DEG: Kaoru/Toshiya: Paris.London
Title: Paris. London
Author: rheakurokawa
Pairing: Kaoru/Toshiya (Dir en Grey)
Rating: PG
Summary: The taxi kept on rolling forward with a sense of dread and he reminded himself of the things that were tiring, were frustrating, didn’t work, and then he reminded himself of nothing, just watched the dotted line in the middle of the road disappear beneath the hood of the car [...]
Disclaimer: The events and characters depicted in the following piece of work are completely fictitious. Even though similarities with the members of Dir en Grey, or other public personae may be found they are in no way implying that any of the events or character traits are true. I do not know the members of Dir en Grey, and am in no way affiliated to them, the story itself is completely untrue and is in no way meant to reflect the private lives, actual practices, or activities of any persons named. No harm, libel or disrespect is intended. No statements whatsoever and no commercial gain are made out of the work archived here; this is simply for entertainment purposes.
A/N:This took a very long, never-ending and painful time to reach its finish and I hope i did them justice in the end.
Paris. London
---
Paris Thursday
The book is thick, hardbound and glossy; he stares at it, the foreign title, author, the cover somewhat nice, but not really -- take another-- still doesn’t understand what it means, but the cover is nicer somewhat retro, red and green, he turns the book around -- 1965 -- and then scratches at the corners, a little turned up, hesitates between the old and the new, takes the old.
The cashier wears a loose red sweater, glasses and a piercing, her hair in a weird, hay-like pouf around her face. She smiles, says something that he doesn’t understand and he pushes the book forward. "Ah, Livre de Poche," then she smiles again, shows him the price on the cashier, says, "Cinq euro, s’il vous plait" which sounds like sanke yuro siru pure and Kaoru nods and pays.
Merushi.
He walks down Boulevard Haussmann and turns left because Montmartre is to the left and he can see it through the thin mist in the distance, white and far away, but then he turns on a street, then another, then another, at some point puts the guide back in his pocket and just keeps walking, the names adding up, he can’t read them and he knows they must sound wonderful, like in the movies, but he keeps walking, map in his pocket, maps don’t make sense much anyhow.
Rue Joubert, Rue de la Chausee d’Antin, Rue la Fayette with its galleries and the immense posters, the fashionable people going in and out, the door revolving, the Opera, with the tourist groups and flashing of cameras that make him dizzy. He takes his phone out and frames the opera, green roof and golden statue but takes no picture.
A boy runs into him, laughing and screaming after a girl and for a second he’s confused, squeezes his fingers around the phone in reflex and looks down at the doves hurrying in all directions.
Down Rue la Fayette, he turns left to the Sacre Coeur in the distance that he thinks he should visit because his guidebook says so and stops, halfway down another Rue - Tailbout, Victoire, Chateaudun-, something he forgets after rolling over his tongue a little, giving it a try; sees his reflection in a store window, past a café, somehow foreign, boxes and clothes and wine and croissants, smiling faces and small stickers on walls or lampposts, he moves slow, watching the attics and doves, doesn’t know exactly why he’s here, in Paris, it doesn’t mean much, feels exhausted already, looks at the cover of clouds, the black birds, the wires, the signs, the way it looks just like any other place he's been in, the same air, same gray cloudy day -he's been in Paris before-, the same sun disappearing back into the white sky as in any other place on Earth and when he looks down he sees Toshiya, between people walking, and steam leaving mouths and honking cars.
Toshiya, in a black jacket and a black hat like his own.
Not just a tall person, not just an Asian person. Toshiya.
Toshiya.
Of all people, Toshiya.
---
Tokyo, Monday, November 30
Monday, and he woke up in his apartment, on his couch, hugging himself.
Stretched and looked at his hands, the blurry sight of his tattoos, the color beneath the skin, the smudged drawings, then yawned and turned around, closed his eyes. In his mind he repeated - this is the first day - this was the first day of vacation and he didn’t have to go anywhere.
There, with his nose in the bend of his couch he could smell the leather and smoke, could hear the cars passing by and the clock ticking on the wall. There was no shrill sound, no buzz, no phone, just the sun behind the couch warming the tip of his elbow, the tip of his shoulder. As he shifted, the leather creaked and he welcomed the sound, his arms hugging his body again, palms pressing underneath his armpits. When he looked up the ceiling was swimming in circles and dots of white and he went back to sleep tugging the cover back over himself.
Browsing the Internet in his kitchen, the window slightly parted, the rustling of leaves and driving of cars, his phone was ringing and he ignored the way it buzzed on the table, advancing slowly on its own towards the edge. Tickets, reservations, pictures of places he might want to see.
The phone stopped.
A sip from his chai and keep scrolling, clicking; he put his face in his palm, read.
In the evening he packed, t-shirts, shirts, two pants, two jackets, boxers, socks, deodorant, toothpaste, aftershave, everything else, just the basics, the usual, nothing fancy, nothing complicated. Took his rings off and massaged his fingers, sat on the edge of the bed and took a deep breath. For a moment he felt like he can hear it all starting again, tour, no sleep, no quiet, no peace. A quick glance to the bedside table and the feeling was replaced. That plane ticket would take him somewhere else.
He brushed his teeth and the phone rang, he heard it faintly over the sound of water gurgling down the drain. When he turned off the light in the bathroom and then the bedroom, when he took his glasses off and got into his bed that he had barely occupied these last few months he could hear the silence of his apartment, the phone lighting up and buzzing somewhere on a chair, then silence, the hum of his refrigerator, the swishing of cars on the street below.
After that he fell asleep.
---
Toshiya looks up and Kaoru follows his gaze by reflex, to the writing above a church, his feet anchored in the middle of the sidewalk, heavy and bolted to the concrete, his heart suddenly faster.
Toshiya's looking at the writing, writing Kaoru's still not truly comfortable with, Toshiya stares and stares and Kaoru doesn't know what to do.
Behind him, the street is long, people rushing, cars rushing, doves rushing, he doesn’t remember which way he came or where he turned.
It’s been three weeks since he last saw Toshiya.
There’s this feeling, nagging at him, the first reaction, shock, surprise, anger almost, a step backwards and territory invaded, and there are echoes of things that could happen, could be shared, a here-there of paralysis and excitement, and then the faint recollection of Toshiya wiping his sweat backstage, a towel over his head, or the distinct feeling of laziness and drinking beer, anything, at a table somewhere, or playing videogames in his living room and it’s like those weeks didn’t even exist. A momentary ping pong of things he didn't want to bring to Paris, didn't think of finding, doesn't know what to do with now that he did.
A familiar dot on a page he wanted clean. Dread and comfort in one.
When he looks back to where Toshiya was there’s nobody and he can’t spot him anywhere, left, right, left, nowhere. He feels the phone in his pocket but it hangs heavy and somehow he can’t, won’t get it out to form the known number. The sidewalk is grey and he looks at the passing people, blonde and brunette, black, white and unfamiliar. He moves further down the street, left, right, forward, backward - only foreign faces.
It occurs to him that he thought it up, a hallucination induced by jet lag, something, he opens his mouth in a reflex to say something but there's nobody to say it to and he escapes a snort instead, and then, all of the sudden he feels completely alone, the thought of it almost unbearable.
He looks up, Beatae Mariae Virgini Lavretanae.
Left right again and he gets in.
---
Tokyo, Tuesday
The next morning in the cab - mails and missed calls one last time before shutting down his phone - his mother, a neighbor, management, a roadie, a reporter, some unknown numbers; none of his band members.
As the taxi drove closer and closer to the airport he let his eyes follow the passing lines and cars and city, the entire horizontal blick block of blur.
He had been back in Tokyo for barely three weeks and now he left again. For a brief moment he thought he missed it, the city, the quiet back alleys of his neighborhood, his guitar, home and the touring, the stinking bus and noodles from a can, the roar of the public.
The car drove on and he could see images rolling over the windowpane, rushing through his mind, touches, the sense of his feet freezing in his shoes, Die’s pat on his back after a show, Toshiya’s laughter, Shinya’s shrunken frame, Nora’s glasses on the margin of a table and her rushed, stumbly words in a language he barely could concentrate on deciphering, Kyo’s silent presence next to him, their nightly talks in a parking lot while smoking too many cigarettes, Toshiya’s muddy feet at Novarock, Mike Patton walking next to them and nodding as he passed them, the sense of pride and paranoia at Download, the gas stations and the scribbles on doors, watching Nine Inch Nails and rain starting and him not caring, not caring at all, the fireworks over a field at the end of a festival and the silent drive back at the end of it all.
The taxi kept on rolling forward with a sense of dread and he reminded himself of the things that were tiring, were frustrating, didn’t work, and then he reminded himself of nothing, just watched the dotted line in the middle of the road disappear beneath the hood of the car,
-
-
-
- and then, then there was a sense of release.
---
Toshiya sits on a bench in the cathedral, the cathedral is cold and solemn and empty, marble and gold and stone and high, high ceilings.
The stained glass, the figures, the back of Toshiya’s head, his hair up in a bun over his head- it's discordant and yet familiar, too familiar, it feels warm and annoying, intimate and intrusive, and he can’t decide to either pat his shoulder or just turn around and disappear between unknown and foreign streets.
He waits but Toshiya doesn’t move, seems mesmerized and time moves along sluggishly and his feet start to hurt, he looks at a stone carving, some western priest staring back at him with hollow eyes and he turns around slowly, gets out in the noise of the street and people walking.
There’s a couple taking pictures on the stairs and he pretends not to look at them, the way her skirt moves with the wind or he gives instructions with a smile on his face. His own camera is in his bag at the hotel, his phone quiet in his pocket and he lights a cigarette, moves around, pretends to read a poster. When Toshiya gets out he’s lighting his second cigarette, turns towards him. Toshiya seems not to see him at first, looks right then left then right then left really quickly, his eyes looking at Kaoru with no expression for a second, two, three, he blinks, blinks fast again and Kaoru takes a drag off his cigarette his heart clenching a little.
