this game of disguise
Title: Marionette
Pairing: KameNo
Genre: Angst, AU
WordCount: 6.3K
Rating: PG
A/N: This story was initially planned for DOA and was prompted by a lyric from Tackey & Tsubasa's song, Kamen: "Let's be birds of the summer flame, wearing golden, golden masks." Again, if you spot any errors, please do let me know. ♥
Summary: Taguchi writes plays and creates characters. Kame lives their lives.
A small puff of the round perfume bottle and the stench of liquor that perpetually pervades the room is momentarily masked by flowers that bloom vividly in his mind.
Roses, lavenders, chrysanthemums. Begonias.
Taguchi crinkles his nose and watches his mother apply colour to her face. It is only in these moments that her distorted attention flares into focus, her numb eyes bordered with plum circles, staring into the mirror of the heavy vanity.
Those circles are the first to be erased. No, not erased. Hidden. Plumes of sweet scented powder as white as the icing sugar Taguchi sees sprinkled on top of the cakes through the bakery's window shroud his mother's figure and soften the edges of her gaunt cheeks. She looks blurry, ghost-like.
Transitionary.
A streak of red across the blank canvas of his mother's face and Taguchi watches the dull, peeling pink of her lips disappear. Soon, when she has pinned and locked the frayed strands of her hair into something that resembles an elite of the upperclass, she'll call Taguchi close and he'll find a scarlet imprint of a kiss on his forehead.
"How do I look, darling?"
Darling, not darl'.
Her speech painted along with her lips.
She sits straight, small hands that used to wave in the air and at times strike against his cheek now restrained, folded primly in her lap. Unrecognisable.
"Beautiful."
He can still smell the alcohol on her breath.
The building is decrepit. The wooden beams splintering, the walls unpainted. A blank canvas. With the fortune handed to him after his late father's death - an unfortunate man who fell victim to his mother's facade - Taguchi buys the building.
He plans to fulfill a childhood dream and open a theatre, a declaration which promptly results in a hubbub around town. There are rumours and doubts concerning his mental faculties because who would want to take on such a gamble? But Taguchi knows.
Soon the theatre is painted red, the insides filled with white furniture trimmed with gold. A stage is built, thick and sturdy with the best wood Taguchi can find; the price is dismissed because his father's misfortune fortunately did not extend into his finances. Everything is renovated. Everything made anew. It takes months but the dream bleeds into reality.
At last, the curtains rise to reveal The Phoenix, big and bright amidst the row of drab buildings, rising from the crumbling wood before the wood could burn to ash.
It's a fitting name, he thinks, for many characters will find their birth and demise on this stage. Not a real demise but that's beside the point. Death is not the only gateway for a new life because Taguchi knows.
Taguchi knows what a little makeover can do.
He becomes the master of the stage without ever stepping foot on its wooden planks. The creative workings of his mind honed at an early age, for his mother could never afford toys and Taguchi as a child had always amused himself with stories and fictional friends that became his world, Taguchi is both the scriptwriter and artist. He never bathes in the spotlight but, akin to a puppeteer, the characters are entirely his.
He hires stage hands and tacks on posters along the streets and when the day of the auditions arrives, Taguchi is the only one seated in the audience. He settles back into the plush white seat and runs a hand along the golden trimming of the armrest, his eyes seeking and attentive as people step on and off the stage.
He finds seven people fit for his stage that night: four actors and three actresses. All raw and ambitious with talent peeking through their vanity. When Taguchi thinks back to it now, he can only recall one audition, one memorable actor that dimmed out the rest.
The actor had stepped onto the stairs with thin, wiry legs clothed in rags, but the second his scuffed black shoes had touched the stage, the show was all his. He was scraggily and thin but his shoulders, as bony as they were, stood straight and strong, braced against the pressures of the stage lights.
Through the shadows, their eyes locked, and Taguchi watched the man tear out a piece of himself and deliver it to him through the carefully memorised lines. He stumbled over a word, once, twice, but the stumble was dismissed with the flutter of an eye and a firm press of thin lips. Taguchi's heart raced as he watched his character come to life.
Before him stood Odagiri Ryu, more real than Taguchi had written him.
When he had stepped off the stage and Taguchi told the young actor that he would lend him his theatre and help polish him into a star, the man had nodded with a smirk so Ryu like it startled Taguchi.
"Ah, sorry!" the man said, shaking off the cloak of his role with a diffident smile and offering a hand to shake. This would be the first clue to what Taguchi would later realise as his - their - trap.
At that moment in time, however, Taguchi was too absorbed in his first true look at Kamenashi Kazuya.
To Taguchi, stories have always had a dual purpose: to entertain and to educate.
He keeps this in mind when he writes for the stage, infusing his scripts with golden morals and cheer. Never give up. Try your best. Love conquers all. They've all been done before but to Taguchi, they're always worth retelling. Hope is always worth retelling. It's what kept him going when he sat shivering in the cold as carriages driving past drenched him with sludge, just hoping and waiting that his mother would return soon and pay the landlady so he could go back inside.
Yuuki is a symbol of that hope and one of Taguchi's most beloved characters. He powders Kazuya's face until it looks bloodless, drained of all colour other than the dull purple and blue Taguchi smudges under his eyes. He watches Kazuya stare at his reflection in the mirror, a hand raised in awe where it hovers by the side of his face.
"Kazuya? Do you think it's too much?"
"Kazuya?"
Taguchi pauses at the set of his bewildered eyebrows.
"Yuuki?" he tries and is relieved when Kazuya smiles blindingly, a ray of sunlight across a face that could be lying in a grave.
The play runs for two weeks and each night, the audience bids Kazuya farewell with tear stains and a dull hope that is just shy of heartbreak. It goes without saying that the play is a success and could run for an entire month earning full house seats, but there's something wrong.
Yuuki is no longer a character.
Taguchi watches Kazuya grow thinner and thinner, the knobs of his spine visible through his shirt. He walks slowly, blindly, tripping over objects so clearly in his path until there are bruises lining the parts of his body Taguchi can see, and no doubt more along the parts he can't.
The role and the actor merge into one, until there are no boundaries and Yuuki is Kazuya and Kazuya is Yuuki - and Taguchi realises with a sickening feeling that as Yuuki wastes away, so does Kazuya.
On the last night of the play, Taguchi takes Kazuya backstage to where the make up vanity sits in a corner. He seats Kazuya on a stool, lifting his chin with his hand, and runs a damp towel across his face. He rubs over the closed eyelids, the hollow cheeks and broken nose until the towel is the colour of a murky sky and Kazuya...
Kazuya's skin is still too pale.
Taguchi rubs harder until his arm aches and Kazuya's cheeks are finally raw and pink.
Alive.
"Kazuya," Taguchi whispers, and the eyelids lift, slow and sleepy, and indeed, it's Kazuya who smiles up at him.
Stories teach and from Yuuki, Taguchi learns two things:
He's in love.
The second, he should have never learned - to manipulate, to control, or to know at all.
For his next play, he chooses something lighthearted and happy, something to spare the hearts of the audience. It isn't a lie, not entirely.
Kazuya accepts the role with delight and Taguchi wraps him in a barber's bib. Chunks of brown locks fall to the floor and the ones that remain are soon dyed black. When the transformation is complete, he admires his work, the haphazard way the black locks curl around Kazuya's small face. His cheeks are still gaunt, his arms still stick thin, but knowing Kazuya's dedication to his role, he hopes that won't last long.
Taguchi brushes the trimmings off Kazuya's shoulders and beams when Kazuya announces, "I'm starving!"
Any remainders of Yuuki that left their mark wash away under Kousaku's exuberance. Kazuya's shoulders fill along with his cheeks, muscles growing and eyes shining. There's a wide, permanent smile drawn across his face, the simplicity of which warms Taguchi's heart. If Yuuki was a slow descent to death, Kousaku is an abrupt revival to life.
