipped like water into a perfectly still silence, created ripples that were dull and somehow more motionless, breathless.
Flashes of memory burst in Jiro’s mind, recollections of emotion cascaded upon him. Every touch, every shared glance. Every moment in which he was falling into Hisashi’s dark eyes, becoming lost and more hopelessly lost in everything Hisashi did and said. How he embraced everything whole-heatedly that had happened, the pleasure and the pain, everything.
< ‘Do you – regret last night?’ >
“Yes,” he whispered.
As the soft answer left his lips and as sharp pain reflected deeply in those beautiful eyes upon him, he felt tears spring to his vision.
Maybe Hisashi saw this, maybe something deep and fragile and hidden in the air prompted him. But Hisashi then asked, very softly, as their gazes were locked: “would you... let it happen again?”
< If I could turn back time... Make the choice again... >
“Yes...” Voice less than a whisper. < God help me, I would.... > Two tears slipped from his eyes.
“Jiro...” Hisashi guided him forward, pulled him gently into an embrace. Jiro complied, burying his face in the crook of Hisashi’s shoulder, blocking out the daylight and the sun’s reality.
Hisashi’s fingers gently played upon his back, stroking the smooth skin, their touch soft and feather-light. Jiro let Hisashi touch him, hold him, comfort him, let his scent warp around him and reflect, speak of, sigh of protection.
He did not cry – only those two, despairing tears escaped his eyes. The others he held back. He swallowed them, tasting their bitterness, but keeping it within himself. After endless moments of pristine, white silence, he finally spoke.
“Tono... At practice, on Monday... what are we gonna do?”
Pause. Then: “What do you mean?”
Jiro lifted his face, eyes seeking Hisashi’s. “We can’t – act differently toward each other, not noticeably. I mean – the past few weeks have kind of been weird anyway, but – we can’t change.”
“....I know.”
“We can’t let this mean anything...”
< Because it doesn’t. It doesn’t mean anything. Nothing. It was a single night... A mistake because I am weak. >
< It doesn’t mean a thing. It doesn’t mean everything to me... >
Hisashi’s voice was a very soft murmur, a whisper.
“I know.”
*
Jiro kept telling himself how little it meant, how weak he had been and how he would be stronger in the future. The week following their passionate night was – it was fine, nothing more, nothing less.
They were remarkably good actors: Hisashi put on his mask of cool indifference that he often allowed to crack with a smirk, and less often with a smile, and Jiro embraced his painfully bright and carefree façade, remembering to act cheerful and friendly, reminding himself to give cheeky grins for good measure.
It was surprisingly easy to do. Maybe Jiro had been wearing a similar mask longer than he cared to admit or even realize. Maybe Hisashi had as well.
But as much as their acting was good, reality – and weakness – was unavoidable.
The first time it happened again...
It was a week later, Friday once again. Jiro was supposed to be seeing his sorely neglected girlfriend. But as he was walking out to his car – as his hand was on the handle, even – Hisashi’s voice stopped him as sure as a shield of steel.
“Jiro.”
A thousand emotions and thoughts flashed through him, and not one could he grasp hold of. “...Nani?” Automatically a bright smile – a fake, painful smile – flashed upon his lips as he turned around.
But then he saw Hisashi, and it was not Hisashi the cool, calm guitarist standing there, but *Hisashi*. There was no one else around, no one watching their masquerade. The smile fell like weighted glass from his lips. And Jiro repeated, more softy:
“What – do you want?” It was not spoken coldly or harshly, it was merely spoken.
“I was wondering... If I could see you tonight.”
Jiro’s heart felt like it stopped, his breath seemed to hitch. He stared at the guitarist, Hisashi’s deep gaze was steady upon him.
< No... > The word was strong in his mind, reverberating.
< I can’t... I told you it meant nothing. I told you... >
His pulse was racing, his hands were shaking.
< No... >
But then he found himself nodding, against every inclination of his mind and his thoughts. He found the word “yes” leaving his lips.
Unreadable emotion flickered in Hisashi’s eyes. But a smile touched his lips, a real, small smile, and Jiro returned it, again against his battered will.
So he cancelled his date, and instead he was with Hisashi. They went to a bar and then returned to Jiro’s place. Hisashi didn’t leave until morning.