---
In the mirror it doesn't show much, he's brushing his hair and smirks, lines cutting through his skin, they remind him of his father and Oshikawa from the bake shop, the lines of age, smirks again, fake and forced, the lines and scars on his cheek crumpling. Still a handsome devil, and he snorts, brushes the rest of his hair, behind the ear, covering the white hair.
---
They sit drinking beer in a café nearby, on rattan chairs, Toshiya gurgling with laughter then clouding in something else, -- drinking Ricard, rolling cigars, Toshiya is leafing through a newspaper, the letters as foreign to the both of them but he still does and looks like an interesting and discordant picture from a movie. There was an initial reluctance, a surprised "What are you doing here?" then an "I didn't know that you," then a smirking "One can't escape the nest anywhere," comment, more to itself, and then, it was like they never really parted. It scares Kaoru then it makes him feel safe and when Toshiya laughs like that or moves bits of food around on his plate as he did on all European and American tours he has to look away and wish to be back in Japan not answering his door for a month.
---
When he says 'let me show you something,' Kaoru follows, there’s no fixed schedule, no program, he could go to a bar, or walk along the Seine or watch French television in his room on his own. Instead he’s walking next to Toshiya who doesn’t speak much, then does, all of the sudden in his familiar voice, going mmm, mmm, mmm and Kaoru goes mmm too. They pass people in front of a theatre, it's dark, there are women walking on stilettos and wearing perfume, on their own or with someone else and Toshiya speaks nothings from above, or comments on a damn fine pair of legs, and then how its not far away and Kaoru nods and says hmm because he doesn’t know what Toshiya wants to show him and the city is dark and humid.
He walks slower and Toshiya seemingly faster. In a memory Toshiya is putting his hands into the pockets of his pants and asking him what he thought of a bass line.
Toshiya stops, his hands in his pockets, swaying a little and says this is it.
---
Keiko mixes the ingredients in a bowl and Kaoru smokes, watches the tips of a tree moving from left to right outside the window while she spreads the cream over his hair. The leaves are green and the room smells of chemicals.
---
It is a building, it is "on ru do paraji," Toshiya adds quickly and says "on paradise street," laughs all of the sudden and Kaoru snickers.
“Now be quiet.”
He follows Toshiya on red carpeted wooden stairs to the fifth floor because the iron elevator doesn’t work and his knees hurt, and there are millions of swear words and curses flashing through his head, a muted cadence on the tip of his tongue that he tries to even out with the sudden excessive need for air. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks of age and bodies malfunctioning and he's concentrating on the sound of Toshiya turning the key two times.
The apartment belongs to the niece of an old lady and he swapped it with his chaotic Nagano flat for a month Toshiya informs him from the kitchen while Kaoru's eyes sweep over the wooden floor, the high windows, the television on the floor in the middle of the room. It smells of wood and old house, mold maybe. Toshiya keeps answering unvoiced questions through dish clatter and dragging of chairs. No, she has no idea about who he is, he’s just a Japanese guy to her, besides the Nagano flat hasn’t properly been used in years.
Toshiya’s voice comes from down the hallway, there’s something flowing in a glass, and Toshiya says, there’s really nothing incriminatory there, then laughs. The couch is slightly tattered and there are lamps standing in almost all corners, on the floor, on a table. He can hear the door of the refrigerator closing and Toshiya’s voice coming closer until he’s next to him. It’s pretty cool and Kaoru nods barely perceptive.
---
Kaoru had been to Nagano on a few occasions, once with his father when he was small, a few times to concert, and two times to that exact apartment. The first time Die and Toshiya dragged him there because they were drunk and wanted to get more drunk and Toshiya's apartment was the closest. He barely remembers falling in the front court and after that it's just a blank Die likes to reminisce about in the most stupid situations. The other time he was driving through, on a vacation and was tired, didn't want to go to a hotel and ended up sleeping next to Toshiya in a futon on the floor between comic books and socks hanging to dry, because Toshiya had rented the place to a few friends and happened to be there by accident too. 'Guest in my own house,' he joked and Kaoru remembered that like it happened yesterday for some reason, like he remembers the neon blue of the futon and an old Michael Jackson poster. He woke up with his forehead pressed against Toshiya's back and Toshiya helped him find his way out of Nagano later that morning.
His back hurt all the way to Tateyama.
The memory of lying in a quiet motel on the road and Toshiya calling that night, saying, very slowly 'I want these people out of my house.'
A smile creeps back at that memory every time.
---
Toshiya roams through the kitchen, says he’s making some ramen and Kaoru watches the news in a language that speaks nothing to him. He watches the images change, the bright colors of the presenters, a talk show on another channel, a music station. The clock on the wall points to barely seven, his head hurts and he feels strangely displaced, the last thing he sees are things from a video of a boy on a beach in a sandstorm. It’s surreal and the music is nice but he just can’t keep his eyes open.
---
The "kidnapping" is a blur consisting of odd memories and details and a lot of other people's flourishes. Most of it is smiling at the reflection of Toshiya between Kyo and Shinya in the backseat of the car back to Tokyo while Die drove, the bouncing of words and laughter and curiosity between the five of them.
The sense of pride.
---
The side of his face feels flat, numb and pressed and he moves a little, it scratches and he opens his eyes, yellow gold light and fuzzy, blurry images. He narrows his eyes into slits, lets the lashes filter and focuses a little better, the wooden floor close to him, a figure on the floor, he doesn’t remember where he put his glasses, his contacts are at the hotel. He can see the texture of the couch he’s stretched on, see the weaving and the holes and the frayed threads, feels them scratchy under his cheek, yawns. The figure turns a little and he hears Toshiya say, "So you’re up."
"What time is it?" His voice is glued together, dry as sand, he runs his tongue over his teeth, swallows and Toshiya says, "Three."
Another yawn and he sits up, looks to his left, his right for a familiar shadow and Toshiya stretches, their fingers touch for a second and he has his glasses.
"Thanks."
Later, after he goes to the bathroom and sniffs his curiosity from little glass bottles or from inside cabinets, after putting the toilet lid back down, flushing and walking down the tight hallway past the dark kitchen and frames and foreign posters behind glass, back into the empty room (how empty these western rooms are), just books from the floor to the ceiling, a couch and a TV and lamps and a tiny desk and Toshiya sitting on the floor on a pillow between papers drawing, painting.
He sits down and rolls a cigar and they don’t speak anything, there’s the sound of leaves burning and wet brushes going over paper and Toshiya’s sniffing breath from time to time or the claxon of a car on the street.
He’s seen Toshiya paint before in a room in Nagoya on a tour years ago and his long legs were shaved not glowing golden behind the light bulb of a Paris apartment. He was younger but still sat on the floor, in a t-shirt and underwear, headphones in his ear, just doodling and drawing and painting around, circles and lines, a chair or some fruit he sat on the floor in the hotel room. Later he asked Kaoru to stay still and painted him from the other bed in a clumsy watercolor with pink hair and high cheekbones.
Toshiya doodled on the bus between Dresden and Zurich on the tiny couch his legs in Shinya’s lap and doodled on a napkin in a café on a highway in Sweden while Kyo was eating tuna sandwiches and Shinya dozed off on the table next to them. He drew Shinya’s hair up and Kaoru drew his curls and they moved the ballpoint from one to the other through antlers and wings and Gundam arms until Die returned with Inoue and they had to leave.
Toshiya’s painting his shoes, his hair is in a bun and his eyes follow his brush, he taps his brush against a glass or stirs in water and Kaoru takes puff after puff after puff.
When he leaves because it’s four and something and Toshiya should sleep and he should really get back to the hotel, he sits up and sees himself in a watercolor, asleep and very stretched on an ochre couch he says, "Can I keep this," and smiles and Toshiya puts his hands in his pockets and says "Come on dude go to sleep."
And on the hallway while he goes for the stairs Toshiya whispers "I made you ramen, you know, but you fell asleep like an old fart," then laughs and Kaoru shows him the finger and snickers even in the cab on the way back to the hotel and for a moment he forgets that he was supposed to go on this trip on his own.
---
Paris Friday
"Did you go to the Louvre?"
They're on a bridge, the sun is low in the sky and they can barely hear each other through the wind and cars.
"No, not yet." His mouth opens in a sigh then he looks into the distance, left, right, looking after something.
"I will, I mean I want to but there’s a long ass queue and it’s all so touristy." Maybe he doesn't look at anything in particular. "You know Shinya would’ve wanted to go there, wanted the last times we were here too, but there’s always that queue."
"And for someone who stays for a month in Paris, lives there and can go any day, could practically go since 8 o’clock, it’s a very hard thing to do."
"You know for a leader, you’re very good with words but as a bassist on vacation I must say that scolding and teasing doesn’t work here. I’ll visit it but when I get in the mood."
"It has art, and Mona Lisa, and Rodin, and god knows what else."
"See you have no idea what it has in it."
"The point is, it has art and you’re doodling papers around that apartment and you should see some masters that’s all I’m saying."
"Well an artist doesn’t need a master."
"That’s crap and you know it."
"Shut up leader-sama. I’ll see it."
"Wanna go together?"
"I’m not staying at any queue at this hour and stop educating me."
"Ok."
"Ok."
"Ok."
"Ok."
"But you have to promise me that you'll see it."
"Fiiiiiine I’ll see it before I leave."
"And show me a picture when."
"That’s so cliché Japanese."
"Picture."
"Fine, I’ll print it and put it in a frame in the studio. Stupid Toshiya in front of the Louvre doing his homework. I’ll even attach the ticket. Now shut up, get off that powertrippin' and let’s eat."
"Ok."
"Ok."
While Toshiya hurries to a place he knows and offers good food for a change Kaoru snickers at the way he always has to have the last word and how that escalated through the years, from a mild displeased grunt, to a voiced but, then anything, anything at all just to keep up with him and he finds himself smirking more and more with every step.
---
Toshiya sits on the floor, his long legs spread in a narrow V on the shiny wooden floor, his head resting back on the rim of the couch, next to Kaoru’s knee. They smoke Kaoru’s cigars and pass the whisky bottle from one to the other. Occasionally the air explodes with Toshiya’s laughter and Kaoru snickers, watching his Adam apple bob and the sheen of perspiration on his forehead, along his hairline.
