Fugue in the Key of Regret (3/3)
Title: Fugue In The Key Of Regret (3/3)
Author: stupeur
Beta: hanako
Rating: PG-13 (language and implied sexuality)
Pairing: Tatsurou/Miya
Summary: When Miya wakes up one day with no recollection of who he is, all he wants is to recover his memory - but soon he realizes that some things were better forgotten.
Notes: I can't believe it took me nearly a year before posting the last part. @_@ I'm so, so sorry, but life just... got the better of me for a while. Here are parts 1 and 2 in case you need to refresh your memory (pun not intended). I really hope that the ending won't disappoint. ♥ Enjoy. :)
Miya is thinking too much - Tatsurou said the truth about that, at least - and every element of their conversation eventually becomes suspicious when he analyzes them a little too long. And yet, something in Tatsurou’s nonchalant affection renders him unable to do anything but give him the benefit of the doubt. The only solution left is doing his best to silence the insisting voice at the back of his head.
The disappearance of Miya's notebook, in which he jots down all of his music ideas, gets the better of him, however. His head is filled with words he can't wait to stick to the chords he scribbled down onto it the previous evening, but he's rummaged through every room of the apartment and the damn thing is still nowhere to be found.
Resigned, he sits down on the couch. Could he have left it in the studio? Or is there a chance it might have fallen out of his bag and now lies somewhere in the city, most likely torn to shreds by the shoes of a million passersby? He lets out a frustrated groan as the thought crosses his mind. There had gone a few months worth of work.
He hears the familiar click of the front door opening. "I'm home," Tatsurou chimes. His keys clink against the wooden surface of the coffee table when he throws them onto it.
Miya doesn't even bother with greetings. "Have you seen my notebook?" he asks. "The one with the dog picture on the cover?"
Tatsurou nods briefly toward the living room shelves as he wriggles his feet out of his shoes, holding onto the door frame for balance. "It's on the top shelf."
No wonder. Miya doesn't even need to try to know that it's just a tad too high for him. "I'm too short," he grits between his teeth. The embarrassment and annoyance in his voice obviously fly right above Tatsurou's head, and his sole answer consists of a roar of laughter.
It takes Miya every little bit of self-control not to let his fist connect with Tatsurou's throat to shut him up. Instead, he watches him grab the notebook effortlessly and hand it to him, his eyes shinier than usual.
Miya snatches the notebook from Tatsurou's hands. "Don't touch my stuff anymore," he snarls. The amused smile that was still curving Tatsurou's lips immediately vanishes.
“I was just doing some cleaning,” he says defensively as he slips into his bedroom, raising his voice so that Miya can hear him from the living room. "It's not like I put it there just to piss you off."
"Just don't fucking touch it," Miya repeats, louder as well, and notices that his knuckles are white from holding onto the notebook much more tightly than necessary. Surprised at his own outburst, he throws it down onto the coffee table.
"Sorry about that," comes the answer, more annoyed than sincere. There's a pause, and Tatsurou walks back, changed into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. He flops down next to Miya before turning the TV on and throwing his heels onto the table. "Just clean up after your mess once in a while if you don't want me to touch your stuff."
Miya raises a brow at him. "Since when do you care about the mess here anyway?" It's a valid question - cleaning has never been his forte, and Tatsurou isn't exactly a neat freak either - but right now he doesn't care so much about the answer than just pushing Tatsurou's buttons.
It works. "I care because you’re not doing shit in this place," Tatsurou starts as he turns to glare at him. "I'm the one doing everything around this damn house. I have to do the cleaning, the groceries, the laundry, I have to cook because otherwise all we'd ever eat is cup ramen, I have to go to work, and what do you do? You sit around all fucking day."
"I sit around all fucking day?" Miya repeats in disbelief before chuckling humorlessly, shaking his head. "It's not a fucking walk in the park for me either!"
"Maybe, but you're not doing anything to make it easier for either of us!" Tatsurou throws his hands up and lets them fall onto his lap exasperatedly. "I wouldn't mind doing all this for you if it wasn't obvious you don't want me around. I can't even get a fucking smile these days." He stares resolutely at the cooking show playing on TV, jaw clenched.
A pang of remorse bores Miya's abdomen and he stutters an apology, but it's like Tatsurou hadn't heard him.