A few days later, Jiro’s girlfriend broke up with him. Their confrontation occurred late at night, and although Jiro was remarkably – perhaps shamefully – unaffected by the breakup in terms of emotions, the lack of sleep must have been apparent. GLAY must have noticed, because he caught a few, surreptitiously concerned looks thrown his direction, and Takuro called a ten-minute break almost half an hour earlier than was usual. That was probably due to Jiro’s visible weariness as well at the lagging bass line, but Takuro didn’t seem too annoyed, and for that Jiro was grateful.
Jiro made his way over to the door which led to the parking lot as soon as the break was called. He felt liked being outside with the overcast morning and the blue atmosphere, and Teru would likely be in the alley smoking.
When he reached the door leading outside, however, he paused, casting a glance behind him because some deeper sense told him there were eyes watching him. And sure enough, he found Hisashi’s quietly dark gaze upon him. Jiro gazed back for a long moment, and very little emotion crossed either man’s face. But something was exchanged, something was decided. When Jiro finally turned back and stepped outside into the cool, Wednesday morning, he knew Hisashi would follow.
A few moments later he heard the door open, and he knew without looking who’s slender silhouette had appeared. Jiro was sitting on the steps leading to the parking lot, drawn into himself against the chill wind, but at the same time not really minding the cold.
He felt the presence settle next to him – a notable distance away: he sat closer than just anyone, but far enough that they were not touching – and Jiro could see Hisashi’s elegant features from the corner of his eye. But he did not turn his head. Hisashi’s gaze joined his in a sweeping idly across the landscape of the parking lot.
“Daijoubu?” Hisashi asked quietly, finally.
Jiro nodded. “Daijoubu...”
“You seem tired...”
“Aa...”
Finally a glance thrown his direction. Jiro did not return it. “What’s wrong?”
Jiro sighed. “Late last night... Orie broke up with me.”
“Orie?” Confusion.
Jiro flicked an unreadable glance Hisashi’s direction. “My girlfriend...”
“......Oh. Why?” Guarded.
Jiro stared at the parking lot, gazed through it. “Because... I haven’t been spending enough – *any* – time with her.”
“Sou... I’m sorry to hear that.”
Jiro shrugged. “I don’t really care... As cruel as that sounds.”
Hisashi gave no response, and silence settled over them, blue and gray. Jiro wished Hisashi had not come out, he wished they were sitting closer together.
It was colder outside, he suddenly realized. Or at least he suddenly felt colder. He shivered.
“Ne, Jiro...” Words sliding into the stillness, drops of a soothing voice ever held closely in Jiro’s memory. “You told me... not to ask you then about – about why... ‘we’... bothered you.” The words were delicate, even somewhat ambiguous. But Jiro knew what Hisashi meant, he knew.
“Will you tell me now?”
Jiro didn’t want to. He didn’t want to tell anyone. He didn’t like knowing himself, it didn’t even always make complete sense to himself. But Hisashi had a particular effect upon him, he made him say things, do things, that his mind spoke out against.
So he began to speak, voice quiet and words softly rolling. He tried to explain, list, the reasons they could not be together.
First he repeated what he had said before, about them being in a band together and the risks there. Not only that, but their positions as role-models, as members of a popular band.
Then he began with how he was raised. Conservatively, not so much religiously, but traditionally. How his father was strict, and their relationship was that of Jiro always seeking his approval, striving for those high standards set only for him and only by his father.
And finally he talked about Ryohei. He spoke in a dead voice about their friendship and Ryohei’s confession of homosexuality. How the community turned against him and hurt him. How it was one of the only time’s Jiro’s father ever physically abused him.
“And... And that’s why,” he concluded softly, twisting his hands in his lap, staring at them. “I grew up believing whole-heartedly that being gay was – was wrong. Not only wrong and unnatural but that people would hate you for it. Ryohei was living proof of it... I mean, God, they *stabbed* him...! Even I, I turned against him...
“And now... Now I don’t know what I’m supposed to do or say or even to think. To believe.” His eyes finally sough Hisashi’s. “If people knew... you know it could affect GLAY. Ruin GLAY...”
“....I know.”
“And – and my father, if he ever knew...” Jiro shuddered. “And.... and it’s just not right,” he whispered.
“Because that’s what everyone tells you?”