"Well done!" Taguchi says once the curtains have dropped. "I've been hearing the best sorts of complaints. It seems that I made an error and built the walls of The Phoenix too thin. They say the audience's mirth was heard from down the street!"
Kazuya turns to flash him a cheeky grin. "How about you reward me with dinner? I've been craving some pasta, but I'm not picky."
It's a line from the script.
Taguchi, like the desperate, lovestruck fool he is, takes it.
Things begin to go awry when real complaints arrive at the theatre, complaints of one of his young actors causing a ruckus at the local church, and Taguchi runs a frustrated hand through his hair, wondering at himself for not expecting it when he should have. He was the one to have weaved the story in the first place; there was no event, no plot twist or climax unknown to him.
He was well aware of the happy ending he had written for the boxer, too.
He shuts his eyes, blocking out the image and sounds of churchbells.
This time, when Taguchi returns from the shops and places a bottle of brown dye on the vanity, he silently admits that Kousaku's departure is necessary to spare only his own heart.
During the time the theatre doesn't operate, for holidays and general uptake, Taguchi tries to familiarise himself with Kazuya. It's only in these brief timeframes that Kazuya is truly himself.
He knows that Kazuya has three siblings, all brothers, and comes from a family of farmers. He knows that Kazuya set off from the countryside on his own with aspirations of becoming a star. He has high hopes and dreams and Taguchi can see Kazuya living each one with every word he says.
There is something about the soft, playful way Kazuya speaks that makes Taguchi want to listen, something about the fluid way he moves, about the unfathomable expressions that skitter across his face, that make Taguchi want to watch.
Not all his wants wants are pure, Taguchi realises as he clasps Kazuya's hand longer than would be deemed appropriate for a handshake. Taguchi knows that Kazuya's hands, as delicately as they move in the air when acting a scene, are rough due to a childhood of shovelling and working on the fields. Unthinkingly, Taguchi rubs his thumb along the groove of a knuckle.
When Kazuya startles, jerking away, Taguchi lets him go and hides the slice he feels along the innards of his chest with a strained smile.
"Thank you for your helping hand, Kazuya."
He gets a brief a scoff before Kazuya's back turns and he exits The Phoenix with a small wave over his shoulder.
Kazuya never laughs at his jokes but even so, Taguchi hopes he'll glance back.
He never does - because hopes come from stories that are only fulfilled on stage, and as of now, Kazuya is Kazuya. They aren't in a play and there is no mask to bury under.
Taguchi can fix that.
Kazuya's hair grows long, curling around his neck and past his shoulders. His face narrows, cheekbones reappearing, and Yuya is born. Sweet and indulging Yuya - other than the gender, Taguchi has always imagined himself falling for such a person.
Taguchi's steps quicken on the cobbled streets as he makes his way to The Phoenix, the sky raining down on him until he steps inside the theatre, drenched and dripping all over the floor. He's taken aback when a towel is thrown over his head, worried hands rubbing him dry.
"You should have taken a carriage or waited until the rain stopped pouring," Kazuya admonishes. "What if you fall sick?"
The carriages had all been occupied, stampeding up and down the streets as women scrambled on to save their gowns. Waiting was out of the question. Every night as his head hit his pillow, Taguchi fell asleep eager for the morning to come so he could see Kazuya again. He would avoid any delay at all cost.
"I'm sorry. It was a pour choice," Taguchi says and stills when Kazuya laughs. Kazuya never laughs at his jokes but Yuya... Yuya is looking at him with a soft, worried smile and Taguchi's heart warms even as there are warning sirens going off in the periphery of his mind.
Despite all the masks Kazuya has seamlessly adopted, he's always been Kazuya to Taguchi. His name is an anchor, a dam preventing the two pools of identites from disappearing into one another. As the stage master, he of all people should know that there's a fine line between a fake reality and delusion, between playing along and believing.
He should know, he should know...
Yuya's lips are warm and pliant under his own and Taguchi feels him shiver against his rain chilled skin.
He asks Yuya to move in with him because he has a spare room and no one thinks the worst of it. Yuya doesn't have many belongings; everything is carried over in a rucksack and Taguchi does his best so that all his belongings, as sparse as they are, are scattered all over his modest home until each room and crook holds a piece of Yuya.
The following weeks, Taguchi is sure he will remember for the rest of his life. Not in exact detail, however; he won't remember the sounds of breathy huffs as Yuya sleeps, the way a curly lock of hair slips past his tie and dangles in his face as he cooks, or the strangely sweet smell of his skin when he wraps Taguchi in a hug and whispers Junnosuke.
As much as he clings to them, storing the pieces in his heart like a magpie, he won't be able to recall the minute details but this happiness - this special happiness has burrowed a secure place in his memory, faded at the edges like the pages of a favourite book, but permanent.
It's this reassurance that helps him let go.
Yuya is sweet and indulgent and laughs at his jokes and is the ideal person Taguchi imagined for himself when he was a child - but unlike the plays he writes, Taguchi has no grasp on the storyline of his life. He's the master of the stage, of fictitious happenings, not reality.
Yuya is perfect and yet Kazuya is the one he loves.
There are light brown curls littering the floor and Taguchi sets down the scissors, grim anxiousness roiling in his veins as he watches the mask fall apart. He's prepared for it, for everything to come crashing down on his chest and crush him completely. He deserves no less.
Kazuya looks around the room, his eyes falling on the items he knows as his own and Taguchi's heart clenches with fierce longing. He hasn't seen Kazuya for days.
He blinks, can feel his eyes stinging from the knowledge that, just minutes from now, or however long Kazuya feels it sufficient to pummel him with his rage because Taguchi will accept everything, Kazuya will walk out the door and exit his life for good.
Kazuya turns to him, face flushed and eyes wide, and swallows thickly before stuttering, "Pl-please excuse my behaviour. I didn't intend to intrude for so long."
"No, you didn't. Please-" Taguchi chokes off, his tongue swelling like a balloon and clogging his air way, making it difficult to breathe. Each breath is painful, dizzying, and his heart feels splintered. Cut to pieces like the strands of hair that lie at his feet.
He wants to hand Kazuya the scissors and beg him to drive the blades through his chest for what he's done, but his tongue is thick and useless.
"I-please forgive me. I'll leave at once!" Kazuya says with several bows before hastily grabbing his belongings and leaving Taguchi alone with his crippling guilt.
The door slams shut just as Taguchi's knees hit the floor. Trembling, he gathers what remains of Yuya and cries into fistfuls of light brown curls.
When Kazuya returns to the theatre two weeks later, looking apologetic and lost as he fingers the buttons of his coat, Taguchi can only swallow down his heart and vow to himself never to make the same folly again. There's only one Kazuya, irreplacable and fixed in his heart, and Taguchi will either have him or no one at all.
"Welcome back."
Since his childhood, Taguchi has become used to not wanting, used to accepting that what he wants, he'll never have. The cakes at the bakery powdered with snowy sugar, the jump rope he saw children skipping with on the sidewalk, his mother's warmth, his father's acknowledgement, a family to call his home. Dreams he has long released to the wind.
It's why he wonders at himself when he discovers his inability to let go of Kazuya, of the thought of making Kazuya his.
This time, however, he assures himself he's playing it fair, the puppet strings cut and tossed aside for good.
They're sitting in a quaint teahouse not far from The Phoenix and Taguchi has struggled to make this brief pause in their afternoon a daily routine. He watches Kazuya stir his tea from across the small round table, black with no sugar as per usual. On the first day they had visited the establishment, Kazuya had made a face at the amount of sugar Taguchi had added to his cup, and feeling the familiar sweetness on his tongue again, Taguchi finds himself smiling at the memory of his appalled expression even now.
"You've written the new play already?" Kazuya asks over his steaming cup and Taguchi nods.
"I think you'll take a fancy to Hajime. You've always wanted to play a detective, haven't you?"