"I keep telling myself you're gonna come around, but it's clearly not gonna happen. You don’t trust me and I'm fucking sick of it."
The ease with which Tatsurou can see right through Miya never ceases to startle him, and every time it's like he's just been stripped naked. "It has nothing to do with you," he tries, but his voice rings false even to his own ears.
A wry smile distorts Tatsurou's mouth. "That's why you were looking at my phone while you thought I was sleeping, I guess?"
Miya's stomach sinks to his toes. His anger shifts against himself as he remembers the half-dozen passwords he input into Tatsurou's phone in a desperate attempt to pry into his mind. There's nothing he can say to that, and the hurt in Tatsurou's gaze as he looks him right in the eye deals the finishing blow.
"Fuck you, Miya."
The next second, Tatsurou is back to staring vacantly at the TV screen, and Miya knows he has to get out of here.
---
Yukke takes one look at Miya when he finds him on his doorstep and declares that they’re going for a round of beers.
"What is it now?" he asks into his beer mug. The feigned amusement in his voice can't conceal the genuine concern in his eyes, though.
"Tatsurou's driving me insane." Miya takes a long gulp of the beer Yukke insisted on buying him, not even trying to hide his disgust at the too-strong taste of malt. He puts the mug down and rubs his eyes. "And I'm pretty sure the feeling is mutual."
"How come?" Despite the question, Yukke's face is somehow void of any surprise.
Miya sighs loudly. "I don't know, man. I remember you, I remember our music, I remember buying my car, but I can't fucking remember him. It's like I have no idea who he really is. And I try to get into his brain, and it-" Hurts, he almost says, but he stops himself just in time. "And I don't like what I'm seeing there."
One corner of Yukke's mouth curve upward in some sort of pitying smile. "I know you guys are crazy about each other," he starts, "but sometimes I wonder what the hell you're doing together."
"Same here," Miya concurs with a chuckle. "All the time, in fact."
For a moment, all Yukke does is gnaw on the dry skin of his bottom lip. "Well, you're some of the most stubborn people I've ever met." He pauses to sip on his beer, obviously looking for his words. "But maybe it's time to let go. And I say this as someone who wants the best for the both of you."
Miya stares into his own mug as the idea makes its way into his brain. Somehow, he'd convinced himself that it was up to him to swallow his pride and figure out some sort of compromise, but maybe Yukke's right. Maybe putting an end to their relationship - and putting Tatsurou and himself out of their misery by the same token - is the only solution left.
Then there's another round of beer and rum and tequila shots, and before Miya knows it, the alcohol coursing through his blood stream has lulled the tornado that has been ravaging his brain for so long.
---
He wakes up the next day in somebody else’s bed, and the first thing he notices is that the naked body pressed against his own is not Tatsurou's. The short hair is a dead giveaway, for one, and the lazy hold around him lacks the assertiveness that has become second nature to him. Memories of messy kissing in the bathroom of a tiny club somewhere downtown filter through Miya's hazy mind, as syncopated as the too-loud music that was blasting through the speakers there. His head feels like it’s filled with cement, and the second he attempts to sit up after disentangling his limbs from the embrace, it's like a jackhammer is being drilled through his skull.
Miya barely makes it to the bathroom before throwing up. He's rarely felt as ashamed as he does now, kneeling naked on the cold tiles of a stranger's floor and puking copious amounts of liquid along with the half-digested edamame of the previous night. At least he's feeling slightly more human by the time he flushes the toilet. He steals aspirins and mouthwash from the cabinet, and catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirrored door as he pushes it closed. He looks like death warmed over, and it does nothing to relieve the revulsion he feels toward himself.
He goes back to the bedroom to pick up his clothes scattered across the floor, noticing only now that the guy asleep on the single bed is probably a decade younger than he is. He dresses himself hurriedly, leaves the apartment without a second thought, and stops to a nearby convenience store for a bottle of water and directions to the nearest train station.
No one dares sit next to him inside the homebound train car, which he puts down to the fact that he probably reeks of sweat and cigarette smoke. He plugs his earphones into his ears and selects Yuksek's album on his iPod before reluctantly pulling his cellphone out of his pocket. Better know now what to expect.
u coming home tonight? he reads on the small screen. This is code for "I'm sorry," and the taking for granted that they're both going to pretend the fight never happened is all but surprising.