The lamps are lit on the floor, golden and calm, reflecting white halos into the shiny wood, there’s a crushed beer can and a sheet of paper and the TV entertains itself with images and words in French. Sometimes they watch the moving pictures; sometimes Kaoru watches the corner of the room moving slowly, slowly, from left to right to up and down. It’s quiet, just random French humming and Kaoru feels Toshiya’s temple lean warm against his knee. The cigar leaves hollow balls of scented smoke into his mouth and he breathes them in slowly, carefully; he tries to make a ring but his eyes cross and he gives up, pinching his nose, coughing a little, then flinches with the sudden noise.
"Sorry," Toshiya’s silent apology then just the running and switching of images and colors as Toshiya jumps from channel to channel, music, sport, news, news, a movie, porn, music; porn.
And time seems to dilate, Toshiya says nothing and Kaoru smokes and on the screen someone moans and moans and moans and Kaoru can feel himself growing hard, slowly, in a weird haze, the TV multiplying slowly, his eyes dropping, and he leans down, past Toshiya’s face, puts the bottle on the floor. To his left he can hear Toshiya breathing slowly, warm breath brushing his face, his neck, his eyes are lazy and he looks at the TV.
Kaoru gets up.
The city is cold and he thinks he can see the waves of warmth escaping into the night along with his own breath. He welcomes the cold, the shivers, grips on the rail. He can see Toshiya reflected in the glass, his head resting back on the couch, his hand brushing slowly over the front of his jeans and Kaoru looks back at the street, stays like that until he can’t stand the cold anymore. In the reflection Toshiya doesn’t seem to move.
When he reenters Toshiya turns to him lazily, a looped grin and his hand gesturing between his legs.
"I’m so drunk I can’t even jerk off."
And Kaoru leans down after the remote then turns off the TV.
The way towards the bedroom proves long and full of stumbles, Toshiya heavy, himself not very steady, bumping into walls.
"Careful, careful, don’t break anything."
The bedroom is dark and he can’t find the switch, they just stumble and fall into bed. For a second he just wants to stay there, remain there, die there into the cold cotton, into cotton and conditioner and sleep and sleep and sleep. But he’s half over Toshiya, feels his breath warm, almost wet along his neck, feels his long arms and big hands resting over his back, his ribs against his ribs, his knee against his knee. Toshiya moves, Kaoru’s lips fall on his shoulder and Toshiya breathes in.
"It’s spinning," Toshiya says and Kaoru says "yeah," raises himself, his lips taste salty and Toshiya’s hand falls on the bed, and he turns onto his stomach. "Don’t leave" (me, Paris, what?)
And Kaoru doesn’t, opens the window and sits on a chair at the balcony.
"I’m leaving for London tomorrow."
From the balcony at 5 am he can hear the trains in the distance; it reminds him of Hyogo for a reason. He smokes and Toshiya sleeps inside. Him and the whole street, the whole city,
"Do you want to come with me?" But Toshiya sleeps and Kaoru looks back at the street
He’s sobering up slowly, maybe he wasn’t even that drunk, he took small sips, lickings of a bottle and Toshiya took gulps. He doesn’t like whisky but it did feel better with the cigars. He wants to smoke, there in the balcony but it’s cold and he can see himself smoking his own breath in the icy air outside. Toshiya moves and curls a little; puts one arm around himself and Kaoru shuts the high windows, high and separated in glassy squares. They close with a heavy sound.
There’s a duvet under Toshiya and one folded on a chair next to the bed. He barely sees it, lets his hand guide him to the hairy surface and he unfolds it over Toshiya. In his sleep Toshiya moves a little, a dark tuft under a big blanket and Kaoru stays on the edge of the bed. It’s too late, he has to pack, he didn’t unpack much, but he has things to gather; he lied, he said, I’m leaving for London tomorrow, but he lied and maybe Toshiya didn’t believe him on any of the other times he said it. Suddenly London seems far, far away, too far, this constricting dread in his chest and he lies down. He can’t sleep, doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to wake up here, in some French woman’s house, in bed with...
Toshiya breathes in, breathes out, the ceiling illuminates with lines of car lights sometimes going up, sometimes going down Rue de Paradis.
His breath is a lullaby and later, on the street, still dark, just taxis and dew covered streets, the silent interiors of shops, umbrellas, books, the sweeping in front of cafes, the beeping sound of a van going backwards and empty metallic boxes being stacked in front of a bakery, the sun rising behind him, the sky a dark blue, then lighter, lighter, him getting lost, the face of a woman, her eyes pacing, her mouth behind a scarf, he gathers his fingers in fists into his pockets, doesn’t know where he is and doves gurgle on the sidewalk.
He takes a cab from somewhere on a street, and by the time he’s back in bed the sun is beating from a white sky into his room. He falls asleep and dreams of hands.
---
Paris Saturday
When he opens his eyes the room is blinding and there’s the shrill sound of a telephone. He lets it ring and it stops.
That night he’s in Paris, he buys a woman some drinks, a blond girl with a crooked smile, he can’t talk to her, lets her talk, she writes him 50 euros on a piece of paper, shows him for what and he smiles, takes her to the hotel. She loves his tattoos, he tries not to think through lips and luscious skin and later, much later answers his phone.
There’s a breath and Toshiya asking "Where are you, tell me what you see," he looks outside, lies, "In London, I see the river," and Toshiya says "Cool, I’m in Paris, I somewhat see the ceiling," laughs short and Kaoru wishes he could take a drag from his cigarettes, looks at the no smoking sign, says "Go to sleep," and Toshiya says, "Kaoru, I’m alone."
"No, you’re just drunk."
---
Paris - London Sunday
The next day. Gare du Nord International - St Pancras International. The station is big, crowded; he waits for a train while Toshiya sleeps in the bed of an old French woman. He takes a nap under the ocean, wakes up to the muddy color of the North Sea, the rest just a succession of images he barely remembers. Houses, grass, sky, rushing poles, the same everywhere. the station, the high arched glass vaults he stops and stares, platform 5, the Christmas tree, the snowflake stickers on the glass rails, he almost gets lost but then not, he follows people, finds the taxi, the hostel, the bed.
---
London Monday
"Where are you? What do you see?"
"I’m on the river bank; I’m looking at a bridge."
And that’s no lie.
"How is it?"
And despite the cold, despite that maybe he should be annoyed he tells him.
"Big, massive, out of stone, red, with big arches. I’m sitting on a bench."
"Is there someone with you?"
"No. Just me and my cigarette."
"What are you having?"
"Marlboro."
"Marlboro is good."
"Toshiya, did you call about my cigarettes?"
And Toshiya says nothing, then, "no. No."
---
In Amsterdam he remembers the way the light reflected on the canals in the morning and the taste of bread and the slight cold and the way everything was a blur of shadows and colors because he forgot his glasses in his jacket that he gave to Shinya and how he left the bus with no contacts on. Next to him he remembers Kyo looking on, just the clear focus of a denim shoulder and some wispy yellow locks while Toshiya mumbled something with Die further down the balustrade. How they were two bright ovals moving above and further to his right. Nora talking on the phone softly with someone and the bread he kept picking on.
In Amsterdam his head hurt until the next day.
Amsterdam. This is not Amsterdam, this is Paris, this is somewhere else entirely and he doesn't know why the memories keep on bothering him, coming back. In Amsterdam he...
---
London Tuesday
Goodge street is wet, the sun shining on the asphalt and he squints while moving forward.
Later he waits next to a pillar, there’s a number and a voice calling Paris, there are people and for five minutes he thinks he came for nothing, then he sees Toshiya’s hair, his black scarf, the familiar sound of a chain clicking and Toshiya smiles says, "Hi."
"What about the old lady’s apartment?"
"It’s gonna be there when I go back."
"When do you go back," and he almost feels Toshiya responding to the maliciousness in his question. "I mean, when do you fly back? Maybe we have the same flight?" But it’s somewhat a lie and Toshiya can see right through it most probably
He says, "In a few days," looks away.
The way to the hotel is quiet, Toshiya looking at the city on his left, Kaoru on his right. The car drives fast and Toshiya leans a little into him at a curve, "I’m dizzy, sorry."
"Too much to drink?"
"Not really."
But then the rest, he doesn’t remember the rest, Toshiya talking to the receptionist in broken English, Tate and Toshiya marveling, sitting in front of Pollock, a crack in the floor, looking at magazines, buying pins, looking after girls in short skirts, Toshiya’s happy face as he’s eating a sandwich, Toshiya walking before him, Toshiya in Hyde park feeding the geese, Toshiya taking pictures, Toshiya being tall, Toshiya scrunching his nose in front of a bar, "Man do you feel the smell?"
Toshiya sitting in a chair in a bar, Toshiya moving his head in rhythm with the music, Toshiya sleeping next to him in the same bed, because there are no other rooms, while he looks at the skin of his arm or the ceiling, one night, two nights, with people running down the stairs at 3am, how Toshiya’s knees are cold, then warm and he remembers the first years, how he took the whole duvet. Still does.
---
Another memory -
Toshiya walks in front of him, maybe one step, maybe two in front. Doesn’t do it on purpose, just walks a normal pace, his legs taking longer strides than Kaoru and Kaoru stares at his back, the dark spots of rain printed into his hoodie, moving along with the fabric.
---
London Wednesday
Die calls.
“Where are you?”
“Paris. I mean London. I mean, I’m in London now, was in Paris, will go back to Paris.”
“Wow. I thought you got sick of the tour.”
“I was.”
“Well, Toshiya is in Paris too”. And Kaoru says, “Oh,” sounds as if he doesn’t know. “Oh,” and “You talk to him?”
“No, he doesn’t answer his phone. But he’s in Paris, he told me so. Did some crazy exchange thing.”
Toshiya is crouched on the margin of the lake in Hyde Park, holding empty palms stretched to expecting ducks and swans. He smiles to himself and Kaoru kind of smiles in return, on his own, feet away.
“Right.”