Jiro closed his eyes. Hisashi’s tone was softly unreadable. < Yes, > he thought. < So – so shouldn’t I believe it? >
< But... it always feels so right, whenever you’re near me.. So right.... >
Hisashi moved then, shifting closer. His arm crept up around Jiro’s shoulders, and it was an offer of desperately sought warmth and comfort that Jiro did not believe he deserved. But he reflexively leaned against Hisashi in spite of that, closing his eyes.
“Do you understand at all, Tono?” Jiro asked, voice a whisper.
“....I don’t know.”
Jiro was silent for a moment, drawing that heat, that warmth of Hisashi’s body and presence, into himself, into that cold space that seemed never to warm. Drawing the feeling and emotion into him, making an unconscious effort to remember this – every – touch.
And then he straightened and pushed away, and Hisashi took the cue. The guitarist rose to a stand, ever soundless, ever graceful.
Jiro rose more slowly, listened to the retreating footsteps as Hisashi silently walked away.
< I just made a list of the reasons I cannot be with you, Hisashi... >
A deep sense of frantic swirling rose within him. Hisashi... walking away...
< And now, even as everything seems to anti-climactic—is this the end? >
< The end of something that’s not really there.... >
Jiro bit his lip. Isn’t that what he wanted? Hisashi to never look at him with that emotion in his eyes, to not speak to him in a way which made Jiro think one think but answer with another, forsake his own thoughts, his self....?
That’s what he wanted. Yes. For Hisashi to leave him alone.
What he wanted.
“Hisa...” He was speaking before he could stop himself.
< Don’t walk away, > part of him was thinking desperately, the part that was in synch with his words if not with his mind. Jiro didn’t turn around, but he knew Hisashi had stopped.
“I...” Jiro’s voice was dry. He swallowed. “Will I – will I still see you... this weekend?”
Turning around finally, gazes meeting. No expression upon the guitarist’s face, but emotion in his eyes. A gray spark of... happiness.
“Aa...” His voice floated to Jiro on the chill, gentle breeze. “We have late practice on Friday... So Saturday... will you come to my house?”
Jiro could only helplessly nod. After that, Hisashi went inside first, and then Jiro followed a few minutes later.
Come Friday, however, their plans changed. GLAY went out for drinks after their extra-long practice, and as Hisashi was bringing back another round from the bar, as he passed Jiro his drink, there was a folded cocktail napkin in tow. Unfolding it under the table with a quickened pulse, Jiro read:
‘Tonight – my place.’
And he had looked up, caught Hisashi’s gaze, and nodded. He was weary from the week, the long day. But all he could do was say yes.
Once GLAY broke to go their separate ways, Jiro drove off in the direction of his home, but when he reached the first intersection out of sight from the bar, he turned around. He drove through the velvet night to Hisashi’s in silence, apprehensive and distant, anticipatory.
When he pulled up in front, he parked and then walked up the stone pathway slowly. He knocked, heard the echo of his knock from inside, and then Hisashi answered a moment later. Jiro stepped inside, and the door was closed behind him.
And then he was crushed against it and Hisashi was kissing him, fervent and fierce. The door pressed against his back, Hisashi against his front. That night he spiraled into the stars, into blissful oblivion, knowing nothing else except urgency and passion.
This stretched into weeks, their ‘relationship’. They didn’t see each other every weekend. But on weekends that they knew they couldn’t, they somehow made time for an evening during the week. It was hard, sometimes. After all – GLAY was busy, and Hisashi had Izumi.
Izumi was a woman he had seen off-and-on for a long time. Right now, they were on, but Jiro didn’t know how long this expanse had been going on. He had always, in the past, avoided knowing about Hisashi’s personal life.
And as for himself, Jiro didn’t get another girlfriend. Nothing was stopping him. What he and Hisashi had – he didn’t know what it was. But it was not a *relationship*, it was not exclusive, never could be. Every so often there were sparks of jealousy directed at Izumi. But they were fleeting because he tried to push them down, swallow them. They were unwarranted.
He had no right to be jealous of Izumi because he knew that Hisashi often chose Jiro over the woman, and – more importantly – because Hisashi and Jiro were not a couple, they weren’t – dating, they weren’t together.