He considers outright telling Tatsurou that he got shit-faced and hooked up with a guy he met in a club in Nichome, but he can't bring himself to do it. spent the night at yukkes, will be home soon, he lies through his fingertips.
lol hungover? ill make u some chazuke~
Miya doesn't even bother with a reply. The last thing he wants is Tatsurou to be nice to him, now of all times. However, he comes home to a warm smile and a hot bath, and his throat tightens when the smell of tea-infused rice reaches his nose. Shame is oozing from every single one of his pores, to the point where he feels like Tatsurou should be able to smell it. He fully expects a question about the scent of strange sweat and cologne sticking to his skin, but it never comes. He can barely taste the chazuke, the broth water-like and the texture of the salmon like pieces of soaked bread, and it's a wonder his stomach manages to hold it.
---
"How's my guitar?" Miya asks when a puffy-eyed Yukke appears in the door frame of the hospital room. He tries sitting up a little too fast, the pain bolting along his skull forcing him to slow down his movements.
A mixture of anger and concern distorts Yukke's voice. "Your stupid guitar is fine! What about your head?!"
"It's just a concussion," Miya replies dismissively, but he can't stop an unmistakable feeling of pride from raising the corners of his mouth as he remembers his spectacular fall off the stage. There's no doubt as to which performance is going to be talked about in the school cafeteria the next day. "Guess you can officially call me a rock star now, eh?"
"Shut up," Yukke manages before wiping off the two tears that had rolled down his cheeks with the back of his hand. "I thought you'd like, died."
Miya smiles at his friend's outburst. He'd take Yukke's tearful demonstrations over his mother's reproachful brand of concern any day, and he's glad to see him before being subjected to the obligatory reprimands and grounding. He scoots to one side of the bed and motions to Yukke to sit down on the now empty space next to him.
Yukke obeys, pulling his school bag onto his lap and rummaging through it before pulling out a strawberry-flavoured Kit Kat bar. "You fucking idiot," he says, handing him a piece of pink chocolate.
"You fucking idiot."
Disoriented, Miya turns his head to see Tatsurou's dark silhouette standing out against the bright hospital room. His memories of the past few hours are muddled and truncated, and he barely remembers being taken to the hospital.
The relapse draws very little pity. Not an ounce of concern is to be found on Tatsurou's face this time, anger being the only decipherable emotion. Even the doctor seems annoyed - he curtly reminds him that he might thwart his chances of recovery if he keeps subjecting himself to stress, and categorically forbids him to touch a music instrument or a score until further notice. Miya receives his sentence without a word and later considers his options as he follows Tatsurou's long shadow trailing behind him. How he's supposed to give up music and not go bonkers is beyond him.
Tatsurou isn't satisfied with the diagnosis, however, and lets it be known once the two of them are sitting in the car. "As if your damn guitars were the problem." They're still in the hospital parking lot, the engine idling. "It's my fault, right?"
"It's no one's fault," Miya says mechanically.
His answer falls on deaf ears, however. "I'm obviously doing you more harm than good." Tatsurou leans his chin against the palm of his hand, elbow propped on the door armrest. "Maybe we'd be better off breaking up," he mutters between his fingers.
It's not surprising that Tatsurou drew that same conclusion as Miya, but he still feels his chest constricting under the weight of his words. "Maybe," he manages reluctantly, the syllables scraping his dry throat. He can't even tell why he's so adamant that they keep together this ghost of a relationship, but something is still holding him back. Maybe it's the convenience of dating his bandmate, what little stability they bring each other, the comfort of coming home to someone, the sex - or maybe it's just because he's too fucking stubborn to give him up.
"Now's probably as good a time as ever," Tatsurou continues in what most likely is an attempt at placating the silence. "We have time to sort everything out while you're recovering, and then we can work on the band again when we're ready."
His contrived optimism sounds absurd to Miya's ears. It's like claiming that the glass is half full when it's nothing more than broken shards. "You're thinking about the band now?"
"The band is your fucking life as much as it's mine, Miya. But this," he says, gesturing vaguely, "this is killing us both. And you know MUCC is next on the list if we don't do something about it."