“Maybe you two meet or som.. Are you smirking?”
“No...”
“You are. Anyway, I doubt you will meet since he’s not answering his phone and Paris is so big.“
“Right,” Kaoru lights a cigarette, the phone moves away from his ear to cup the flame until it burns the leaves.
He catches only bits, pieces, things about romantic and Paris, and then silence, his ears fill for a moment with pressure and he releases the smoke.
“Are you even listening?”
“Paris. Romantic. Bullshit.”
“Right. Well, whatever, I won’t waste my hard earned” and he emphasizes “hard earned” as if it’s something Kaoru should feel guilty about, instead he moves a pebble around with his foot”. “My hard earned money on long-distance calls to Paris or where the fuck ever and lecture you about your whatever life.”
“Right.”
Toshiya moves his hand in the water; the swans duck their heads toward it
“Stop spacing out, what the hell are you doing anyway? No don’t tell me. Here’s why I called."
“Mmmm.”
“We have to talk when you come back. When do you come back?”
“In a few days, next week probably.”
It’s always been easier to talk to Die.
"Look, I have a new idea. I’m gonna play it ok?"
"I thought you were on a vacation too."
"I am. Wait a sec. I’m gonna put my phone on the table. Wait a sec. Ok..."
And then Kaoru listens to Die play on the phone while he’s watching Toshiya feeding the birds from a bagel
---
London Thursday
On the third night they pack, on the fourth day Toshiya buys a chain in Brick Lane and they take a picture on a street in front of a brick wall. It’s just a wall, brown, with traces of graffiti. Kaoru looks at the picture in the train while they go through the tunnel and Toshiya keeps his eyes shut, music coming out of his headphones. There was wind and Kaoru’s hair flew to the right and Toshiya smirked leaning into him a little. The picture blackens and he puts the phone down.
---
Paris Thursday night
Toshiya looking for the key on the chain. The street long, the way he looks as if he lives there, for real, has been living there for years, the casualness of it, the way he looks for the key, not rushing, not too concentrated, not too confused, but taking it out and going through the keys, one for Tokyo, one for Nagano, one for the car, one for the studio, a few Kaoru doesn’t know, stopping at one, the way he goes for the lock and the way the street is colored grey up and down, the sun shining on one end, a student, a person from a movie, living in Paris.
---
He’s not in disbelief over Paris, he knows he should be, but he’s not. Not really.
He writes on a piece of paper: sensory overload. Sometimes I feel completely jaded. Sometimes I feel in awe. Or want to.
---
Across the table Toshiya looks out into the street, then into the Ricard in his hand, the dew glistening around his fingers, the liquid yellow between water and ice. He can feel its anise taste on his tongue. Toshiya says, “I came to live something else. Try something else”. He turns the glass slowly in his hand, looks into it. “I thought about working in a copy shop, or a place that makes pots,” his eyes drift to the street and he smirks a little, the left corner of his mouth pulling briefly, he sniffs and Kaoru sees a dimple “something stupid and cliché like that.” And after a while more serious, “something simple”. He looks at him briefly then down again, “but I don’t know the language”. He raises his glass and drinks a little, looks into his eyes, “you?”
“Something similar,” and he leaves it at that, dismisses it with a flit of his palm, though it’s not true, not really, he doesn’t even know why. It could have been Brussels, or Rome, or Pretoria.
He remembers taking time getting used to Toshiya’s enquiries, when to engage into his deep and personal questions, when to stop thinking about the personal and accept his presence, there, in the middle of all his thoughts and words and roles and masks and everything, sorting them out and going through them with his long fingers. There are still things he doesn’t speak about, things Kyo doesn’t question, or Shinya doesn’t worry about, things Die maybe understands without a glance. Maybe. He remembers shutting doors, putting barriers and locking himself in. he remembers half succeeding. Then he remembers giving up to some parts, accepting. And Toshiya’s curious eyes, there, always.
"I wanna know how you work," he said one day, "I don’t understand you."
"There's not much to understand."
"See I get Kyo. I do, I actually do. He locks himself up but then he puts it out. I may not like it all the time, but he is like that and I am like that, but I know that, after all these years, I know that. But you..."
"You put part into chords and part I can never figure out."
"You have too much imagination."
"Perhaps."
---
He stumbles into Toshiya in the hallway, they bump and he can feel him exhaling, escaping a warm breath over his face, he reaches forward and his palm, the tips of his fingers push against Toshiya’s chest, firm, strong, feels the pectorals underneath, they zigzag and Toshiya snorts, giggles softly, then there’s a half circle, him to the right, Toshiya to the left, slipping into the bathroom, the golden creak of light illuminating the hallway enough for him to see the doorknob.
Toshiya is in the bathroom and the apartment is cold, he's turning the heater up, folding a cardigan into a pile that he stuffs into his luggage.
Zips up.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed and listens to the sound of water flowing in the sink.
---
"You know, your hair looks good like that."
"And Kaoru goes, what?"
"Your hair, you know ultra shiny emo black," he smirks but it dissolves into a smile, "It looks good actually."
Toshiya smiles, a big billboard blinking red behind him on Oxford Street.
"Thank you?"
But there's a bus driving past them, leaning over them slightly, there's the stench of exhaust and honking and Toshiya can't hear him.
---
The sheets feel warm and comforting and soft, he feels like drowning in them, in pillows and mattress and Toshiya turns towards him, closer, he can feel the heat to his right, the ceiling is yellow and he’s looking through the pictures in the phone
"Did you set the alarm?" Toshiya asks, his voice small, very small and he nods but Toshiya can’t see him because Toshiya's looking into the phone.
---
Toshiya's fingers are long. He’s holding his music player cocooned into his palm, the sounds meeting Kaoru's ears in distorted waves.
The way back to Paris is dark and rainy and quiet. And later in the cab they look outside at the passing buildings, all the way back to Rue de Paradis.
---
It’s quiet, Toshiya's breath and the beeping of photos scrolling in his hand.
Look at your hair he says slowly, almost quiet and Kaoru moves to rumple his pillow a little, his knee touches Toshiya's knee, leans over to his shoulder, towards the phone.
To his right he can hear Toshiya breathing slowly, the warmth of his shoulder. He turns a little towards him and up to sit or lean on his elbow. Toshiya looks down at the phone and the phone goes black into his hand. His hair flows down into a long streak obscuring his eyes.
---
"Do you remember?"
"Hmm?"
"When we both tried to woo that girl? In Osaka?"
"And Die ended up going with her?"
They both crack up in laughter at the same time
---
The ceiling is golden, with flaking paint, then a click and half of it goes dark.
Kaoru sighs, all the questions about tomorrow, the flight, everything swallowed by soft pillows and the dusty air of someone else's house in a foreign city that still molds around him like familiarity, lazy Sundays and comfort, the elbow of someone close touching his, the monotonous tick tock of a clock near to the bed and breathing...
"Can you hear that?" Silence, the passing of cars, the boiling of oil in the heater, no London trampling on stairs, quiet, just quiet, Toshiya moving a little
Kaoru sighs and Toshiya feels near.
"The silence?"
And when he turns towards him, Toshiya says "Yeah."
He smiles, looks down, then slowly straight at his lips and Kaoru thinks he knows what this is, feels it, almost can feel it, and Toshiya leans over a little, over his left shoulder, his cheek, nose brushing Kaoru's hair and Kaoru can feel his scent, cologne and rain. His lips almost touch Toshiya’s neck. It somehow feels like a hug.
"It was good. This week". His breath is warm against his shoulder and Kaoru feels the hair prickling on the back of his neck.
Toshiya's hair smells of London and Paris and shampoo and he plants his lips there, and Toshiya squeezes at his shoulder.
---
There was a time, long ago, at a party, girls and alcohol and spin the bottle between hysterical laughter and catcalls while Toshiya leaned over, or he did? Maybe? And Toshiya looked embarrassed and they kissed, barely, wiping their lips afterwards drinking whisky...
---
The cab plays a tune and it’s familiar, from a movie, he watches the scenes change on the way to the airport, this is not London, New York, Tokyo, its Paris, last traces of Paris and what he left behind and he realizes midway that it’s the music in his headphones and he keeps his thumb on repeat.
He feels like that man living in an airport in Mexico City, for no reason, what reason, no reason.
---
In Osaka years and years ago Toshiya looked at his hand, the way it got lost into his big palm, pulled at the fingers resting against his own. And when Toshiya fell asleep, a pack of black hair into his shoulder, Kaoru smoked another cigarette.
---
The door and Toshiya next to it, the way the luggage barely rolls down the carpet and how Toshiya keeps his hands in his pockets. The way he says, so and Toshiya says so, they smirk and he goes to the stairs. The way the luggage bumps down on every step and how Toshiya lifts the other end up and smiles. The way the street looks that morning and Toshiya's face in the cold, his arms full of goosebumps, his hair in all directions, his eyes and lips swollen, the way the upper one looks red and the way Toshiya's t-shirt smells of blue cotton conditioner.
The way he brushes his cheek against his in a dissolving hug and his lips pause briefly, in mid air, between Paris morning and uncertainty, the way they barely touch the corner of Kaoru's mouth.
The morning is cold and Toshiya pulls the collar of his shirt around his neck, it feels constricting and safe and motherly and so Toshiya and Kaoru looks at his eyes looking down, he could ask something, say something, can't find anything, instead he looks at Toshiya's downcast eyes, to buttons and buckles and feels the tinge of spit drying off in the wind on his face. Toshiya looks down then away, his hands stop and descend, bury themselves into his own pants and there is distance between them, wind and dust under their soles. His mouth pulls at the corner and it makes a dimple and Kaoru smirks in return while the taxi driver puts everything in the back. A crashing hood and an expectant gaze.
Allons-y
The way Toshiya looks after that, a crimpled t-shirt and jeans and slippers, becoming smaller and smaller in the back window of a Paris cab.
Rue de Paradis spills into Rue Bleue, then Rue La Fayette, all the way to the airport.
---
Somewhere in the sky over Sri Lanka, Kaoru has coffee. Dark. He takes his phone out and writes a message:
Where are you? What do you see?
