It was well into the last few minutes of the midnight hour when I sauntered into my apartment unit. You'd think a man my age would have Saturday nights off to rest after a hard week of toiling at work. That might've been true, IF I had a normal job. My work had one of the most erratic schedules in the whole of Japan. About the most routine I've had was appearing at Pop Jam with the band on occasions when we are in the country and not too busy, like what had happened tonight. I've dedicated myself into a two-song performance, a few waves to the audience clamoring for more, some minutes of
chatting up-sometimes sassing up--with the hosts, answering every goddam question their researchers and production assistants could think of. Put in a little bit of glorifying Takuro's genius, random glares and shuns at Jiro and an ounce of flirting with Teru and I have the whole studio roaring…stuff they'd love to see.

Sometimes it was fun. I've always wanted the pleasure of playing the guitar, trying to improve myself every time I strap the six-string onto myself. The shrieks I receive from the audience become my blood, pumping an unexplainable amount of energy into me. The applause is music to my ears, rendering my heart to beat along with every clap. The monetary rewards didn't hurt either, except on my income tax returns.

Still at other times, I find myself wishing it all gone. I miss the moments when I could just be myself, a regular guy hieing
off to the nearest convenience store to buy my instant ramen dinner, or worrying about how I'm going to pay for my utility bills, or how many days I had to go through before the next paycheck is dropped into my mailbox. The only time I could really walk down a busy avenue and not be mobbed by fans is when we fly off to a foreign country for a PV shoot or a recording, but then work still laced it.

I'm not complaining. I've worked hard for this, to get to where I am right now and I'm happy. But a part of me oftentimes just wanted to free, the part that the public doesn't see, the part that I would catch staring back at me in the mirror after I take everything else off.

The part that's purely me.

After dragging my tired body for seconds, I finally reached my bedroom, ever in its state of disarray. I dropped my keys on the nightstand and kicked off my boots, placing them haphazardly in one corner. Then I peeled off my jewelry and clothes, leaving me just the crisp light blue shirt I had worn under my suit. I sat down before my dresser and started my ritual with a few strokes of soft-bristled hairbrush down my mane, just enough to tame it and get the tangles out. I kept all of the hair away from my face with a few hairclips.

The contact lenses were the first to go, sinking themselves into the small container of specially prepared optical wash. I closed my eyes for a moment before I faced my reflection, somewhat blurry from my poor vision. It took a while for everything to come into focus.

My precious lips came next on the task. I pulled a sheet of tissue from the box and folded it twice into a small square. With light strokes, I used it to wipe the trace of lipstick, the pad of my index finger delicately tracing my mouth from under the tissue. Sticking the tip of my tongue out, I wet my thin kissers. Despite my renowned heavy smoking, I'm proud to have managed to maintain its glossy pink nature.

I picked up the small jar of petroleum jelly and uncapped it, dabbing some of its contents on my eyelids. It works better in
removing stubborn eyeshadow and waterproof mascara. With gentle massaging motion, I spread the mixture all over my painted lid, making sure I've covered everything that needed cleaning. After that was through, I picked up the vessel of cold cream, smearing the white stuff on the rest of my face, all the way to my neck. My face now looked like a big slob of oily meat. Two sheets of facial tissue were what I needed to rub it all off, shades of dark blue, black and pink staining the earlier immaculate napkin. I crumpled the spent sheet into a ball and dunked it into the wastebasket.

Ensuing that was astringent. I moistened a cotton orb and applied it all over my face, making sure to remove any residue the cream might've left. At first the liquid felt cool to my skin but as it seeped through my pores, it became warm, stinging me and altogether giving my face a flushed effect. I had to fan it with my hands for a temporary relief.

I gave one scrutinizing leer at myself. True enough, I felt clean, somewhat fresher. But it wasn't enough. I took out all of the clips in my hair and shook my head. The stubborn and sticky spritz on my hair guaranteed nothing but shitty sleep if I don't get the gunk out. So I got up from my seat and headed straight into my bathroom, taking the clothes I had earlier taken off to plunk them into the hamper. I went for the sink and turned on the tap, splashing cold water onto my face. I squeezed out a small amount of facial wash from the tube and placed it on my palm, working up lather before smoothing
it onto my face. Another round of cold water splashes rinsed my face clean. Blindly, I reached for the towel and dried off. Then I brushed my teeth long enough that I spat out pink.

I gave my weary body a little stretch before I stripped off the two garments sparing me from total nudity, relegating it into the overflowing pile of dirty clothes. My bare feet stepped on the cold tiles of the shower stall and I placed my hand on the knob, turning it to full blast. Warm water lapped at my entire length from my hair down to where it dripped to my shoulders. Basking in it was bliss. I reached for the shampoo and washed my hair with it, letting the suds cascade down my torso along with the water. Then I poured body wash onto the bath puff, squeezing the ball into froth. I cleansed the expanse of smooth fair skin, sensually kneading my tense muscles in the process.

It took half an hour and skin threatening to wrinkle into a prune before I emerged from the bath. I toweled myself dry before I loosely wrapped up in a black silk robe then turned the lights of the bathroom out. Droplets of water seeped through the carpeting while I plodded back to my dresser. I felt like a lot of excess baggage had been lifted off my back. The wonders of taking a bath!

I bent over at my waist, furiously rasping the terry cloth towel on my hair, scrunching the strands in hopes of drying it at the soonest possible time. I abandoned the task when my arms grew stiff. At least I had managed to lessen the moisture in my crowning glory. I finger-combed the tendrils into place.

There was no need for anything else to put on my body but a thin film of body lotion, especially on my limbs where I need it most. My skin had often been dry from excessive exposure to both the sun and air conditioner. But my face could go by without any help. I've always been blessed with soft facial skin, almost matte in texture. My former girlfriends would've killed for my face.