A tear rolls out of Tatsurou's eye and lands on the collar of his shirt. Miya looks away and stares at the car parked next to theirs, trying to ignore the sound of fabric rustling as Tatsurou dries his cheek with his sleeve. Their life is nothing more than a house of cards, he realizes. It suddenly occurs to him that the reason why he's scared of anything but the status quo is because he fears it would send the whole thing tumbling down and make him lose the two things that matter the most to him.
A sniffle, and then there's the sound of the hand brake being pulled. "This can't go on," Tatsurou says, and Miya knows that he's right.
---
A mere couple of hours after getting back home, he's standing on the platform of Ueno station. His sole luggage consists of his acoustic guitar, an old sports bag hastily filled with random clothes and two packs of cigarettes, and the memory of an awkward goodbye haunting his brain. The directions to Ishioka are written in marker on the back of his hand ("just in case") as the compromise they settled for when Miya turned down Tatsurou's insisting offer to drive him to Ibaraki. He couldn't imagine the two of them in a space as cramped as a car now, and he feels more at ease standing in the crowded train, his shoulders sore due to the weight of his luggage.
Tatsurou's precaution proves superfluous, and Miya makes it to his hometown by nighttime. After the bustling crowd of Ueno, the tiny train station of Ishioka looks like it could belong to a parallel dimension. They're only a handful of people getting off, and what would be the main street is virtually empty despite the not-so-late hour. As always, a momentary culture shock hits him when he's struck by the lack of, well, anything. There's not much besides a convenience store and a small boutique displaying outfits that no woman in Tokyo would be caught dead wearing. As he starts walking toward his mother's house, what few buildings there are become even scarcer.
Ishioka is as boring as ever, but it's a nice respite from Tokyo and everything it has come to mean. All he has to do is spend too much time in bed, smoke too many cigarettes or strum his guitar without the pressure of having to produce something decent. He doesn't even have to worry about chores or fixing himself meals, and his biggest achievement during his first week there consists of inflating the tires of his old bicycle and riding around the countryside one afternoon. It's the closest to a vacation he's gotten since he graduated from high school.
It's also the perfect setup for remembrance, and nostalgia descends more often than he'd care to admit. It's crazy how far he has to go back to remember his life pre-Tatsurou, back when he still bothered pretending he liked girls and had to show his finished homework before being allowed to touch a guitar. They met one fatal evening at the concert of a mutual friend, and an hour later, had formed a band together. Little did they know that they'd never stop hovering between love and hate afterward, experiencing every emotion in-between and then some. Sometimes, Miya catches himself wondering what his life would have been like had they not met. He's glad he doesn't know, though.
Tatsurou holds true to his word and refrains from contacting him. Eventually, Miya stops checking his cellphone compulsively, hoping for (or maybe dreading?) a text message or a call from him. At least he's found a way to distract his brain by riding his bicycle, earphones plugged into his ear, mouthing the lyrics of whatever song he's listening to. The blank in his head when he's racing down hills or struggling through tall grass more than makes up for the couple of falls he's accumulated. When all he feels is the burn of asphalt scraping the palm of his hands, he can pretend there's nothing waiting for him back in Tokyo. No Tatsurou, no band, no tiny bedroom cramped with amplifiers and piles of clothes, no responsibilities, no nothing.
---
Miya is watching TV, and this is a big deal because he's actually watching it, not simply using it as background noise or quickly checking the weather forecast before running out. He's been glued to the screen for a couple of hours now, admiring the inanity of one of those game shows that are advertised all over the city. Some B-list comedian is trying to figure out in what part of the body the tibia is located, scrunching up his face and whimpering like he was giving birth. The show has to be scripted, Miya hopes. That guy can't be this fucking stupid.
"You like this show?" his mother asks as she walks into the living room and sits down at the opposite end of the couch.
"Pretty sure it's my first and last time watching it," Miya defends himself, shaking his head disbelievingly when the contestant manages to get the answer wrong. He then notices the novel in his mother's hands. "What are you reading?" That's another thing he hasn't had the luxury to do in a very, very long time.
"The Unbearable Lightness of Being," she answers, the book resting on her lap. An amused smile appears on her lips when Miya raises a confused eyebrow at the title. "It's basically the story of a man who usually favors casual sex over love, but still falls in love with a girl."
Miya chuckles, the synopsis a little too close to his own life for comfort. "And then he stops sleeping around?" he asks with a bit of a taunting smirk.