---
Author: rheakurokawa
Pairing: Kaoru/Toshiya (Dir en Grey)
Rating: PG
Summary: The taxi kept on rolling forward with a sense of dread and he reminded himself of the things that were tiring, were frustrating, didn’t work, and then he reminded himself of nothing, just watched the dotted line in the middle of the road disappear beneath the hood of the car [...]
Disclaimer: The events and characters depicted in the following piece of work are completely fictitious. Even though similarities with the members of Dir en Grey, or other public personae may be found they are in no way implying that any of the events or character traits are true. I do not know the members of Dir en Grey, and am in no way affiliated to them, the story itself is completely untrue and is in no way meant to reflect the private lives, actual practices, or activities of any persons named. No harm, libel or disrespect is intended. No statements whatsoever and no commercial gain are made out of the work archived here; this is simply for entertainment purposes.
A/N:This took a very long, never-ending and painful time to reach its finish and I hope i did them justice in the end.
Paris. London
---
Paris Thursday
The book is thick, hardbound and glossy; he stares at it, the foreign title, author, the cover somewhat nice, but not really -- take another-- still doesn’t understand what it means, but the cover is nicer somewhat retro, red and green, he turns the book around -- 1965 -- and then scratches at the corners, a little turned up, hesitates between the old and the new, takes the old.
The cashier wears a loose red sweater, glasses and a piercing, her hair in a weird, hay-like pouf around her face. She smiles, says something that he doesn’t understand and he pushes the book forward. "Ah, Livre de Poche," then she smiles again, shows him the price on the cashier, says, "Cinq euro, s’il vous plait" which sounds like sanke yuro siru pure and Kaoru nods and pays.
Merushi.
He walks down Boulevard Haussmann and turns left because Montmartre is to the left and he can see it through the thin mist in the distance, white and far away, but then he turns on a street, then another, then another, at some point puts the guide back in his pocket and just keeps walking, the names adding up, he can’t read them and he knows they must sound wonderful, like in the movies, but he keeps walking, map in his pocket, maps don’t make sense much anyhow.
Rue Joubert, Rue de la Chausee d’Antin, Rue la Fayette with its galleries and the immense posters, the fashionable people going in and out, the door revolving, the Opera, with the tourist groups and flashing of cameras that make him dizzy. He takes his phone out and frames the opera, green roof and golden statue but takes no picture.
A boy runs into him, laughing and screaming after a girl and for a second he’s confused, squeezes his fingers around the phone in reflex and looks down at the doves hurrying in all directions.
Down Rue la Fayette, he turns left to the Sacre Coeur in the distance that he thinks he should visit because his guidebook says so and stops, halfway down another Rue - Tailbout, Victoire, Chateaudun-, something he forgets after rolling over his tongue a little, giving it a try; sees his reflection in a store window, past a café, somehow foreign, boxes and clothes and wine and croissants, smiling faces and small stickers on walls or lampposts, he moves slow, watching the attics and doves, doesn’t know exactly why he’s here, in Paris, it doesn’t mean much, feels exhausted already, looks at the cover of clouds, the black birds, the wires, the signs, the way it looks just like any other place he's been in, the same air, same gray cloudy day -he's been in Paris before-, the same sun disappearing back into the white sky as in any other place on Earth and when he looks down he sees Toshiya, between people walking, and steam leaving mouths and honking cars.
Toshiya, in a black jacket and a black hat like his own.
Not just a tall person, not just an Asian person. Toshiya.
Toshiya.
Of all people, Toshiya.
---
Tokyo, Monday, November 30
Monday, and he woke up in his apartment, on his couch, hugging himself.
Stretched and looked at his hands, the blurry sight of his tattoos, the color beneath the skin, the smudged drawings, then yawned and turned around, closed his eyes. In his mind he repeated - this is the first day - this was the first day of vacation and he didn’t have to go anywhere.
There, with his nose in the bend of his couch he could smell the leather and smoke, could hear the cars passing by and the clock ticking on the wall. There was no shrill sound, no buzz, no phone, just the sun behind the couch warming the tip of his elbow, the tip of his shoulder. As he shifted, the leather creaked and he welcomed the sound, his arms hugging his body again, palms pressing underneath his armpits. When he looked up the ceiling was swimming in circles and dots of white and he went back to sleep tugging the cover back over himself.
Browsing the Internet in his kitchen, the window slightly parted, the rustling of leaves and driving of cars, his phone was ringing and he ignored the way it buzzed on the table, advancing slowly on its own towards the edge. Tickets, reservations, pictures of places he might want to see.
The phone stopped.
A sip from his chai and keep scrolling, clicking; he put his face in his palm, read.
In the evening he packed, t-shirts, shirts, two pants, two jackets, boxers, socks, deodorant, toothpaste, aftershave, everything else, just the basics, the usual, nothing fancy, nothing complicated. Took his rings off and massaged his fingers, sat on the edge of the bed and took a deep breath. For a moment he felt like he can hear it all starting again, tour, no sleep, no quiet, no peace. A quick glance to the bedside table and the feeling was replaced. That plane ticket would take him somewhere else.
He brushed his teeth and the phone rang, he heard it faintly over the sound of water gurgling down the drain. When he turned off the light in the bathroom and then the bedroom, when he took his glasses off and got into his bed that he had barely occupied these last few months he could hear the silence of his apartment, the phone lighting up and buzzing somewhere on a chair, then silence, the hum of his refrigerator, the swishing of cars on the street below.
After that he fell asleep.
---
Toshiya looks up and Kaoru follows his gaze by reflex, to the writing above a church, his feet anchored in the middle of the sidewalk, heavy and bolted to the concrete, his heart suddenly faster.
Toshiya's looking at the writing, writing Kaoru's still not truly comfortable with, Toshiya stares and stares and Kaoru doesn't know what to do.
Behind him, the street is long, people rushing, cars rushing, doves rushing, he doesn’t remember which way he came or where he turned.
It’s been three weeks since he last saw Toshiya.
There’s this feeling, nagging at him, the first reaction, shock, surprise, anger almost, a step backwards and territory invaded, and there are echoes of things that could happen, could be shared, a here-there of paralysis and excitement, and then the faint recollection of Toshiya wiping his sweat backstage, a towel over his head, or the distinct feeling of laziness and drinking beer, anything, at a table somewhere, or playing videogames in his living room and it’s like those weeks didn’t even exist. A momentary ping pong of things he didn't want to bring to Paris, didn't think of finding, doesn't know what to do with now that he did.
A familiar dot on a page he wanted clean. Dread and comfort in one.
When he looks back to where Toshiya was there’s nobody and he can’t spot him anywhere, left, right, left, nowhere. He feels the phone in his pocket but it hangs heavy and somehow he can’t, won’t get it out to form the known number. The sidewalk is grey and he looks at the passing people, blonde and brunette, black, white and unfamiliar. He moves further down the street, left, right, forward, backward - only foreign faces.
It occurs to him that he thought it up, a hallucination induced by jet lag, something, he opens his mouth in a reflex to say something but there's nobody to say it to and he escapes a snort instead, and then, all of the sudden he feels completely alone, the thought of it almost unbearable.
He looks up, Beatae Mariae Virgini Lavretanae.
Left right again and he gets in.
---
Tokyo, Tuesday
The next morning in the cab - mails and missed calls one last time before shutting down his phone - his mother, a neighbor, management, a roadie, a reporter, some unknown numbers; none of his band members.
As the taxi drove closer and closer to the airport he let his eyes follow the passing lines and cars and city, the entire horizontal blick block of blur.
He had been back in Tokyo for barely three weeks and now he left again. For a brief moment he thought he missed it, the city, the quiet back alleys of his neighborhood, his guitar, home and the touring, the stinking bus and noodles from a can, the roar of the public.
The car drove on and he could see images rolling over the windowpane, rushing through his mind, touches, the sense of his feet freezing in his shoes, Die’s pat on his back after a show, Toshiya’s laughter, Shinya’s shrunken frame, Nora’s glasses on the margin of a table and her rushed, stumbly words in a language he barely could concentrate on deciphering, Kyo’s silent presence next to him, their nightly talks in a parking lot while smoking too many cigarettes, Toshiya’s muddy feet at Novarock, Mike Patton walking next to them and nodding as he passed them, the sense of pride and paranoia at Download, the gas stations and the scribbles on doors, watching Nine Inch Nails and rain starting and him not caring, not caring at all, the fireworks over a field at the end of a festival and the silent drive back at the end of it all.
The taxi kept on rolling forward with a sense of dread and he reminded himself of the things that were tiring, were frustrating, didn’t work, and then he reminded himself of nothing, just watched the dotted line in the middle of the road disappear beneath the hood of the car,
-
-
-
- and then, then there was a sense of release.
---
Toshiya sits on a bench in the cathedral, the cathedral is cold and solemn and empty, marble and gold and stone and high, high ceilings.
The stained glass, the figures, the back of Toshiya’s head, his hair up in a bun over his head- it's discordant and yet familiar, too familiar, it feels warm and annoying, intimate and intrusive, and he can’t decide to either pat his shoulder or just turn around and disappear between unknown and foreign streets.
He waits but Toshiya doesn’t move, seems mesmerized and time moves along sluggishly and his feet start to hurt, he looks at a stone carving, some western priest staring back at him with hollow eyes and he turns around slowly, gets out in the noise of the street and people walking.
There’s a couple taking pictures on the stairs and he pretends not to look at them, the way her skirt moves with the wind or he gives instructions with a smile on his face. His own camera is in his bag at the hotel, his phone quiet in his pocket and he lights a cigarette, moves around, pretends to read a poster. When Toshiya gets out he’s lighting his second cigarette, turns towards him. Toshiya seems not to see him at first, looks right then left then right then left really quickly, his eyes looking at Kaoru with no expression for a second, two, three, he blinks, blinks fast again and Kaoru takes a drag off his cigarette his heart clenching a little.