Whenever they were together, though, just the two of them – these things and these thoughts, cautions, almost disappeared. Every time they saw each other, the two of them alone and together, it was as if time stopped, just for them, for a stolen moment. They didn’t always *do* anything. Sometimes they would just sit together and watch a movie or movies until one or both fell asleep curled up on the couch. Or they would go to a bar, and less frequently, a restaurant.
But one evening as they lay together and still awake, when their breathing was almost fully soft and normal once again, something was different. Neither drifted immediately to sleep, Jiro lay resting against Hisashi, the guitarist held him loosely.
Something was different, and Jiro was afraid to break the silence, he waited for Hisashi to speak because on some level he knew Hisashi would. The words were hovering on the air, hanging within and between them.
Finally: “Jiro... Are you happy?”
The words were quietly, strangely solemn. Any other time Jiro would have answered yes, he would never have hesitated. But any other time he would have known Hisashi meant that single moment, when they were together and when they were separate from the outside world, from reality.
But this question was different. Deeper. So instead, he said softly, and with a sigh: “sometimes.”
“When?”
Jiro closed his eyes. “When I’m with you. But even then... I’m sad.”
A slight tightening of arms around him. “Why?”
Jiro’s voice became a whisper. “Because we can never work. Because I can’t give you want you want, or deserve. Because... part of me will never stop repeating why this is wrong.” He pressed his face into Hisashi’s chest, marveling distantly and cynically at how quickly the lingering pleasure and lethargy could be replaced by emotional pain.
Hisashi shifted slightly. “What I... want? Deserve?”
Jiro lifted his face, met Hisashi’s searching eyes. “Don’t you want marriage, Tono?”
Nod.
“Don’t you want children?”
Whisper. “Yes...”
Jiro’s gaze was mournful. “You knew in the beginning – I told you... this could never work.”
“I know...”
Jiro squeezed his eyes momentarily shut. < I told myself that, too. I believed it, I still believe it. I have to believe it. >
< We can’t be together. But... it hurts. It hurts more and more, because I’ve fallen, so hard. Every time I’m with you I contradict myself so deeply, every time I walk away I say it will be the last. But it never will be. I always come back, always let myself be hurt... >
< Hurt because of my own self, through my own fault and my actions. What I’ve done, what I’ve failed to do... Because I’m so weak. >
When Jiro let his eyes open, there were tears in them, droplets of his frustration and helplessness, of things he could not bear to name, because he had ultimately forbid him that which he wanted, that which he tasted but never would have fully.
When the words left his lips, they were broken, he felt defeated. “I don’t love you, Hisa.”
The first burning tears from his eyes. Voice watery and fierce. He lifted a hand, traced it along Hisashi’s face as if memorizing desperately the path, the softness, the feeling.
“I don’t...”
Hisashi caught his hand, stopped it to hold it gently, fingers warm and gentle, engulfing. “I know,” he whispered, murmured, voice dull but soothing. His own eyes were anguished, wearily so.
Gently he pulled Jiro into an embrace, and Jiro helplessly complied, burying his face in Hisashi’s shoulder. Seeking comfort from the very things which was the source of his deep distress. Hisashi lightly stroked his hair, his back, as the helpless, aching tears fell.
< I don’t love you... I can’t... >
When they finally went to sleep, with the blanket of silence and anguish and starry distance upon them, no more words were spoken. And when Jiro awoke in the morning, Hisahi was already gone.
Hisashi had never left like that before, not without waking him. Jiro was afraid that something had changed that night. But his fears were put to ease when he next saw Hisashi. Nothing had changed.
At least – not between them.
Maybe Jiro was naïve. Maybe he was not only digging himself deeper, losing himself more, but maybe he was shamefully and hopelessly innocent. Because six weeks later – something *did* change.
Jiro no longer knew how long they had been seeing each other, it turned into a dream, something timeless and without substance. Because time ran together, halted for them, it was impossible for Jiro’s divided mind to keep track. He only knew that they saw each other frequently, enough that he kept telling himself to walk away, enough that he depended upon those encounters.
They were seated in Hisashi’s living room on the couch; it was evening, the stars and pale moon were caught in a net cast across the sky. They were watching television, and Ayu was between them, blissful with the attention she received. When one stopped petting her, the other automatically began, and she purred happily.
It was one of those rare times in which Jiro forgot everything except them and the moment, in which he was truly happy. It was only fitting, then, that Hisashi suddenly turned down the volume and faced him.