Kazuya smiles, visibly enthused and Taguchi tries not to reach for his hand which rests vulnerably on the table. There are eyes everywhere and if he gives into his irrationality, there will be whispers spreading like wildfire.
Taguchi busies himself with stirring.
"How do you come up with your characters? It's brilliant, the way you write them which such depth and comfort. Mind you, I've never written anything in my life, but I find it amazing."
Taguchi laughs, taken aback by the sincere praise and he can feel his face growing as hot as his teacup. It takes him a moment to pull himself together before he can look up into Kazuya's earnest face and reveal one of his most telling and sheltered secrets.
"My characters are my childhood friends."
Kazuya gifts him with a long look and Taguchi doesn't shy away from his gaze, just watches him take a sip of his bitter tea and reply with a trace of hesitance and good humour, "I wish I was half as bright as you. I spent my childhood working on the fields and chasing girls around town. It would have been fun, if we could have met somehow."
"If only we could turn back the hands of the clock so ours could meet," Taguchi returns, his heart aching at the thought. If they had met back then, Kazuya would have retrieved his dreams from the wind and folded them back into Taguchi's hands.
Taguchi glances up from the swirling reflection in his teacup when he hears it.
Kazuya is laughing, breathy and hoarse and thoroughly amused.
Kazuya is laughing at his joke and Taguchi's heart rams against his ribcage at the memory of Yuya. Only this is Kazuya, unabashed and open and so real that Taguchi wants to cry. He hadn't known he could make Kazuya laugh, too.
The amusement is short-lived.
Kazuya pauses abruptly to glance at his wristwatch before he quickly downs his cup and stands.
"In a rush?"
Kazuya nods in apology, shrugging on his coat haphazardly so that half the collar is folded in and yet, Taguchi still finds him dashing.
"I'm sorry, but I have to go. Someone's waiting for me."
A giddy smile and Taguchi's heart cleaves into two.
He stares, frozen, at the upturned quirk of Kazuya's lips, a question coming to mind unbidden and dangerous. He takes a large sip of his tea and swallows it down.
"Have fun, then."
The words are ashes on his burnt tongue.
Do you remember our first kiss?
It tasted of rainfall.
Taguchi puts Hajime on hold and decides on another character, explaining that he still wants to make some edits to the script they had planned for the month. Kazuya is put out for only a few seconds and Taguchi feels an odd, sour twinge. Nothing has been able to dampen Kazuya's mood these days and the reason is apparent to everyone when he dashes off after rehearsals straight away.
He seats Kazuya on the stool and draws a line along the center of his head with the edge of a comb, parting his hair and then curling up the edges. He pulls out a thick black pair of glasses from his pocket and secures them on Kazuya's nose before turning to the costume chest. He unfolds a jacket he had stitched himself, inspired by the circus show that had made its tour some years ago.
There are yellow smiles and glittery pieces that patch the black fabric in a gaudy fashion and Taguchi finishes the costume by tying a red polka-dotted scarf around Kazuya's neck, unable to resist leaning in a little closer to smell his sweet scent. Kazuya always smells sweet, like his mother's perfume. The association is upsetting and Taguchi tries to bat it away.
"How do I look? I feel silly."
Taguchi gives him a look over that goes without notice and smiles. "You look perfect."
A bit more than a week later and Kazuya trudges into the theatre, shoulders slumped. Taguchi plants a hand on his back, stroking soothing circles.
"I don't know why she left me," Kazuya mumbles, dropping his head onto his shoulder and Taguchi pulls him into a consoling hug, more prepared than he should have been.
They're just hours away from the start of the play and Taguchi doesn't know how it happens. One minute he's watching Kazuya shrug off his coat to don his costume, sinewy muscles moving under his loose shirt, and a heartbeat later, the words drop off his lips like stray marbles.
Taguchi doesn't scramble to retrieve them, lets them roll and collide.
"What?" Kazuya asks, his usually narrowed eyes round and gaping. "Is that a line from a script?"
"No. I love you, Kazuya."
Kazuya's mouth tightens, his forehead creasing. "I'm a man," he grits out, "and if this is about what-what happened last time, you promised you would forget it. Let's forget this too."
This isn't about Yuya, Taguchi wants to say but his mouth is crowded with the words he repeats over and over, until Kazuya is backing away, cursing when he stumbles into the costume rack. A shower of glittery fabric falls to the floor.
"I love you, Kazuya," Taguchi says again and reaches out to catch Kazuya's elbow to support his balance. "This isn't a whimsy. I've loved you through seasons, Kazuya. I think, if you would calm down and consider the possibility-"
A rough jerk and Taguchi's hand is shoved away.
"Stop it," Kazuya hisses and his eyes are piercing, his anger alive and beautiful and scraping at Taguchi's heart until it bleeds. "Listen to yourself! There is no possibility. You must be raving to think otherwise. I offer you my friendship-only my friendship-and if you dare say it again, I won't give you even that."
Taguchi stares at the strong jut of his chin.
"You're cruel, Kazuya," he whispers as his hand hangs by his side, stinging with rejection, "but even so, I love you."
He repeats the words as Kazuya whips around and leaves the theatre, treading over the fallen costumes and leaving shimmering shards of beads and jewels in his wake like a trail of star dust.
He continues to repeat the words even as the theatre fills with an audience anticipating a show that won't go on.
He's making his way through town, a bag of needles and multicolored thread in hand, when his eyes catch sight of soft silver and he stills in front of a shop display. Behind the wide panel of glass are a variety of wigs sitting atop wooden mannequin heads.
There's a black one that reminds him of Kousaku, but his attention is caught by another. Artificial strands of grey fall long and silky, shining silver when the light hits them just so. Taguchi's hand lifts, hovering over the glass and tracing the silver outline.
He makes the purchase.
Kazuya's hair is brown, now darkening at the roots. Hard and rough like the bark of a tree, falling over his eyes when he turns away, keeping Taguchi at a distance. Unforgiving and impenetrable.
Bem is different, Taguchi thinks as he combs the silvery hair. Bem is timid and reserved, as gentle as the lock of grey that cups the curve of Kazuya's jaw, softening his features. A border of kohl along his eyes darkens his eyelashes so Taguchi can see every flutter, so not a blink goes unnoticed.
Bem, who is searching for love and acceptance, would never shun him.
Bem is as transparent as the glass of the shop window. Every emotion shows, not as vivid as Kousaku's, but in subtle movements, the length of pause between his blinks and smiles. Bem says everything through his silence; one only has to listen, to focus and watch carefully.
No one has been watching Kazuya as closely as Taguchi and he sees it all.
When the curtains fall and rise once more for the actors and actresses to take their bow, Taguchi stands at the edge, in the shadows of the spotlight, and watches Kazuya's gaze flicker to a particular seat in the audience. It's the same seat, the same gaze, the same sweet, smitten smile and Taguchi is startled by the pain in his hand.
He unclenches his fist, frowning at the deep crescents he had unthinkingly cut into his skin.
When the audience begins to filter out of the theatre and everyone is busy backstage, Taguchi walks down and intercepts the recipient of Kazuya's affection.
"Hello, sir. I see you've become a regular guest," Taguchi says, simultaneously surprised and impressed by himself for the rush of anger he feels and how he manages to hide it behind a smile. Smiles have always come easily to Taguchi, for reasons he can't explain. "My name is Junnosuke. I'm the owner of The Phoenix. I would like to extend my gratitude for your continued patronage."
"Ah! Congratulations on putting on such a spectacular play. I'm Detective Natsume."
They shake hands.
"Detective?"
The man chuckles. "I know it's strange, but the theatre has always been one of my passions. I admire your cast, especially your lead actor. He's quite good, if you could kindly pass on my compliments?" Taguchi bites the inside of his cheek and smiles wider. "I've met him briefly but he's rather... reserved. Strange for an actor, but very polite! Hard to find someone like him these days."
"I'll let him know."
The kohl smears as Taguchi wipes it off.