---
In the mirror it doesn't show much, he's brushing his hair and smirks, lines cutting through his skin, they remind him of his father and Oshikawa from the bake shop, the lines of age, smirks again, fake and forced, the lines and scars on his cheek crumpling. Still a handsome devil, and he snorts, brushes the rest of his hair, behind the ear, covering the white hair.
---
They sit drinking beer in a café nearby, on rattan chairs, Toshiya gurgling with laughter then clouding in something else, -- drinking Ricard, rolling cigars, Toshiya is leafing through a newspaper, the letters as foreign to the both of them but he still does and looks like an interesting and discordant picture from a movie. There was an initial reluctance, a surprised "What are you doing here?" then an "I didn't know that you," then a smirking "One can't escape the nest anywhere," comment, more to itself, and then, it was like they never really parted. It scares Kaoru then it makes him feel safe and when Toshiya laughs like that or moves bits of food around on his plate as he did on all European and American tours he has to look away and wish to be back in Japan not answering his door for a month.
---
When he says 'let me show you something,' Kaoru follows, there’s no fixed schedule, no program, he could go to a bar, or walk along the Seine or watch French television in his room on his own. Instead he’s walking next to Toshiya who doesn’t speak much, then does, all of the sudden in his familiar voice, going mmm, mmm, mmm and Kaoru goes mmm too. They pass people in front of a theatre, it's dark, there are women walking on stilettos and wearing perfume, on their own or with someone else and Toshiya speaks nothings from above, or comments on a damn fine pair of legs, and then how its not far away and Kaoru nods and says hmm because he doesn’t know what Toshiya wants to show him and the city is dark and humid.
He walks slower and Toshiya seemingly faster. In a memory Toshiya is putting his hands into the pockets of his pants and asking him what he thought of a bass line.
Toshiya stops, his hands in his pockets, swaying a little and says this is it.
---
Keiko mixes the ingredients in a bowl and Kaoru smokes, watches the tips of a tree moving from left to right outside the window while she spreads the cream over his hair. The leaves are green and the room smells of chemicals.
---
It is a building, it is "on ru do paraji," Toshiya adds quickly and says "on paradise street," laughs all of the sudden and Kaoru snickers.
“Now be quiet.”
He follows Toshiya on red carpeted wooden stairs to the fifth floor because the iron elevator doesn’t work and his knees hurt, and there are millions of swear words and curses flashing through his head, a muted cadence on the tip of his tongue that he tries to even out with the sudden excessive need for air. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks of age and bodies malfunctioning and he's concentrating on the sound of Toshiya turning the key two times.
The apartment belongs to the niece of an old lady and he swapped it with his chaotic Nagano flat for a month Toshiya informs him from the kitchen while Kaoru's eyes sweep over the wooden floor, the high windows, the television on the floor in the middle of the room. It smells of wood and old house, mold maybe. Toshiya keeps answering unvoiced questions through dish clatter and dragging of chairs. No, she has no idea about who he is, he’s just a Japanese guy to her, besides the Nagano flat hasn’t properly been used in years.
Toshiya’s voice comes from down the hallway, there’s something flowing in a glass, and Toshiya says, there’s really nothing incriminatory there, then laughs. The couch is slightly tattered and there are lamps standing in almost all corners, on the floor, on a table. He can hear the door of the refrigerator closing and Toshiya’s voice coming closer until he’s next to him. It’s pretty cool and Kaoru nods barely perceptive.
---
Kaoru had been to Nagano on a few occasions, once with his father when he was small, a few times to concert, and two times to that exact apartment. The first time Die and Toshiya dragged him there because they were drunk and wanted to get more drunk and Toshiya's apartment was the closest. He barely remembers falling in the front court and after that it's just a blank Die likes to reminisce about in the most stupid situations. The other time he was driving through, on a vacation and was tired, didn't want to go to a hotel and ended up sleeping next to Toshiya in a futon on the floor between comic books and socks hanging to dry, because Toshiya had rented the place to a few friends and happened to be there by accident too. 'Guest in my own house,' he joked and Kaoru remembered that like it happened yesterday for some reason, like he remembers the neon blue of the futon and an old Michael Jackson poster. He woke up with his forehead pressed against Toshiya's back and Toshiya helped him find his way out of Nagano later that morning.
His back hurt all the way to Tateyama.
The memory of lying in a quiet motel on the road and Toshiya calling that night, saying, very slowly 'I want these people out of my house.'
A smile creeps back at that memory every time.
---
Toshiya roams through the kitchen, says he’s making some ramen and Kaoru watches the news in a language that speaks nothing to him. He watches the images change, the bright colors of the presenters, a talk show on another channel, a music station. The clock on the wall points to barely seven, his head hurts and he feels strangely displaced, the last thing he sees are things from a video of a boy on a beach in a sandstorm. It’s surreal and the music is nice but he just can’t keep his eyes open.
---
The "kidnapping" is a blur consisting of odd memories and details and a lot of other people's flourishes. Most of it is smiling at the reflection of Toshiya between Kyo and Shinya in the backseat of the car back to Tokyo while Die drove, the bouncing of words and laughter and curiosity between the five of them.
The sense of pride.
---
The side of his face feels flat, numb and pressed and he moves a little, it scratches and he opens his eyes, yellow gold light and fuzzy, blurry images. He narrows his eyes into slits, lets the lashes filter and focuses a little better, the wooden floor close to him, a figure on the floor, he doesn’t remember where he put his glasses, his contacts are at the hotel. He can see the texture of the couch he’s stretched on, see the weaving and the holes and the frayed threads, feels them scratchy under his cheek, yawns. The figure turns a little and he hears Toshiya say, "So you’re up."
"What time is it?" His voice is glued together, dry as sand, he runs his tongue over his teeth, swallows and Toshiya says, "Three."
Another yawn and he sits up, looks to his left, his right for a familiar shadow and Toshiya stretches, their fingers touch for a second and he has his glasses.
"Thanks."
Later, after he goes to the bathroom and sniffs his curiosity from little glass bottles or from inside cabinets, after putting the toilet lid back down, flushing and walking down the tight hallway past the dark kitchen and frames and foreign posters behind glass, back into the empty room (how empty these western rooms are), just books from the floor to the ceiling, a couch and a TV and lamps and a tiny desk and Toshiya sitting on the floor on a pillow between papers drawing, painting.
He sits down and rolls a cigar and they don’t speak anything, there’s the sound of leaves burning and wet brushes going over paper and Toshiya’s sniffing breath from time to time or the claxon of a car on the street.
He’s seen Toshiya paint before in a room in Nagoya on a tour years ago and his long legs were shaved not glowing golden behind the light bulb of a Paris apartment. He was younger but still sat on the floor, in a t-shirt and underwear, headphones in his ear, just doodling and drawing and painting around, circles and lines, a chair or some fruit he sat on the floor in the hotel room. Later he asked Kaoru to stay still and painted him from the other bed in a clumsy watercolor with pink hair and high cheekbones.
Toshiya doodled on the bus between Dresden and Zurich on the tiny couch his legs in Shinya’s lap and doodled on a napkin in a café on a highway in Sweden while Kyo was eating tuna sandwiches and Shinya dozed off on the table next to them. He drew Shinya’s hair up and Kaoru drew his curls and they moved the ballpoint from one to the other through antlers and wings and Gundam arms until Die returned with Inoue and they had to leave.
Toshiya’s painting his shoes, his hair is in a bun and his eyes follow his brush, he taps his brush against a glass or stirs in water and Kaoru takes puff after puff after puff.
When he leaves because it’s four and something and Toshiya should sleep and he should really get back to the hotel, he sits up and sees himself in a watercolor, asleep and very stretched on an ochre couch he says, "Can I keep this," and smiles and Toshiya puts his hands in his pockets and says "Come on dude go to sleep."
And on the hallway while he goes for the stairs Toshiya whispers "I made you ramen, you know, but you fell asleep like an old fart," then laughs and Kaoru shows him the finger and snickers even in the cab on the way back to the hotel and for a moment he forgets that he was supposed to go on this trip on his own.
---
Paris Friday
"Did you go to the Louvre?"
They're on a bridge, the sun is low in the sky and they can barely hear each other through the wind and cars.
"No, not yet." His mouth opens in a sigh then he looks into the distance, left, right, looking after something.
"I will, I mean I want to but there’s a long ass queue and it’s all so touristy." Maybe he doesn't look at anything in particular. "You know Shinya would’ve wanted to go there, wanted the last times we were here too, but there’s always that queue."
"And for someone who stays for a month in Paris, lives there and can go any day, could practically go since 8 o’clock, it’s a very hard thing to do."
"You know for a leader, you’re very good with words but as a bassist on vacation I must say that scolding and teasing doesn’t work here. I’ll visit it but when I get in the mood."
"It has art, and Mona Lisa, and Rodin, and god knows what else."
"See you have no idea what it has in it."
"The point is, it has art and you’re doodling papers around that apartment and you should see some masters that’s all I’m saying."
"Well an artist doesn’t need a master."
"That’s crap and you know it."
"Shut up leader-sama. I’ll see it."
"Wanna go together?"
"I’m not staying at any queue at this hour and stop educating me."
"Ok."
"Ok."
"Ok."
"Ok."
"But you have to promise me that you'll see it."
"Fiiiiiine I’ll see it before I leave."
"And show me a picture when."
"That’s so cliché Japanese."
"Picture."
"Fine, I’ll print it and put it in a frame in the studio. Stupid Toshiya in front of the Louvre doing his homework. I’ll even attach the ticket. Now shut up, get off that powertrippin' and let’s eat."
"Ok."
"Ok."
While Toshiya hurries to a place he knows and offers good food for a change Kaoru snickers at the way he always has to have the last word and how that escalated through the years, from a mild displeased grunt, to a voiced but, then anything, anything at all just to keep up with him and he finds himself smirking more and more with every step.
---
Toshiya sits on the floor, his long legs spread in a narrow V on the shiny wooden floor, his head resting back on the rim of the couch, next to Kaoru’s knee. They smoke Kaoru’s cigars and pass the whisky bottle from one to the other. Occasionally the air explodes with Toshiya’s laughter and Kaoru snickers, watching his Adam apple bob and the sheen of perspiration on his forehead, along his hairline.