“Jiro... We need to talk.”
A reflexive shot of apprehension washed through the bassist at those words. His hand froze on Ayu’s back, and his eyes shifted to Hisashi, to the unreadable countenance with masked eyes regarding him. “Okay,” he agreed softly.
Hisashi must have heard the soft wariness in his voice, he must have expected it, because his eyes flashed briefly away and down. “It’s about... Izumi.”
Jiro frowned. “Izumi?”
Hisashi hesitated before continuing, stalling by gently nudging Ayu. Disturbed, she lifted her head and peered at him, ears twitching. He nudged her again, most insistently, and she got up, confused and indignant, and left.
Jiro watched with eyes wide in the dimness, biting his lip with worry. With Ayu gone, Hisashi turned back to Jiro and reached out to take his hand. Jiro sat in concerned, almost frightened silence, and Hisashi finally continued.
“Her and I... We’ve been seeing each other for a while...” He trailed off.
Nervously, Jiro said: “Anou... so how is she? How – how long have you been together this time?”
“She’s fine... Six months, with a few short breaks in-between...”
Jiro’s brow drew down slightly. “Wow,” he said softly, not having realized it had been that long. He added faintly: “congratulations.”
Hisashi did not acknowledge his words, his eyes instead searched intently Jiro’s face. The bassist shifted anxiously.
“What is it, Hisa?” he finally pressed, voice quiet.
“I... I’ve thought a lot about what you said...”
< What I said? When? >
But Jiro had no longer to think, he had no more need to, because Hisashi continued. His next, soft words – spoken as his eyes did not meet Jiro’s – answered the internal confusion with a painful slap of harsh reality.
“We’re engaged...”
A tremor shook Jiro, rocked his world. He stared at Hisashi, desperately incomprehensive. “Engaged?” He choked on the whispered word, it caught in his throat like acid.
“We’re getting married...”
< No... >
Jiro pulled his hand away, slipped it from Hisashi’s grip. He felt boneless, weightless, like the landscape was flying away from him. A part of him was shattering. Something fragile and tenuously taped together was falling apart, breaking.
And the worst part was – it was unjustifiable, it was completely contradictory. He should not feel these simple words tearing him apart, should not see his world, his heaven, his solace, dissolving before his eyes. He should not feel this way, feel like something was being taken away, torn away. Because there wasn’t supposed to be anything there.
There was nothing between them, he said it himself. He made it that way. There was nothing between them. He didn’t love Hisashi. He didn’t.
< Then why does it hurt so much...? >
Why did the tears want to fall from his eyes like blood, why did he suddenly feel himself to be helplessly and hopelessly alone in a broken room, surrounded by a carpet of shattered glass?
“Jiro... please look at me...” Pleading. Pleading...? Jiro’s eyes flickered to Hisashi, he made them focus.
“Marriage?” Jiro finally whispered, as if the word was hollow, as if it meant nothing.
Hisashi reached for his hand again, but Jiro quickly pulled away, rising to a stand.
< No... >
The word continued to echo in his head. Hisashi reluctantly pulled his hand back to himself.
“In... in a few months.”
Jiro shook his head mutely, he felt his eyes burn. “I have to go,” he mumbled, voice unsteady. He couldn’t face Hisashi now, like this, when he was trembling from the change, from the shock, from the cruel truth thrust upon him.
“Jiro...”
Jiro grabbed his coat from the edge of the couch, quickly avoiding getting caught in that deeply magnetic gaze. He had to get out of there. He didn’t want Hisashi to see him cry, see him cry over nothing, over the loss of nothing.
He moved quickly for the entryway, but Hisashi rose hastily and he grabbed Jiro’s arm. Jiro only jerked away, twisting out of the grip that had been gentle and hesitant but pleading. His eyes were fixed on the ground, there was a jumble of thoughts confusing his mind. The only thing the could focus on, that he desperately clung to, was leaving, was fleeing Hisashi’s presence. Fleeing unkind reality to a place he could be alone with himself and his broken dreams, curl up against the battering ram of truth.
He reached the door. Hisashi was speaking to him, asking him not to go. Pleading, sounding like he really meant it, like he wanted him, needed him, to not walk out of there. And – just hearing him like that intensified the pain, deepened the anguish.