She shakes her head. "No, he can't quit. He says that he views love and sex as two separate things, but the girl doesn't see it this way at all and it almost drives her insane." She opens the novel at the page indicated by her bookmark. "I'm enjoying it so far. The writing is beautiful."
Her last two sentences fly right above Miya's head. He can certainly feel for the girl in the book, although he has more in common with the protagonist than he'd like to admit. And as much as he tries to keep the thought from worming its way through his brain, he can't help but wonder with which character Tatsurou has the most affinity. He fears he knows the answer, though. "... How does it end?" he forces himself to ask, pretending to be paying more attention to the trivia question that has just appeared on the screen.
His mother chuckles softly. "I haven't read this far yet. But I'll lend it to you when I'm done if you want."
---
Miya doesn't wait for his mother to finish the book before starting to read it himself, working his way through it when she's busy with something else or at night after she's gone to sleep. Unfortunately, the answer he sought is nowhere to be found within its pages. Lost in the philosophical subtext and the politics of a region and an era he doesn't know much about, he feels his interest wane when a single sentence mentions in passing that the two protagonists have been crushed under a truck.
The too many similarities between the plot and his own life make him grow progressively more uneasy, however. Tomáš and Tereza are just as inept as he and Tatsurou when it comes to working out their issues, and only find some sort of salvation by moving to the countryside, remote from anyone to be unfaithful with. Not a viable option, in their case. As ridiculous as it is, he's disappointed that even an award-winning author apparently can't come up with a solution to their dilemma that doesn't involve isolation or death.
He doesn't even bother with the last chapter of the novel. Despite the fact that the sun is setting, he decides to go for a ride. His destination ends up being the local cemetery, his bicycle taking him there naturally as he's already visited a handful of times since he left the capital. Alone with his cigarettes, he sits down by his family's grave, decorated with the bouquet of withering flowers he left there on his first visit. His gaze follows the light of a firefly flickering through the dark as he tries not to imagine Tatsurou and himself dead under a truck.
---
"Any idea when you're going back home?"
A chill engulfs Miya, too icy to be put down to the open fridge door. He doesn't need to look at his step-father to imagine the perfectly calculated aloofness on his face as he flips through the pages of the day-old paper and sips on his can of beer. The pear in Miya's hand feels like it weighs a ton all of a sudden, and he puts it back in the fridge, muttering a vague answer before leaving the kitchen.
He retreats into his room and takes cover under his blanket. The place he's hopelessly been trying to forget is the closest to "home" he's going to get, but somewhere along the line, he's found comfort in the complacency and inertia. Now he doesn't even bother with replying to his friends' text messages or jotting down the melodies that sometimes materialize into his mind on a sheet of paper. He's become a fucking coward, dragging his mother and her husband down into the hole he's dug for himself.
Guilt wrings his stomach as he holds the ring that his mother just handed him. It's a simple white gold band, and he's never seen his father without it for as long as he remembers. He'd always assumed his body had been cremated with it, but he immediately recognizes it nonetheless. He almost hates her at this precise moment. It's hard to see more in her gesture than a rejection of her late husband's memory, and he momentarily tastes the bitterness of betrayal he'd felt years ago when she announced that she was marrying again.
She sighs, watching him inspect the ring. "Sometimes I can't help but think that you wouldn't have turned out like this if he was still here."
It's been years since Miya has stopped hoping to see anything other than regret on her face when she looks at him. "Like what?" he asks as he tries the ring on a finger of his right hand. He knows exactly what, though. Her self-inflicted guilt has stopped drawing any compassion from him long ago. She should know by now that he's not going to magically stop being gay, and that, dead or not, his father has nothing to do with it. It's almost funny to think that she was done grieving his father in a matter of months, and yet she's still mourning the perfect little heterosexual son she'll never have. Maybe because he's still alive.
There's no answer to his question, but Miya isn't waiting for one. His stubby fingers apparently haven't been inherited from his father, he thinks when the ring refuses to slide past the knuckle. He thanks his mother and puts it in the chest pocket of his shirt before waking up and feeling his throat confusedly. His neck is destitute of its usual heirloom, something hardly surprising now that he remembers throwing it into the bottom drawer of his desk. Miya grunts. He's never felt so idiotic.