"Why?" Kazuya asks with smudges reminiscent of inky tears streaking his face.
"I'm making you human," Taguchi answers, rubbing a soft towel across his cheeks. "It's what Bem always wanted."
Kazuya smiles and as the silvery strands untangle from his hair, the fedora tipping to the floor, Bem no longer exists.
Taguchi wishes Detective Natsume would disappear just as easily, but the man is persistent and Kazuya, while not as pure, is much more forward than Bem. Dangerously forward. Taguchi watches them converse, laughing and plunging in their mutual passion for the theatre. Detective Natsume's hand lands on Kazuya's shoulder and Taguchi senses another passion kindling underneath. He waits, but Kazuya doesn't shrug the hand away.
Calmly, Taguchi swallows his bile and walks backstage to sit at his sewing machine.
He channels all his anger into the red flannel as he sews and creates Kyouhei.
Kyouhei is beautiful, his short temper whipping like flames when ignited.
Taguchi watches on with vindictive satisfaction as Detective Natsume gets burned, balking when Kazuya snaps at a harmless compliment about his new look, and bids his final farewell.
"I thought you were fond of him," Taguchi comments.
Kazuya shrugs his shoulder roughly. "Tch."
When Kazuya is Kazuya again, stubborn and complusive with no mask to adopt other than his own skin, Taguchi says it again.
"I love you."
"Stop it. I swear, if anyone hears you, I'll-"
"Why? Why is it so hard to accept that I love you?"
Kazuya's eyes are hard with honesty. "I will never return your feelings."
Earlier, Taguchi would have been content with having said his part, of having Kazuya listen and accept without ever wishing him to return his affections. He can't recall when that had changed, when his expectations had been born-for they must exist, for he must have hoped.
There can only be such violent heartache in the presence of a hope just as keen.
Taguchi observes Kazuya mingling with the rest of the cast, smiling as a young actress bats her eyes and ends her curtsy with a faint blush. Kazuya is beautiful when he smiles and Taguchi is sure of himself to be able to grant him happiness, if only Kazuya would demolish his walls and allow him entrance.
After all, there is nothing that he lacks. He has his health, his fortune, a future and the means to company and aide Kazuya's rise to the top. Taguchi seldom boasts of his admirers but even with his heart soundly stolen, his attention doesn't fail to notice the many women who extend their overt appreciation with muffled giggles and whispers as he passes by.
He wonders if Kazuya is aware of them, of what he thinks of his rejection when Taguchi is so desired.
Perhaps he thinks Taguchi's charm is only one that a woman can appreciate.
"What is this?" Kazuya hisses when Taguchi hands him the script of his new role. "Is this another one of your sick schemes?"
Taguchi's smile hides his hurt, his heart twinging with guilt. He shakes his head. "You're a great actor but we need more people to take notice of your talents or you won't be able to advance. This is an opportunity to display your versatility, Kazuya. It's once step closer to your dream."
To my dream.
Kame frowns at the booklet in his hand, the cogs turning in his head, pushing away the discomfort and welcoming visions of grandeur. A tragic war story delivered on stage by a lead actor who captivated the entire theatre, the headlines would read.
With a curt nod, Kazuya agrees.
The box is dusty, buried under old costumes and knicknacks in the bottom corner of the costume chest. The pastel pink lining is faded with age and the hinges creek as he lifts the square lid. The familiar scent of flowers prickle his mind with a rush of unwanted memories and he promptly holds his breath, nudging away the perfume bottle that still holds a few droplets.
He picks out a brush and a small container of red powder and closes the lid, setting the box aside.
Taguchi's breath catches when he turns back to Kazuya who is watching him warily. His hair has been swept back, tied with ribbon at the base of his neck. His bangs are tucked behing his ears but a few auburn strands fall loose to curtain his pale skin, a vivid contrast to the glittering robe he wears. The crimson fabric hangs loose and rustles when Kazuya shrugs it up and over his bare shoulders.
Taguchi opens the container and soaks the brush with the powder. He nudges Kazuya's chin with his knuckle and after a moment's rebellion, Kazuya's lips part. He sits still, pliant and without a word as Taguchi handles the brush and paints them blood red.
When the mask is complete, Kazuya's eyes are as hard and steady as usual... until something flickers and they lower, eyelashes caressing his cheeks.
Taguchi's pulse quickens under Kazuya's coy, hooded gaze.
Transformation complete.
Taguchi, for all his benevolant smiles and hospitable personality, has experienced only one intimate relationship in his life. It's one that remains in his memory only for the novelty. At that time, what feels so long ago, he had tried falling in love. It's what young bachelors of his age did after all, it was expected, the norm, and Taguchi, with his broken childhood, had craved the sensation of belonging.
Rena's warmth had offered him that solace, but if love was falling off a cliff, even in her embrace, Taguchi had never quite tipped off the edge. He teetered, wanting to jump and topple over, but the wind set him upright again and again, the ground gripping at his ankles.
With Kazuya, he never had a choice.
With Kazuya, as he sinks between his legs, slipping off the crimson robe to palm his smooth skin, alive and igniting at the touch of his fingers... with Kazuya, it's as if he was knocked over, pushed from behind and instead of soaring, he plummets, falling deeper and deeper, waiting for his skull to crack.
Kazuya moans and Taguchi drinks the noise from his lips, swallows every groan and desperate gasp with an unquenched thirst that, try as he might, won't stop burning his throat.
"Kazuya," he etches into his sweat slicked neck with the force of his lips. "Kazuya, I love you."
He feels Kazuya's neck strain, veins dilating under his touch as Kazuya releases a strangled cry he later won't remember making.
It's the only response he gets. It's enough.
It's enough.
He feels torn asunder and maybe.
Maybe he has crashed at last and the pain of his split skull has been traded instead for a shredded heart.
His chest feels hollow.
A wet towel in hand, he wipes down Kazuya's body, still feverishly hot to the touch, and does not dare meet his eyes. He knows what he has done and he knows himself well enough to know he's not above doing it again. He's despicable and yet he can only laugh at himself brokenly.
He's despicable and thus he can only laugh at himself brokenly.
When he reaches Kazuya's face, his hands tremble as he removes the make up. The red of his lips has smudged, leaking over the edge to trail down to his chin. It's a reminder of his passion-their passion because for once, Kazuya had returned it. It's a testimony.
Taguchi erases the mask but forgoes the painted lips.
(It's a mistake.)
He leaves before Kazuya awakes, too raw and too weak to suffer the accusations that will precipitate in his clear eyes.
It's a mistake.
Each footfall on his way to the theatre the next morning echoes with apprehension. Sleep had eluded him the entire night and his eyes burn, his body sore and his mind numb. The only thought that comes to him is the question of meeting Kazuya and even then, he doesn't know whether the thought is fueled by fear or hope.
But it must be hope, because Taguchi would rather have him along with his lashings than not have him at all.
He knows Kazuya well enough to know that he won't leave before doling out his revenge and Taguchi will welcome it, if only to relieve his haunting guilt.
The lights are dim and signal Kazuya's absence when Taguchi steps through the doors of The Phoenix. He feels suddenly cold even though the windows are closed, holding back any draft. He walks down the aisle between the rows of seats, heading backstage, when the pungent smell of coins stops him.
He scans the room but all is still and silent, nothing amiss-his eyes fall onto the stage.
There lies a fallen bundle of shadows.
His heart jolts as he walks towards it, the smell growing stronger, and there's paint, dripping off the edge of the stage. Sticky and so deep red that it's almost burgundy, like thick, putrid wine. It stains his shoes when he climbs up and takes a bow on the stage, leaning over the familiar figure at his feet.
Kazuya lies on his back, eyes closed and hands placed on his perfectly still and lifeless chest.
His painted lips glimmer.
Taguchi screams.
SCRIPT: 1582 - The Final Act
Stain yourself by drowning in that blood
Touch my hands to my chest and wish
That I please, please won't wake up.