Jiro felt the first tear water his vision, the landscape before him blurred. And then he knew he couldn’t turn around. He couldn’t cry over nothing, over the nothing that Hisashi had taken away. Not in front of Hisashi, the one he had come to depend upon desperately, the only one he had wanted to never depend upon.
The guitarists’ words faded behind him, faded and disappeared once he was safely in his car. Faded like a dream, a wisp of smoke. Faded like their dream, like their unreality.
Jiro drove blindly away, he escaped the house, the place where his memories would remain, until he was somewhere in the neighborhood – he didn’t care where. He just knew he was alone, and he stopped the car because he couldn’t see and his hands were shaking.
And then the only witness to his tears, to the shuddering sobs, was the darkness, was the absence of light and comfort, was nothing.
*
He avoided Hisashi for as long as he could. With a broken spirit and a quiet step, with eyes reopened fully to reality, and wincing with the strain, he tried to avoid contact in whatever way he could. They did not see each other outside of practice.
Sometimes Jiro felt that alluring gaze upon him during practice. Sometimes the pain and regret were almost too much, were brimming, aching. But he learned to force such feelings down, to endure them if not be rid of them. He learned to be strong as long as Hisashi was not around.
But that expanse of no-contact, of avoidance, could not go on eternally between them – just like everything else between them – because one Saturday afternoon, a few hours after noon and maybe three or four weeks after that fateful evening, when Jiro was not expecting it, was off-guard...
....Hisashi showed up on his doorstep.
The doorbell rang and Jiro answered it thoughtlessly. And he lost his breath because it was Hisashi standing there, solemn and still so achingly perfect, and memories crashed into him, threatened to overwhelm him.
“Konnichi wa,” Hisashi greeted quietly.
Jiro desperately, quickly, sough tot pull a cloak of calm and forgetting and composure around himself, to hide the pain, the betrayal. “What do you want?” he asked softly. He could not make his voice cold, he could not find it in himself when eh was facing Hisashi. He could make it only soft, only tenuously emotionless.
“....I wanted – needed – to see you. Speak to you.”
“So talk...” Voice dull. Memories hurting.
“Why have you been avoiding me?”
Bitterness flared. There was not innocence in that tone, it was not an offhand question, Hisahi was not pretending that nothing had happened. But Jiro still felt that bitter knife of betrayal twist deeper.
“Why do you think?”
Hisashi let the sarcasm fall away from him with a quiet sigh. He shifted, and it was done in an almost-nervous gesture. But he was not anxious yet. Still cool. “Don’t you... At least want to know why?”
< Why you left me? Left me when we never had anything? Why it hurts so damn much? >
Jiro shrugged faintly. Hisashi continued, finally a hint of his anxiety showing.
“You said it yourself, Jiro,” he explained quietly. His tone was defensive, resigned, apologetic. Jiro could only gaze wordlessly at him, wanting to listen, to hear, to know why, wanting to close his ears and never know. He watched as Hisashi slowly let the mask disappear from his eyes as he spoke.
“You told me it couldn’t work,” the guitarist continued. “You said it would never work with us, you *kept* saying it. ‘I can’t give you what you want’ you said. It was going nowhere...
“And I can’t... I can’t wait around forever.”
A stir of anger rose within Jiro at those words, a deep sense of having been wronged. He tried not to let the emotion in Hisashi’s voice or the emotion that Hisashi spoke of rise. It was much easier to be angry, to embrace that anger. To pretend Hisashi was trying to blame him. To ignore those last words...
< ‘I can’t wait around forever.’ >
He didn’’ want to believe Hisashi would have waited at all. The thought burned him, branded him, too deeply.
< ‘You said it yourself... Kept saying it.’ >
Jiro focused on that.
“So – so what?” he asked bitterly. “I asked for this? I’m to blame for this pain.”
Hisashi shifted, gaze flashing with a hint of defensive irritation. “I didn’t say that,” he countered.
< But were you thinking it...? Maybe. But maybe you’re right... Is this what I deserve...? Maybe it is. Maybe I asked for this all along with my contradictions. >
< It couldn’t last indefinitely between us like it was... It had to end... >
He angrily brushed at the tears in his eyes, tried futilely to swallow the anguish.
< I just didn’t think it would end like this.. Not – not now, not so soon... >
< Not ever... >
Hisashi’s voice softened. “Jiro... I’m not doing this to hurt you, you know...”