Reckoning myself ready, I sprang from the chair and proceeded to light the incense sticks and scented candles surrounding my room, ceremoniously flaring each end one by one, they way I had accustomed myself do so. When the aroma of ocean breeze and spring mist reached my nostrils, I smiled. It was the way I've always wanted it.

One tip of the switch and the lights went out, letting the faint glow of fire cast just the right radiance into the whole room. Gingerly, I made my way towards the closet, standing before the full-length mirror. I tugged at the sash of my robe, cleaving it apart and allowing the silken material fall into a puddle by my feet. I stared at my reflection, my eyes traveling down my entirety. I was slim, I've long acknowledged that, and everyone told me I could use a little bit of iron pumping just to put enough meat into my sleek muscles. But I turned their well-meant suggestions down, tactfully at most times. Lifting weights…it just isn't me. It isn't who I am. And I'm not about to let myself be engulfed again in something covering up the real me. Appearing before hoards of frenzied testosterone-high girls in pounds of cosmetics is already as dreary as it is. It's what they want, and it's what I give. The ritual of taking the makeup all off is just as tedious, but worth it. Because at the end of the drudgery, I see me…the real me, not the gorgeous Hisashi, guitarist of Glay, but Tonomura Hisashi, the genuine man behind the mask, the very person someone sincere has also come to love.

Standing stark naked on the pale blue carpeting in my fully air conditioned room made me shiver. I slipped under the navy blue quilt covering my bed, seeking refuge from the chill. I flicked to life the bedside table lamp sitting at my right. Donning my glasses and picking up my book, I adjusted it on my bent knees and propped myself on the pillows. I flipped open the page I've left off, immersing myself in the thick novel as I wait.

It hadn't been long. Minutes into my book, I heard the faint click of the apartment door latch from beyond my bedroom and the almost inaudible sound of footfalls on my carpet. I snapped the book close and replaced it down on its spot at the table then flung off my glasses, resting it atop the hardbound copy. I hugged my knees to my chest and stared expectantly at the door.

I couldn't suppress my smile when the door flew open and he appeared before me, his body cloaked in a blue trenchcoat. "That cold, huh?" I asked him in greeting.

His lips parted into a grin, that trademark cheeky smile of his. "Nah," he said, closing the door behind him. "I just didn't want a lot of trouble."

I arched my brow quizzically. "What kind of trouble?"

"Getting out of my clothes when I step in here." With that, he unabashedly took off his coat revealing to me a body clad in black boxers. He dropped the heavy jacket, as well as his own set of keys, onto the floor without a care.

My smile widened. "You just had to leave something on, don't you?"

"Some people would call that modesty."

This time, I chuckled. "That's pretty dangerous, you know…driving around the city in nothing but…" I gestured to his boxers with a slight clearing of my throat, "*that.* What if cops flag you down for overspeeding?"

"That's exactly why I kept at least one thing on." His eyes gave me that naughty spark. "But then again…" He trailed off and in one swift movement, he yanked the remaining item off himself.

I swept my gaze over the breadth of his creamy body, now devoid of any thread. He didn't seem embarrassed standing like that before me in nothing but his own skin. He should be…his body is bloody gorgeous. I almost came right then and there, and nothing has even happened yet.

I bit my lip in a distinct show of hunger and a feeble act of self-control as he ambled nearer then settled his pinchable tush on the bed, right by my feet. He took my left hand resting upon my knee and cradled it in his. "What took you?" I just had to ask, even though it had only been less than an hour since we last saw each other.

"You know I go through the same ritual you do, Hisa-hime. And I had to do some extra driving." He kissed my fingertips, causing an electric charge to pulse into my body in the process. It never fails to do that to me. "Did you miss me?"

"You know I always do." My other hand reached out to smooth my palm on his cheek. The lamp threw light on him and I saw his face, now free of any color but his natural peachy hue. The eye makeup he'd worn as heavily as I did earlier was gone, unveiling his slit eyes, almost as small as mine. His hair, dyed into an attractive shade of blonde and brown, was partly damp from a shower. In fact, he still smelled of shampoo and soap and a generous splash of light cologne.
It was all him…the real him. The softness of his lips under the pad of my thumb proved that. This is the very man I love. "Aishiteru, Yoshihito Wayama."

"Aishiteru, Hisashi Tonomura. Always."

Togetherness began once again when our lips met for a searing, lingering kiss, one that's so sweet and full of emotions.
One so real and sincere, something so right and befitting at this time when we've shed all pretensions aside. For behind the smokescreen of hatred and indifference, he and I--Jiro and Hisashi--are no more than two people very much in love with each other.

This is what we are in our own little true world, away from the eyes of the public, behind the covers of triviality we consented to putting up, free from the superficial guise of cosmetics, far from the realm of klieg lights and fame we thrive in.

This is Jiro and Hisashi…

Unmasked.

~ Owari~
2001.08.04
11:16

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Author's Notes:
I've long been writing fanfics but it's only recently that it dawned to me that I've never written anything from Hisashi's point of view, considering he is my all-time favorite Japanese artist. Hence, I celebrated the birth of this piece, inspired while I was removing my makeup before I hit the sack. Honest. I just suddenly wondered what could be going on in Hisashi's mind on that very moment after he'd removed everything else and he sees the simple him. That's it.
This is just a random thing and I hadn't really planned on writing this one. In fact, I'm busy finishing a lengthy JiroXHisashi fic when this brainchild popped up into my mind. Anyway, I hope you like it.

To my new-found S.I.S. (Sister In Spirit) who shares my EXACT wavelength (We share one dream, sis! Let them cry "rape!", heheh!), Jellanie Samson…this is for you. And as always, to Bhex-sama who always puts up with me, thanks for everything.