The mask stays on as the curtains fall.
fin
Pairing: KameNo
Genre: Angst, AU
WordCount: 6.3K
Rating: PG
A/N: This story was initially planned for DOA and was prompted by a lyric from Tackey & Tsubasa's song, Kamen: "Let's be birds of the summer flame, wearing golden, golden masks." Again, if you spot any errors, please do let me know. ♥
Summary: Taguchi writes plays and creates characters. Kame lives their lives.
A small puff of the round perfume bottle and the stench of liquor that perpetually pervades the room is momentarily masked by flowers that bloom vividly in his mind.
Roses, lavenders, chrysanthemums. Begonias.
Taguchi crinkles his nose and watches his mother apply colour to her face. It is only in these moments that her distorted attention flares into focus, her numb eyes bordered with plum circles, staring into the mirror of the heavy vanity.
Those circles are the first to be erased. No, not erased. Hidden. Plumes of sweet scented powder as white as the icing sugar Taguchi sees sprinkled on top of the cakes through the bakery's window shroud his mother's figure and soften the edges of her gaunt cheeks. She looks blurry, ghost-like.
Transitionary.
A streak of red across the blank canvas of his mother's face and Taguchi watches the dull, peeling pink of her lips disappear. Soon, when she has pinned and locked the frayed strands of her hair into something that resembles an elite of the upperclass, she'll call Taguchi close and he'll find a scarlet imprint of a kiss on his forehead.
"How do I look, darling?"
Darling, not darl'.
Her speech painted along with her lips.
She sits straight, small hands that used to wave in the air and at times strike against his cheek now restrained, folded primly in her lap. Unrecognisable.
"Beautiful."
He can still smell the alcohol on her breath.
The building is decrepit. The wooden beams splintering, the walls unpainted. A blank canvas. With the fortune handed to him after his late father's death - an unfortunate man who fell victim to his mother's facade - Taguchi buys the building.
He plans to fulfill a childhood dream and open a theatre, a declaration which promptly results in a hubbub around town. There are rumours and doubts concerning his mental faculties because who would want to take on such a gamble? But Taguchi knows.
Soon the theatre is painted red, the insides filled with white furniture trimmed with gold. A stage is built, thick and sturdy with the best wood Taguchi can find; the price is dismissed because his father's misfortune fortunately did not extend into his finances. Everything is renovated. Everything made anew. It takes months but the dream bleeds into reality.
At last, the curtains rise to reveal The Phoenix, big and bright amidst the row of drab buildings, rising from the crumbling wood before the wood could burn to ash.
It's a fitting name, he thinks, for many characters will find their birth and demise on this stage. Not a real demise but that's beside the point. Death is not the only gateway for a new life because Taguchi knows.
Taguchi knows what a little makeover can do.
He becomes the master of the stage without ever stepping foot on its wooden planks. The creative workings of his mind honed at an early age, for his mother could never afford toys and Taguchi as a child had always amused himself with stories and fictional friends that became his world, Taguchi is both the scriptwriter and artist. He never bathes in the spotlight but, akin to a puppeteer, the characters are entirely his.
He hires stage hands and tacks on posters along the streets and when the day of the auditions arrives, Taguchi is the only one seated in the audience. He settles back into the plush white seat and runs a hand along the golden trimming of the armrest, his eyes seeking and attentive as people step on and off the stage.
He finds seven people fit for his stage that night: four actors and three actresses. All raw and ambitious with talent peeking through their vanity. When Taguchi thinks back to it now, he can only recall one audition, one memorable actor that dimmed out the rest.
The actor had stepped onto the stairs with thin, wiry legs clothed in rags, but the second his scuffed black shoes had touched the stage, the show was all his. He was scraggily and thin but his shoulders, as bony as they were, stood straight and strong, braced against the pressures of the stage lights.
Through the shadows, their eyes locked, and Taguchi watched the man tear out a piece of himself and deliver it to him through the carefully memorised lines. He stumbled over a word, once, twice, but the stumble was dismissed with the flutter of an eye and a firm press of thin lips. Taguchi's heart raced as he watched his character come to life.
Before him stood Odagiri Ryu, more real than Taguchi had written him.
When he had stepped off the stage and Taguchi told the young actor that he would lend him his theatre and help polish him into a star, the man had nodded with a smirk so Ryu like it startled Taguchi.
"Ah, sorry!" the man said, shaking off the cloak of his role with a diffident smile and offering a hand to shake. This would be the first clue to what Taguchi would later realise as his - their - trap.
At that moment in time, however, Taguchi was too absorbed in his first true look at Kamenashi Kazuya.
To Taguchi, stories have always had a dual purpose: to entertain and to educate.
He keeps this in mind when he writes for the stage, infusing his scripts with golden morals and cheer. Never give up. Try your best. Love conquers all. They've all been done before but to Taguchi, they're always worth retelling. Hope is always worth retelling. It's what kept him going when he sat shivering in the cold as carriages driving past drenched him with sludge, just hoping and waiting that his mother would return soon and pay the landlady so he could go back inside.
Yuuki is a symbol of that hope and one of Taguchi's most beloved characters. He powders Kazuya's face until it looks bloodless, drained of all colour other than the dull purple and blue Taguchi smudges under his eyes. He watches Kazuya stare at his reflection in the mirror, a hand raised in awe where it hovers by the side of his face.
"Kazuya? Do you think it's too much?"
"Kazuya?"
Taguchi pauses at the set of his bewildered eyebrows.
"Yuuki?" he tries and is relieved when Kazuya smiles blindingly, a ray of sunlight across a face that could be lying in a grave.
The play runs for two weeks and each night, the audience bids Kazuya farewell with tear stains and a dull hope that is just shy of heartbreak. It goes without saying that the play is a success and could run for an entire month earning full house seats, but there's something wrong.
Yuuki is no longer a character.
Taguchi watches Kazuya grow thinner and thinner, the knobs of his spine visible through his shirt. He walks slowly, blindly, tripping over objects so clearly in his path until there are bruises lining the parts of his body Taguchi can see, and no doubt more along the parts he can't.
The role and the actor merge into one, until there are no boundaries and Yuuki is Kazuya and Kazuya is Yuuki - and Taguchi realises with a sickening feeling that as Yuuki wastes away, so does Kazuya.
On the last night of the play, Taguchi takes Kazuya backstage to where the make up vanity sits in a corner. He seats Kazuya on a stool, lifting his chin with his hand, and runs a damp towel across his face. He rubs over the closed eyelids, the hollow cheeks and broken nose until the towel is the colour of a murky sky and Kazuya...
Kazuya's skin is still too pale.
Taguchi rubs harder until his arm aches and Kazuya's cheeks are finally raw and pink.
Alive.
"Kazuya," Taguchi whispers, and the eyelids lift, slow and sleepy, and indeed, it's Kazuya who smiles up at him.
Stories teach and from Yuuki, Taguchi learns two things:
He's in love.
The second, he should have never learned - to manipulate, to control, or to know at all.
For his next play, he chooses something lighthearted and happy, something to spare the hearts of the audience. It isn't a lie, not entirely.
Kazuya accepts the role with delight and Taguchi wraps him in a barber's bib. Chunks of brown locks fall to the floor and the ones that remain are soon dyed black. When the transformation is complete, he admires his work, the haphazard way the black locks curl around Kazuya's small face. His cheeks are still gaunt, his arms still stick thin, but knowing Kazuya's dedication to his role, he hopes that won't last long.
Taguchi brushes the trimmings off Kazuya's shoulders and beams when Kazuya announces, "I'm starving!"
Any remainders of Yuuki that left their mark wash away under Kousaku's exuberance. Kazuya's shoulders fill along with his cheeks, muscles growing and eyes shining. There's a wide, permanent smile drawn across his face, the simplicity of which warms Taguchi's heart. If Yuuki was a slow descent to death, Kousaku is an abrupt revival to life.