The lamps are lit on the floor, golden and calm, reflecting white halos into the shiny wood, there’s a crushed beer can and a sheet of paper and the TV entertains itself with images and words in French. Sometimes they watch the moving pictures; sometimes Kaoru watches the corner of the room moving slowly, slowly, from left to right to up and down. It’s quiet, just random French humming and Kaoru feels Toshiya’s temple lean warm against his knee. The cigar leaves hollow balls of scented smoke into his mouth and he breathes them in slowly, carefully; he tries to make a ring but his eyes cross and he gives up, pinching his nose, coughing a little, then flinches with the sudden noise.
"Sorry," Toshiya’s silent apology then just the running and switching of images and colors as Toshiya jumps from channel to channel, music, sport, news, news, a movie, porn, music; porn.
And time seems to dilate, Toshiya says nothing and Kaoru smokes and on the screen someone moans and moans and moans and Kaoru can feel himself growing hard, slowly, in a weird haze, the TV multiplying slowly, his eyes dropping, and he leans down, past Toshiya’s face, puts the bottle on the floor. To his left he can hear Toshiya breathing slowly, warm breath brushing his face, his neck, his eyes are lazy and he looks at the TV.
Kaoru gets up.
The city is cold and he thinks he can see the waves of warmth escaping into the night along with his own breath. He welcomes the cold, the shivers, grips on the rail. He can see Toshiya reflected in the glass, his head resting back on the couch, his hand brushing slowly over the front of his jeans and Kaoru looks back at the street, stays like that until he can’t stand the cold anymore. In the reflection Toshiya doesn’t seem to move.
When he reenters Toshiya turns to him lazily, a looped grin and his hand gesturing between his legs.
"I’m so drunk I can’t even jerk off."
And Kaoru leans down after the remote then turns off the TV.
The way towards the bedroom proves long and full of stumbles, Toshiya heavy, himself not very steady, bumping into walls.
"Careful, careful, don’t break anything."
The bedroom is dark and he can’t find the switch, they just stumble and fall into bed. For a second he just wants to stay there, remain there, die there into the cold cotton, into cotton and conditioner and sleep and sleep and sleep. But he’s half over Toshiya, feels his breath warm, almost wet along his neck, feels his long arms and big hands resting over his back, his ribs against his ribs, his knee against his knee. Toshiya moves, Kaoru’s lips fall on his shoulder and Toshiya breathes in.
"It’s spinning," Toshiya says and Kaoru says "yeah," raises himself, his lips taste salty and Toshiya’s hand falls on the bed, and he turns onto his stomach. "Don’t leave" (me, Paris, what?)
And Kaoru doesn’t, opens the window and sits on a chair at the balcony.
"I’m leaving for London tomorrow."
From the balcony at 5 am he can hear the trains in the distance; it reminds him of Hyogo for a reason. He smokes and Toshiya sleeps inside. Him and the whole street, the whole city,
"Do you want to come with me?" But Toshiya sleeps and Kaoru looks back at the street
He’s sobering up slowly, maybe he wasn’t even that drunk, he took small sips, lickings of a bottle and Toshiya took gulps. He doesn’t like whisky but it did feel better with the cigars. He wants to smoke, there in the balcony but it’s cold and he can see himself smoking his own breath in the icy air outside. Toshiya moves and curls a little; puts one arm around himself and Kaoru shuts the high windows, high and separated in glassy squares. They close with a heavy sound.
There’s a duvet under Toshiya and one folded on a chair next to the bed. He barely sees it, lets his hand guide him to the hairy surface and he unfolds it over Toshiya. In his sleep Toshiya moves a little, a dark tuft under a big blanket and Kaoru stays on the edge of the bed. It’s too late, he has to pack, he didn’t unpack much, but he has things to gather; he lied, he said, I’m leaving for London tomorrow, but he lied and maybe Toshiya didn’t believe him on any of the other times he said it. Suddenly London seems far, far away, too far, this constricting dread in his chest and he lies down. He can’t sleep, doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to wake up here, in some French woman’s house, in bed with...
Toshiya breathes in, breathes out, the ceiling illuminates with lines of car lights sometimes going up, sometimes going down Rue de Paradis.
His breath is a lullaby and later, on the street, still dark, just taxis and dew covered streets, the silent interiors of shops, umbrellas, books, the sweeping in front of cafes, the beeping sound of a van going backwards and empty metallic boxes being stacked in front of a bakery, the sun rising behind him, the sky a dark blue, then lighter, lighter, him getting lost, the face of a woman, her eyes pacing, her mouth behind a scarf, he gathers his fingers in fists into his pockets, doesn’t know where he is and doves gurgle on the sidewalk.
He takes a cab from somewhere on a street, and by the time he’s back in bed the sun is beating from a white sky into his room. He falls asleep and dreams of hands.
---
Paris Saturday
When he opens his eyes the room is blinding and there’s the shrill sound of a telephone. He lets it ring and it stops.
That night he’s in Paris, he buys a woman some drinks, a blond girl with a crooked smile, he can’t talk to her, lets her talk, she writes him 50 euros on a piece of paper, shows him for what and he smiles, takes her to the hotel. She loves his tattoos, he tries not to think through lips and luscious skin and later, much later answers his phone.
There’s a breath and Toshiya asking "Where are you, tell me what you see," he looks outside, lies, "In London, I see the river," and Toshiya says "Cool, I’m in Paris, I somewhat see the ceiling," laughs short and Kaoru wishes he could take a drag from his cigarettes, looks at the no smoking sign, says "Go to sleep," and Toshiya says, "Kaoru, I’m alone."
"No, you’re just drunk."
---
Paris - London Sunday
The next day. Gare du Nord International - St Pancras International. The station is big, crowded; he waits for a train while Toshiya sleeps in the bed of an old French woman. He takes a nap under the ocean, wakes up to the muddy color of the North Sea, the rest just a succession of images he barely remembers. Houses, grass, sky, rushing poles, the same everywhere. the station, the high arched glass vaults he stops and stares, platform 5, the Christmas tree, the snowflake stickers on the glass rails, he almost gets lost but then not, he follows people, finds the taxi, the hostel, the bed.
---
London Monday
"Where are you? What do you see?"
"I’m on the river bank; I’m looking at a bridge."
And that’s no lie.
"How is it?"
And despite the cold, despite that maybe he should be annoyed he tells him.
"Big, massive, out of stone, red, with big arches. I’m sitting on a bench."
"Is there someone with you?"
"No. Just me and my cigarette."
"What are you having?"
"Marlboro."
"Marlboro is good."
"Toshiya, did you call about my cigarettes?"
And Toshiya says nothing, then, "no. No."
---
In Amsterdam he remembers the way the light reflected on the canals in the morning and the taste of bread and the slight cold and the way everything was a blur of shadows and colors because he forgot his glasses in his jacket that he gave to Shinya and how he left the bus with no contacts on. Next to him he remembers Kyo looking on, just the clear focus of a denim shoulder and some wispy yellow locks while Toshiya mumbled something with Die further down the balustrade. How they were two bright ovals moving above and further to his right. Nora talking on the phone softly with someone and the bread he kept picking on.
In Amsterdam his head hurt until the next day.
Amsterdam. This is not Amsterdam, this is Paris, this is somewhere else entirely and he doesn't know why the memories keep on bothering him, coming back. In Amsterdam he...
---
London Tuesday
Goodge street is wet, the sun shining on the asphalt and he squints while moving forward.
Later he waits next to a pillar, there’s a number and a voice calling Paris, there are people and for five minutes he thinks he came for nothing, then he sees Toshiya’s hair, his black scarf, the familiar sound of a chain clicking and Toshiya smiles says, "Hi."
"What about the old lady’s apartment?"
"It’s gonna be there when I go back."
"When do you go back," and he almost feels Toshiya responding to the maliciousness in his question. "I mean, when do you fly back? Maybe we have the same flight?" But it’s somewhat a lie and Toshiya can see right through it most probably
He says, "In a few days," looks away.
The way to the hotel is quiet, Toshiya looking at the city on his left, Kaoru on his right. The car drives fast and Toshiya leans a little into him at a curve, "I’m dizzy, sorry."
"Too much to drink?"
"Not really."
But then the rest, he doesn’t remember the rest, Toshiya talking to the receptionist in broken English, Tate and Toshiya marveling, sitting in front of Pollock, a crack in the floor, looking at magazines, buying pins, looking after girls in short skirts, Toshiya’s happy face as he’s eating a sandwich, Toshiya walking before him, Toshiya in Hyde park feeding the geese, Toshiya taking pictures, Toshiya being tall, Toshiya scrunching his nose in front of a bar, "Man do you feel the smell?"
Toshiya sitting in a chair in a bar, Toshiya moving his head in rhythm with the music, Toshiya sleeping next to him in the same bed, because there are no other rooms, while he looks at the skin of his arm or the ceiling, one night, two nights, with people running down the stairs at 3am, how Toshiya’s knees are cold, then warm and he remembers the first years, how he took the whole duvet. Still does.
---
Another memory -
Toshiya walks in front of him, maybe one step, maybe two in front. Doesn’t do it on purpose, just walks a normal pace, his legs taking longer strides than Kaoru and Kaoru stares at his back, the dark spots of rain printed into his hoodie, moving along with the fabric.
---
London Wednesday
Die calls.
“Where are you?”
“Paris. I mean London. I mean, I’m in London now, was in Paris, will go back to Paris.”
“Wow. I thought you got sick of the tour.”
“I was.”
“Well, Toshiya is in Paris too”. And Kaoru says, “Oh,” sounds as if he doesn’t know. “Oh,” and “You talk to him?”
“No, he doesn’t answer his phone. But he’s in Paris, he told me so. Did some crazy exchange thing.”
Toshiya is crouched on the margin of the lake in Hyde Park, holding empty palms stretched to expecting ducks and swans. He smiles to himself and Kaoru kind of smiles in return, on his own, feet away.
“Right.”
“Maybe you two meet or som.. Are you smirking?”