Jiro shook his head – in denial? In rejection of Hisashi’s assertion? He didn’t even know – and continued to desperately try to stifle the sorrow welling up and recalled within. “Go away, Hisa,” he whispered. He made himself continue.
“I don’t – I don’t care. I have no right to try and stop you. No reason. Marry her, best of luck.”
< She can give you what you deserve, while I... while I can give you nothing. I drove you away, I drove you away because I gave you no reason to wait for me, no reason to stay... >
The knowledge was bitterly painful. Making himself say those words had been more difficult than he could have prepared himself for.
But now they were said, fallen from his tongue, and it was still easier to be angry. He sought to cover that deep, piercing agony with a shield of resentment. He wanted to be angry as Hisashi, he needed to be. It was so much easier that way...
He moved to close the door, but as swift as he was, Hisashi moved more quickly.
“Dammit, Jiro,” he growled, shoving his foot in the door so that it did not close. “It can’t end like this... Not after everything... Talk to me!”
Jiro squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his fists. The shield was breaking, shattering, with the force of Hisashi’s words, with the sheer emotion in his voice.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” he returned, voice a whisper.
“Was it all so meaningless, then?” Hisashi asked softly, voice intense and expressing emotion that was so rare, so coveted.
< Oh God... Don’t speak to me like that. Don’t act like it matters... >
His anger was dissolving, had been cracked and fragile to begin with.
“Don’t you understand?” he said softly, fiercely. “It *had* to not matter, it had to be meaningless. That – that’s why you’re getting married. That’s why I have no right to care.”
He hated how those words fell into the stillness, how they created an irrevocable ripple. He knew, suddenly, desperately, that there was something final about those words, about this moment. He hated how it felt like he had just let something – a hope? A dream? A last chance? – slip away.
He hated the way Hisashi’s fingers suddenly laced with his gently and he could not pull away, not as much as his mind cried that he had to.
Jiro shivered, closed his eyes. This contact was painful, because it reminded him of so much, because now it was intensely more precious because it would be one of the last warmth’s shared between them.
“Hisa...” His tone was a soft warning, a plea. Hisashi took no heed.
“I want you to come to the wedding.”
Jiro’s eyes slid open, he froze. He gazed into Hisashi’ eyes as if searching for the truth. “To the wedding?” he finally repeated, faintly. He shook his head. “Hisashi, you... you can’t be serious...”
“I am.”
It was senseless. “You can’t.. you can’t ask that of me, to come and see you get married,” he said, speaking frantically, desperately. “You can’t except me to be there, not after everything, not when I–”
He bit off the words, swallowed them like glass. He held them back with a flash of panic, of pain. And he saw that pain reflect in Hisashi’s eyes.
Slowly Hisashi pulled back his hand, broke that precious contact. When he spoke again, his voice was very soft. There was a heaviness within his gaze, a shadow upon those beautiful eyes.
“Sou... But – here’s the invitation.”
Hisashi held out his other hand, and in it was a white, delicate, and pristine card. Shakily, Jiro reached out and took it. Their fingers never touched.
Once it was safely in Jiro’s grasp, Hisashi added quietly: “Just in case.”
Jiro could only faintly nod. Their gazes caught, locked, and no more words were spoken, but a myriad of things passed between them in that shared glance.
Regret. Longing. Apologies. Unnamable, unspeakable emotion.
And when Hisashi leaned forward, Jiro knew what he was doing, what he wanted, what he sought. And Jiro was as helpless as ever. Because it was Hisashi. Because it was too perfect to resist, to run away from. Because he was weak, so weak, and he knew he always would be.
Their lips met as Jiro’s eyes slid closed. It was a gentle but lingering and drawn-out kiss, it was despairing. It signified everything that had been between them with a hopeless passion, and it spoke of pain and sorrow and apologies and things that they could not say and could not be.
When it finally broke, Jiro felt hopeless, he felt utterly defeated. His heart ached.
< Is that the last kiss that will ever be between us? Is this really the end...? >
His fingers were trembling and clenched tightly around the invitation. Hisashi’s quiet, deep gaze was resigned, there was a starry, aching quality of longing and sadness in his eyes.
“Sayonara, Jiro,” he said softly.
Then he turned and walked away. And Jiro didn’t try to stop him.