"Well done!" Taguchi says once the curtains have dropped. "I've been hearing the best sorts of complaints. It seems that I made an error and built the walls of The Phoenix too thin. They say the audience's mirth was heard from down the street!"
Kazuya turns to flash him a cheeky grin. "How about you reward me with dinner? I've been craving some pasta, but I'm not picky."
It's a line from the script.
Taguchi, like the desperate, lovestruck fool he is, takes it.
Things begin to go awry when real complaints arrive at the theatre, complaints of one of his young actors causing a ruckus at the local church, and Taguchi runs a frustrated hand through his hair, wondering at himself for not expecting it when he should have. He was the one to have weaved the story in the first place; there was no event, no plot twist or climax unknown to him.
He was well aware of the happy ending he had written for the boxer, too.
He shuts his eyes, blocking out the image and sounds of churchbells.
This time, when Taguchi returns from the shops and places a bottle of brown dye on the vanity, he silently admits that Kousaku's departure is necessary to spare only his own heart.
During the time the theatre doesn't operate, for holidays and general uptake, Taguchi tries to familiarise himself with Kazuya. It's only in these brief timeframes that Kazuya is truly himself.
He knows that Kazuya has three siblings, all brothers, and comes from a family of farmers. He knows that Kazuya set off from the countryside on his own with aspirations of becoming a star. He has high hopes and dreams and Taguchi can see Kazuya living each one with every word he says.
There is something about the soft, playful way Kazuya speaks that makes Taguchi want to listen, something about the fluid way he moves, about the unfathomable expressions that skitter across his face, that make Taguchi want to watch.
Not all his wants wants are pure, Taguchi realises as he clasps Kazuya's hand longer than would be deemed appropriate for a handshake. Taguchi knows that Kazuya's hands, as delicately as they move in the air when acting a scene, are rough due to a childhood of shovelling and working on the fields. Unthinkingly, Taguchi rubs his thumb along the groove of a knuckle.
When Kazuya startles, jerking away, Taguchi lets him go and hides the slice he feels along the innards of his chest with a strained smile.
"Thank you for your helping hand, Kazuya."
He gets a brief a scoff before Kazuya's back turns and he exits The Phoenix with a small wave over his shoulder.
Kazuya never laughs at his jokes but even so, Taguchi hopes he'll glance back.
He never does - because hopes come from stories that are only fulfilled on stage, and as of now, Kazuya is Kazuya. They aren't in a play and there is no mask to bury under.
Taguchi can fix that.
Kazuya's hair grows long, curling around his neck and past his shoulders. His face narrows, cheekbones reappearing, and Yuya is born. Sweet and indulging Yuya - other than the gender, Taguchi has always imagined himself falling for such a person.
Taguchi's steps quicken on the cobbled streets as he makes his way to The Phoenix, the sky raining down on him until he steps inside the theatre, drenched and dripping all over the floor. He's taken aback when a towel is thrown over his head, worried hands rubbing him dry.
"You should have taken a carriage or waited until the rain stopped pouring," Kazuya admonishes. "What if you fall sick?"
The carriages had all been occupied, stampeding up and down the streets as women scrambled on to save their gowns. Waiting was out of the question. Every night as his head hit his pillow, Taguchi fell asleep eager for the morning to come so he could see Kazuya again. He would avoid any delay at all cost.
"I'm sorry. It was a pour choice," Taguchi says and stills when Kazuya laughs. Kazuya never laughs at his jokes but Yuya... Yuya is looking at him with a soft, worried smile and Taguchi's heart warms even as there are warning sirens going off in the periphery of his mind.
Despite all the masks Kazuya has seamlessly adopted, he's always been Kazuya to Taguchi. His name is an anchor, a dam preventing the two pools of identites from disappearing into one another. As the stage master, he of all people should know that there's a fine line between a fake reality and delusion, between playing along and believing.
He should know, he should know...
Yuya's lips are warm and pliant under his own and Taguchi feels him shiver against his rain chilled skin.
He asks Yuya to move in with him because he has a spare room and no one thinks the worst of it. Yuya doesn't have many belongings; everything is carried over in a rucksack and Taguchi does his best so that all his belongings, as sparse as they are, are scattered all over his modest home until each room and crook holds a piece of Yuya.
The following weeks, Taguchi is sure he will remember for the rest of his life. Not in exact detail, however; he won't remember the sounds of breathy huffs as Yuya sleeps, the way a curly lock of hair slips past his tie and dangles in his face as he cooks, or the strangely sweet smell of his skin when he wraps Taguchi in a hug and whispers Junnosuke.
As much as he clings to them, storing the pieces in his heart like a magpie, he won't be able to recall the minute details but this happiness - this special happiness has burrowed a secure place in his memory, faded at the edges like the pages of a favourite book, but permanent.
It's this reassurance that helps him let go.
Yuya is sweet and indulgent and laughs at his jokes and is the ideal person Taguchi imagined for himself when he was a child - but unlike the plays he writes, Taguchi has no grasp on the storyline of his life. He's the master of the stage, of fictitious happenings, not reality.
Yuya is perfect and yet Kazuya is the one he loves.
There are light brown curls littering the floor and Taguchi sets down the scissors, grim anxiousness roiling in his veins as he watches the mask fall apart. He's prepared for it, for everything to come crashing down on his chest and crush him completely. He deserves no less.
Kazuya looks around the room, his eyes falling on the items he knows as his own and Taguchi's heart clenches with fierce longing. He hasn't seen Kazuya for days.
He blinks, can feel his eyes stinging from the knowledge that, just minutes from now, or however long Kazuya feels it sufficient to pummel him with his rage because Taguchi will accept everything, Kazuya will walk out the door and exit his life for good.
Kazuya turns to him, face flushed and eyes wide, and swallows thickly before stuttering, "Pl-please excuse my behaviour. I didn't intend to intrude for so long."
"No, you didn't. Please-" Taguchi chokes off, his tongue swelling like a balloon and clogging his air way, making it difficult to breathe. Each breath is painful, dizzying, and his heart feels splintered. Cut to pieces like the strands of hair that lie at his feet.
He wants to hand Kazuya the scissors and beg him to drive the blades through his chest for what he's done, but his tongue is thick and useless.
"I-please forgive me. I'll leave at once!" Kazuya says with several bows before hastily grabbing his belongings and leaving Taguchi alone with his crippling guilt.
The door slams shut just as Taguchi's knees hit the floor. Trembling, he gathers what remains of Yuya and cries into fistfuls of light brown curls.
When Kazuya returns to the theatre two weeks later, looking apologetic and lost as he fingers the buttons of his coat, Taguchi can only swallow down his heart and vow to himself never to make the same folly again. There's only one Kazuya, irreplacable and fixed in his heart, and Taguchi will either have him or no one at all.
"Welcome back."
Since his childhood, Taguchi has become used to not wanting, used to accepting that what he wants, he'll never have. The cakes at the bakery powdered with snowy sugar, the jump rope he saw children skipping with on the sidewalk, his mother's warmth, his father's acknowledgement, a family to call his home. Dreams he has long released to the wind.
It's why he wonders at himself when he discovers his inability to let go of Kazuya, of the thought of making Kazuya his.
This time, however, he assures himself he's playing it fair, the puppet strings cut and tossed aside for good.
They're sitting in a quaint teahouse not far from The Phoenix and Taguchi has struggled to make this brief pause in their afternoon a daily routine. He watches Kazuya stir his tea from across the small round table, black with no sugar as per usual. On the first day they had visited the establishment, Kazuya had made a face at the amount of sugar Taguchi had added to his cup, and feeling the familiar sweetness on his tongue again, Taguchi finds himself smiling at the memory of his appalled expression even now.
"You've written the new play already?" Kazuya asks over his steaming cup and Taguchi nods.
"I think you'll take a fancy to Hajime. You've always wanted to play a detective, haven't you?"