“No...”
“You are. Anyway, I doubt you will meet since he’s not answering his phone and Paris is so big.“
“Right,” Kaoru lights a cigarette, the phone moves away from his ear to cup the flame until it burns the leaves.
He catches only bits, pieces, things about romantic and Paris, and then silence, his ears fill for a moment with pressure and he releases the smoke.
“Are you even listening?”
“Paris. Romantic. Bullshit.”
“Right. Well, whatever, I won’t waste my hard earned” and he emphasizes “hard earned” as if it’s something Kaoru should feel guilty about, instead he moves a pebble around with his foot”. “My hard earned money on long-distance calls to Paris or where the fuck ever and lecture you about your whatever life.”
“Right.”
Toshiya moves his hand in the water; the swans duck their heads toward it
“Stop spacing out, what the hell are you doing anyway? No don’t tell me. Here’s why I called."
“Mmmm.”
“We have to talk when you come back. When do you come back?”
“In a few days, next week probably.”
It’s always been easier to talk to Die.
"Look, I have a new idea. I’m gonna play it ok?"
"I thought you were on a vacation too."
"I am. Wait a sec. I’m gonna put my phone on the table. Wait a sec. Ok..."
And then Kaoru listens to Die play on the phone while he’s watching Toshiya feeding the birds from a bagel
---
London Thursday
On the third night they pack, on the fourth day Toshiya buys a chain in Brick Lane and they take a picture on a street in front of a brick wall. It’s just a wall, brown, with traces of graffiti. Kaoru looks at the picture in the train while they go through the tunnel and Toshiya keeps his eyes shut, music coming out of his headphones. There was wind and Kaoru’s hair flew to the right and Toshiya smirked leaning into him a little. The picture blackens and he puts the phone down.
---
Paris Thursday night
Toshiya looking for the key on the chain. The street long, the way he looks as if he lives there, for real, has been living there for years, the casualness of it, the way he looks for the key, not rushing, not too concentrated, not too confused, but taking it out and going through the keys, one for Tokyo, one for Nagano, one for the car, one for the studio, a few Kaoru doesn’t know, stopping at one, the way he goes for the lock and the way the street is colored grey up and down, the sun shining on one end, a student, a person from a movie, living in Paris.
---
He’s not in disbelief over Paris, he knows he should be, but he’s not. Not really.
He writes on a piece of paper: sensory overload. Sometimes I feel completely jaded. Sometimes I feel in awe. Or want to.
---
Across the table Toshiya looks out into the street, then into the Ricard in his hand, the dew glistening around his fingers, the liquid yellow between water and ice. He can feel its anise taste on his tongue. Toshiya says, “I came to live something else. Try something else”. He turns the glass slowly in his hand, looks into it. “I thought about working in a copy shop, or a place that makes pots,” his eyes drift to the street and he smirks a little, the left corner of his mouth pulling briefly, he sniffs and Kaoru sees a dimple “something stupid and cliché like that.” And after a while more serious, “something simple”. He looks at him briefly then down again, “but I don’t know the language”. He raises his glass and drinks a little, looks into his eyes, “you?”
“Something similar,” and he leaves it at that, dismisses it with a flit of his palm, though it’s not true, not really, he doesn’t even know why. It could have been Brussels, or Rome, or Pretoria.
He remembers taking time getting used to Toshiya’s enquiries, when to engage into his deep and personal questions, when to stop thinking about the personal and accept his presence, there, in the middle of all his thoughts and words and roles and masks and everything, sorting them out and going through them with his long fingers. There are still things he doesn’t speak about, things Kyo doesn’t question, or Shinya doesn’t worry about, things Die maybe understands without a glance. Maybe. He remembers shutting doors, putting barriers and locking himself in. he remembers half succeeding. Then he remembers giving up to some parts, accepting. And Toshiya’s curious eyes, there, always.
"I wanna know how you work," he said one day, "I don’t understand you."
"There's not much to understand."
"See I get Kyo. I do, I actually do. He locks himself up but then he puts it out. I may not like it all the time, but he is like that and I am like that, but I know that, after all these years, I know that. But you..."
"You put part into chords and part I can never figure out."
"You have too much imagination."
"Perhaps."
---
He stumbles into Toshiya in the hallway, they bump and he can feel him exhaling, escaping a warm breath over his face, he reaches forward and his palm, the tips of his fingers push against Toshiya’s chest, firm, strong, feels the pectorals underneath, they zigzag and Toshiya snorts, giggles softly, then there’s a half circle, him to the right, Toshiya to the left, slipping into the bathroom, the golden creak of light illuminating the hallway enough for him to see the doorknob.
Toshiya is in the bathroom and the apartment is cold, he's turning the heater up, folding a cardigan into a pile that he stuffs into his luggage.
Zips up.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed and listens to the sound of water flowing in the sink.
---
"You know, your hair looks good like that."
"And Kaoru goes, what?"
"Your hair, you know ultra shiny emo black," he smirks but it dissolves into a smile, "It looks good actually."
Toshiya smiles, a big billboard blinking red behind him on Oxford Street.
"Thank you?"
But there's a bus driving past them, leaning over them slightly, there's the stench of exhaust and honking and Toshiya can't hear him.
---
The sheets feel warm and comforting and soft, he feels like drowning in them, in pillows and mattress and Toshiya turns towards him, closer, he can feel the heat to his right, the ceiling is yellow and he’s looking through the pictures in the phone
"Did you set the alarm?" Toshiya asks, his voice small, very small and he nods but Toshiya can’t see him because Toshiya's looking into the phone.
---
Toshiya's fingers are long. He’s holding his music player cocooned into his palm, the sounds meeting Kaoru's ears in distorted waves.
The way back to Paris is dark and rainy and quiet. And later in the cab they look outside at the passing buildings, all the way back to Rue de Paradis.
---
It’s quiet, Toshiya's breath and the beeping of photos scrolling in his hand.
Look at your hair he says slowly, almost quiet and Kaoru moves to rumple his pillow a little, his knee touches Toshiya's knee, leans over to his shoulder, towards the phone.
To his right he can hear Toshiya breathing slowly, the warmth of his shoulder. He turns a little towards him and up to sit or lean on his elbow. Toshiya looks down at the phone and the phone goes black into his hand. His hair flows down into a long streak obscuring his eyes.
---
"Do you remember?"
"Hmm?"
"When we both tried to woo that girl? In Osaka?"
"And Die ended up going with her?"
They both crack up in laughter at the same time
---
The ceiling is golden, with flaking paint, then a click and half of it goes dark.
Kaoru sighs, all the questions about tomorrow, the flight, everything swallowed by soft pillows and the dusty air of someone else's house in a foreign city that still molds around him like familiarity, lazy Sundays and comfort, the elbow of someone close touching his, the monotonous tick tock of a clock near to the bed and breathing...
"Can you hear that?" Silence, the passing of cars, the boiling of oil in the heater, no London trampling on stairs, quiet, just quiet, Toshiya moving a little
Kaoru sighs and Toshiya feels near.
"The silence?"
And when he turns towards him, Toshiya says "Yeah."
He smiles, looks down, then slowly straight at his lips and Kaoru thinks he knows what this is, feels it, almost can feel it, and Toshiya leans over a little, over his left shoulder, his cheek, nose brushing Kaoru's hair and Kaoru can feel his scent, cologne and rain. His lips almost touch Toshiya’s neck. It somehow feels like a hug.
"It was good. This week". His breath is warm against his shoulder and Kaoru feels the hair prickling on the back of his neck.
Toshiya's hair smells of London and Paris and shampoo and he plants his lips there, and Toshiya squeezes at his shoulder.
---
There was a time, long ago, at a party, girls and alcohol and spin the bottle between hysterical laughter and catcalls while Toshiya leaned over, or he did? Maybe? And Toshiya looked embarrassed and they kissed, barely, wiping their lips afterwards drinking whisky...
---
The cab plays a tune and it’s familiar, from a movie, he watches the scenes change on the way to the airport, this is not London, New York, Tokyo, its Paris, last traces of Paris and what he left behind and he realizes midway that it’s the music in his headphones and he keeps his thumb on repeat.
He feels like that man living in an airport in Mexico City, for no reason, what reason, no reason.
---
In Osaka years and years ago Toshiya looked at his hand, the way it got lost into his big palm, pulled at the fingers resting against his own. And when Toshiya fell asleep, a pack of black hair into his shoulder, Kaoru smoked another cigarette.
---
The door and Toshiya next to it, the way the luggage barely rolls down the carpet and how Toshiya keeps his hands in his pockets. The way he says, so and Toshiya says so, they smirk and he goes to the stairs. The way the luggage bumps down on every step and how Toshiya lifts the other end up and smiles. The way the street looks that morning and Toshiya's face in the cold, his arms full of goosebumps, his hair in all directions, his eyes and lips swollen, the way the upper one looks red and the way Toshiya's t-shirt smells of blue cotton conditioner.
The way he brushes his cheek against his in a dissolving hug and his lips pause briefly, in mid air, between Paris morning and uncertainty, the way they barely touch the corner of Kaoru's mouth.
The morning is cold and Toshiya pulls the collar of his shirt around his neck, it feels constricting and safe and motherly and so Toshiya and Kaoru looks at his eyes looking down, he could ask something, say something, can't find anything, instead he looks at Toshiya's downcast eyes, to buttons and buckles and feels the tinge of spit drying off in the wind on his face. Toshiya looks down then away, his hands stop and descend, bury themselves into his own pants and there is distance between them, wind and dust under their soles. His mouth pulls at the corner and it makes a dimple and Kaoru smirks in return while the taxi driver puts everything in the back. A crashing hood and an expectant gaze.
Allons-y
The way Toshiya looks after that, a crimpled t-shirt and jeans and slippers, becoming smaller and smaller in the back window of a Paris cab.
Rue de Paradis spills into Rue Bleue, then Rue La Fayette, all the way to the airport.
---
Somewhere in the sky over Sri Lanka, Kaoru has coffee. Dark. He takes his phone out and writes a message:
Where are you? What do you see?
---