Kazuya smiles, visibly enthused and Taguchi tries not to reach for his hand which rests vulnerably on the table. There are eyes everywhere and if he gives into his irrationality, there will be whispers spreading like wildfire.
Taguchi busies himself with stirring.
"How do you come up with your characters? It's brilliant, the way you write them which such depth and comfort. Mind you, I've never written anything in my life, but I find it amazing."
Taguchi laughs, taken aback by the sincere praise and he can feel his face growing as hot as his teacup. It takes him a moment to pull himself together before he can look up into Kazuya's earnest face and reveal one of his most telling and sheltered secrets.
"My characters are my childhood friends."
Kazuya gifts him with a long look and Taguchi doesn't shy away from his gaze, just watches him take a sip of his bitter tea and reply with a trace of hesitance and good humour, "I wish I was half as bright as you. I spent my childhood working on the fields and chasing girls around town. It would have been fun, if we could have met somehow."
"If only we could turn back the hands of the clock so ours could meet," Taguchi returns, his heart aching at the thought. If they had met back then, Kazuya would have retrieved his dreams from the wind and folded them back into Taguchi's hands.
Taguchi glances up from the swirling reflection in his teacup when he hears it.
Kazuya is laughing, breathy and hoarse and thoroughly amused.
Kazuya is laughing at his joke and Taguchi's heart rams against his ribcage at the memory of Yuya. Only this is Kazuya, unabashed and open and so real that Taguchi wants to cry. He hadn't known he could make Kazuya laugh, too.
The amusement is short-lived.
Kazuya pauses abruptly to glance at his wristwatch before he quickly downs his cup and stands.
"In a rush?"
Kazuya nods in apology, shrugging on his coat haphazardly so that half the collar is folded in and yet, Taguchi still finds him dashing.
"I'm sorry, but I have to go. Someone's waiting for me."
A giddy smile and Taguchi's heart cleaves into two.
He stares, frozen, at the upturned quirk of Kazuya's lips, a question coming to mind unbidden and dangerous. He takes a large sip of his tea and swallows it down.
"Have fun, then."
The words are ashes on his burnt tongue.
Do you remember our first kiss?
It tasted of rainfall.
Taguchi puts Hajime on hold and decides on another character, explaining that he still wants to make some edits to the script they had planned for the month. Kazuya is put out for only a few seconds and Taguchi feels an odd, sour twinge. Nothing has been able to dampen Kazuya's mood these days and the reason is apparent to everyone when he dashes off after rehearsals straight away.
He seats Kazuya on the stool and draws a line along the center of his head with the edge of a comb, parting his hair and then curling up the edges. He pulls out a thick black pair of glasses from his pocket and secures them on Kazuya's nose before turning to the costume chest. He unfolds a jacket he had stitched himself, inspired by the circus show that had made its tour some years ago.
There are yellow smiles and glittery pieces that patch the black fabric in a gaudy fashion and Taguchi finishes the costume by tying a red polka-dotted scarf around Kazuya's neck, unable to resist leaning in a little closer to smell his sweet scent. Kazuya always smells sweet, like his mother's perfume. The association is upsetting and Taguchi tries to bat it away.
"How do I look? I feel silly."
Taguchi gives him a look over that goes without notice and smiles. "You look perfect."
A bit more than a week later and Kazuya trudges into the theatre, shoulders slumped. Taguchi plants a hand on his back, stroking soothing circles.
"I don't know why she left me," Kazuya mumbles, dropping his head onto his shoulder and Taguchi pulls him into a consoling hug, more prepared than he should have been.
They're just hours away from the start of the play and Taguchi doesn't know how it happens. One minute he's watching Kazuya shrug off his coat to don his costume, sinewy muscles moving under his loose shirt, and a heartbeat later, the words drop off his lips like stray marbles.
Taguchi doesn't scramble to retrieve them, lets them roll and collide.
"What?" Kazuya asks, his usually narrowed eyes round and gaping. "Is that a line from a script?"
"No. I love you, Kazuya."
Kazuya's mouth tightens, his forehead creasing. "I'm a man," he grits out, "and if this is about what-what happened last time, you promised you would forget it. Let's forget this too."
This isn't about Yuya, Taguchi wants to say but his mouth is crowded with the words he repeats over and over, until Kazuya is backing away, cursing when he stumbles into the costume rack. A shower of glittery fabric falls to the floor.
"I love you, Kazuya," Taguchi says again and reaches out to catch Kazuya's elbow to support his balance. "This isn't a whimsy. I've loved you through seasons, Kazuya. I think, if you would calm down and consider the possibility-"
A rough jerk and Taguchi's hand is shoved away.
"Stop it," Kazuya hisses and his eyes are piercing, his anger alive and beautiful and scraping at Taguchi's heart until it bleeds. "Listen to yourself! There is no possibility. You must be raving to think otherwise. I offer you my friendship-only my friendship-and if you dare say it again, I won't give you even that."
Taguchi stares at the strong jut of his chin.
"You're cruel, Kazuya," he whispers as his hand hangs by his side, stinging with rejection, "but even so, I love you."
He repeats the words as Kazuya whips around and leaves the theatre, treading over the fallen costumes and leaving shimmering shards of beads and jewels in his wake like a trail of star dust.
He continues to repeat the words even as the theatre fills with an audience anticipating a show that won't go on.
He's making his way through town, a bag of needles and multicolored thread in hand, when his eyes catch sight of soft silver and he stills in front of a shop display. Behind the wide panel of glass are a variety of wigs sitting atop wooden mannequin heads.
There's a black one that reminds him of Kousaku, but his attention is caught by another. Artificial strands of grey fall long and silky, shining silver when the light hits them just so. Taguchi's hand lifts, hovering over the glass and tracing the silver outline.
He makes the purchase.
Kazuya's hair is brown, now darkening at the roots. Hard and rough like the bark of a tree, falling over his eyes when he turns away, keeping Taguchi at a distance. Unforgiving and impenetrable.
Bem is different, Taguchi thinks as he combs the silvery hair. Bem is timid and reserved, as gentle as the lock of grey that cups the curve of Kazuya's jaw, softening his features. A border of kohl along his eyes darkens his eyelashes so Taguchi can see every flutter, so not a blink goes unnoticed.
Bem, who is searching for love and acceptance, would never shun him.
Bem is as transparent as the glass of the shop window. Every emotion shows, not as vivid as Kousaku's, but in subtle movements, the length of pause between his blinks and smiles. Bem says everything through his silence; one only has to listen, to focus and watch carefully.
No one has been watching Kazuya as closely as Taguchi and he sees it all.
When the curtains fall and rise once more for the actors and actresses to take their bow, Taguchi stands at the edge, in the shadows of the spotlight, and watches Kazuya's gaze flicker to a particular seat in the audience. It's the same seat, the same gaze, the same sweet, smitten smile and Taguchi is startled by the pain in his hand.
He unclenches his fist, frowning at the deep crescents he had unthinkingly cut into his skin.
When the audience begins to filter out of the theatre and everyone is busy backstage, Taguchi walks down and intercepts the recipient of Kazuya's affection.
"Hello, sir. I see you've become a regular guest," Taguchi says, simultaneously surprised and impressed by himself for the rush of anger he feels and how he manages to hide it behind a smile. Smiles have always come easily to Taguchi, for reasons he can't explain. "My name is Junnosuke. I'm the owner of The Phoenix. I would like to extend my gratitude for your continued patronage."
"Ah! Congratulations on putting on such a spectacular play. I'm Detective Natsume."
They shake hands.
"Detective?"
The man chuckles. "I know it's strange, but the theatre has always been one of my passions. I admire your cast, especially your lead actor. He's quite good, if you could kindly pass on my compliments?" Taguchi bites the inside of his cheek and smiles wider. "I've met him briefly but he's rather... reserved. Strange for an actor, but very polite! Hard to find someone like him these days."
"I'll let him know."
The kohl smears as Taguchi wipes it off.
"Why?" Kazuya asks with smudges reminiscent of inky tears streaking his face.
"I'm making you human," Taguchi answers, rubbing a soft towel across his cheeks. "It's what Bem always wanted."
Kazuya smiles and as the silvery strands untangle from his hair, the fedora tipping to the floor, Bem no longer exists.
Taguchi wishes Detective Natsume would disappear just as easily, but the man is persistent and Kazuya, while not as pure, is much more forward than Bem. Dangerously forward. Taguchi watches them converse, laughing and plunging in their mutual passion for the theatre. Detective Natsume's hand lands on Kazuya's shoulder and Taguchi senses another passion kindling underneath. He waits, but Kazuya doesn't shrug the hand away.
Calmly, Taguchi swallows his bile and walks backstage to sit at his sewing machine.
He channels all his anger into the red flannel as he sews and creates Kyouhei.
Kyouhei is beautiful, his short temper whipping like flames when ignited.
Taguchi watches on with vindictive satisfaction as Detective Natsume gets burned, balking when Kazuya snaps at a harmless compliment about his new look, and bids his final farewell.
"I thought you were fond of him," Taguchi comments.
Kazuya shrugs his shoulder roughly. "Tch."
When Kazuya is Kazuya again, stubborn and complusive with no mask to adopt other than his own skin, Taguchi says it again.
"I love you."
"Stop it. I swear, if anyone hears you, I'll-"
"Why? Why is it so hard to accept that I love you?"
Kazuya's eyes are hard with honesty. "I will never return your feelings."
Earlier, Taguchi would have been content with having said his part, of having Kazuya listen and accept without ever wishing him to return his affections. He can't recall when that had changed, when his expectations had been born-for they must exist, for he must have hoped.
There can only be such violent heartache in the presence of a hope just as keen.
Taguchi observes Kazuya mingling with the rest of the cast, smiling as a young actress bats her eyes and ends her curtsy with a faint blush. Kazuya is beautiful when he smiles and Taguchi is sure of himself to be able to grant him happiness, if only Kazuya would demolish his walls and allow him entrance.
After all, there is nothing that he lacks. He has his health, his fortune, a future and the means to company and aide Kazuya's rise to the top. Taguchi seldom boasts of his admirers but even with his heart soundly stolen, his attention doesn't fail to notice the many women who extend their overt appreciation with muffled giggles and whispers as he passes by.
He wonders if Kazuya is aware of them, of what he thinks of his rejection when Taguchi is so desired.
Perhaps he thinks Taguchi's charm is only one that a woman can appreciate.
"What is this?" Kazuya hisses when Taguchi hands him the script of his new role. "Is this another one of your sick schemes?"
Taguchi's smile hides his hurt, his heart twinging with guilt. He shakes his head. "You're a great actor but we need more people to take notice of your talents or you won't be able to advance. This is an opportunity to display your versatility, Kazuya. It's once step closer to your dream."
To my dream.
Kame frowns at the booklet in his hand, the cogs turning in his head, pushing away the discomfort and welcoming visions of grandeur. A tragic war story delivered on stage by a lead actor who captivated the entire theatre, the headlines would read.
With a curt nod, Kazuya agrees.
The box is dusty, buried under old costumes and knicknacks in the bottom corner of the costume chest. The pastel pink lining is faded with age and the hinges creek as he lifts the square lid. The familiar scent of flowers prickle his mind with a rush of unwanted memories and he promptly holds his breath, nudging away the perfume bottle that still holds a few droplets.
He picks out a brush and a small container of red powder and closes the lid, setting the box aside.
Taguchi's breath catches when he turns back to Kazuya who is watching him warily. His hair has been swept back, tied with ribbon at the base of his neck. His bangs are tucked behing his ears but a few auburn strands fall loose to curtain his pale skin, a vivid contrast to the glittering robe he wears. The crimson fabric hangs loose and rustles when Kazuya shrugs it up and over his bare shoulders.
Taguchi opens the container and soaks the brush with the powder. He nudges Kazuya's chin with his knuckle and after a moment's rebellion, Kazuya's lips part. He sits still, pliant and without a word as Taguchi handles the brush and paints them blood red.
When the mask is complete, Kazuya's eyes are as hard and steady as usual... until something flickers and they lower, eyelashes caressing his cheeks.
Taguchi's pulse quickens under Kazuya's coy, hooded gaze.
Transformation complete.
Taguchi, for all his benevolant smiles and hospitable personality, has experienced only one intimate relationship in his life. It's one that remains in his memory only for the novelty. At that time, what feels so long ago, he had tried falling in love. It's what young bachelors of his age did after all, it was expected, the norm, and Taguchi, with his broken childhood, had craved the sensation of belonging.
Rena's warmth had offered him that solace, but if love was falling off a cliff, even in her embrace, Taguchi had never quite tipped off the edge. He teetered, wanting to jump and topple over, but the wind set him upright again and again, the ground gripping at his ankles.
With Kazuya, he never had a choice.
With Kazuya, as he sinks between his legs, slipping off the crimson robe to palm his smooth skin, alive and igniting at the touch of his fingers... with Kazuya, it's as if he was knocked over, pushed from behind and instead of soaring, he plummets, falling deeper and deeper, waiting for his skull to crack.
Kazuya moans and Taguchi drinks the noise from his lips, swallows every groan and desperate gasp with an unquenched thirst that, try as he might, won't stop burning his throat.
"Kazuya," he etches into his sweat slicked neck with the force of his lips. "Kazuya, I love you."
He feels Kazuya's neck strain, veins dilating under his touch as Kazuya releases a strangled cry he later won't remember making.
It's the only response he gets. It's enough.
It's enough.
He feels torn asunder and maybe.
Maybe he has crashed at last and the pain of his split skull has been traded instead for a shredded heart.
His chest feels hollow.
A wet towel in hand, he wipes down Kazuya's body, still feverishly hot to the touch, and does not dare meet his eyes. He knows what he has done and he knows himself well enough to know he's not above doing it again. He's despicable and yet he can only laugh at himself brokenly.
He's despicable and thus he can only laugh at himself brokenly.
When he reaches Kazuya's face, his hands tremble as he removes the make up. The red of his lips has smudged, leaking over the edge to trail down to his chin. It's a reminder of his passion-their passion because for once, Kazuya had returned it. It's a testimony.
Taguchi erases the mask but forgoes the painted lips.
(It's a mistake.)
He leaves before Kazuya awakes, too raw and too weak to suffer the accusations that will precipitate in his clear eyes.
It's a mistake.
Each footfall on his way to the theatre the next morning echoes with apprehension. Sleep had eluded him the entire night and his eyes burn, his body sore and his mind numb. The only thought that comes to him is the question of meeting Kazuya and even then, he doesn't know whether the thought is fueled by fear or hope.
But it must be hope, because Taguchi would rather have him along with his lashings than not have him at all.
He knows Kazuya well enough to know that he won't leave before doling out his revenge and Taguchi will welcome it, if only to relieve his haunting guilt.
The lights are dim and signal Kazuya's absence when Taguchi steps through the doors of The Phoenix. He feels suddenly cold even though the windows are closed, holding back any draft. He walks down the aisle between the rows of seats, heading backstage, when the pungent smell of coins stops him.
He scans the room but all is still and silent, nothing amiss-his eyes fall onto the stage.
There lies a fallen bundle of shadows.
His heart jolts as he walks towards it, the smell growing stronger, and there's paint, dripping off the edge of the stage. Sticky and so deep red that it's almost burgundy, like thick, putrid wine. It stains his shoes when he climbs up and takes a bow on the stage, leaning over the familiar figure at his feet.
Kazuya lies on his back, eyes closed and hands placed on his perfectly still and lifeless chest.
His painted lips glimmer.
Taguchi screams.
SCRIPT: 1582 - The Final Act
Stain yourself by drowning in that blood
Touch my hands to my chest and wish
That I please, please won't wake up.
The mask stays on as the curtains fall.
fin