He sits up on his futon and rubs his eyes while they get accustomed to the dark. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a tiny light blinking in the dark, and he realizes that it's the vibration of his cellphone that just woke him up. He reaches out to grab it and flips it open. What little light the small screen emits is blinding in the dark room, forcing Miya to squint in order to read the text message he just received.
i fucking miss you
All Miya can do is stare at the characters, his heart into his mouth. The display eventually dims in order to spare the battery. No amount of staring at his phone allows him to figure out what it is exactly that he's feeling, though, and he doesn't give himself a chance to think it over before pushing the phone-shaped icon next to Tatsurou's name.
After several rings, he's almost resigned to hang up when there's finally a click, soon followed by Tatsurou's tired voice. "... Yeah?"
"Hey. It's me," Miya adds, as though Tatsurou could have possibly forgotten the sound of his voice in twenty-odd days. "Were you sleeping?"
"Yeah... but don't worry about it," he slurs, and Miya can practically hear the booze in his voice.
Neither of them says anything for what feels like hours, and Miya realizes he has no idea what to say. He hoped Tatsurou would take care of the talking, but it's obviously not going to happen. "I, uh... I got your message," he tries in order to fill the silence. It goes on for a long time before Tatsurou finally replies, however.
"Sorry about that. I just... I wasn't thinking straight." Miya hears him sigh on the other end of the line. "I meant it, though."
He feels like grime enough as it is without having to hear Tatsurou tell him that he misses him. "I cheated on you," he says flatly before Tatsurou has time to expand further and tighten the vice-like grip that guilt has on him. He expects him to hang up or yell at him, but against all odds, Tatsurou simply chuckles.
"In Ibaraki?"
The question takes Miya aback. "No, in Tokyo," he replies, startled. "When we had a fight that one night and I said I spent the night at Yukke's."
"Oh, there I was trying to imagine what kind of hick you would've cheated on me with," Tatsurou jokes. "Not with Yukke, I hope?"
"Tatsurou," Miya sighs, drawing out his name pleadingly. He, for one, can't see the humour in his confession.
"... So it's an eye for an eye, eh?" he says after a long pause, the amusement in his voice betraying a hint of sadness this time. Only after hearing this does Miya realize that it had been Tatsurou's self-defense mechanism at work previously.
He isn't sure whether he should be relieved to know that he's not completely paranoid or worried that lying to each other has become the norm in their relationship, but somehow, he feels no anger or sadness, just... relief. Regardless of whether he has to thank Tatsurou's blood alcohol content for it, he's glad that the truth is out at last. "I didn't do it for revenge, though," he starts, although he barely remembers what was going through his head at the time, "but just the fact that I did it says a lot about me."
A heavy sigh fills the phone line, dripping with remorse. "I fucking earned it, though. I figured it'd be either that or you'd kick me out one day."
Miya's brain still obstinately refuses to produce that particular memory, but it's obvious that his body somehow remembers. The pain he's felt then is still somewhere inside of him, like a scar that never quite fades away. "Why did you lie about it then?"
He can almost see Tatsurou gnawing his bottom lip to ruin, some hundred kilometres away. "I always thought you'd never let me forget it, but after you lost your memory, things were going so well for a while that I just... I didn't want you to remember. Which I realize was stupid as fuck since we're back to square one anyway."
"Well, if it can make you feel better, we're even now," Miya tries after poring over what Tatsurou just said for a moment.
"Right." There's a long pause, followed by a chuckle. "How about we both move the fuck on?"
"You better not regret saying that when you sober up," Miya mutters. The ease with which Tatsurou seems willing to forgive him stands worlds apart from the resentment he's felt for weeks now, months even. Then he remembers Tomáš and Tereza, and for the first time, he considers the fact that maybe they really just are wired differently.
Another chuckle. "I think I'd regret it more if I wasn't drunk and fronting instead."
"I don't know why you bother with a hypocritical asshole like me," Miya confesses. Then again, he's stopped trying to make sense of Tatsurou a long time ago.
"Because I love you. And don't give yourself too much credit. I'm an asshole, too, remember?"
It's such a simple answer, and yet Miya hadn't seen it coming at all. Tatsurou is right. They're both assholes, liars and hypocrites - and perfect for each other. He considers his previous assumption that maybe they could go back to what they used to be before they settled into this toxic symbiosis, go back to being friends, perhaps best friends, and colleagues. Then he considers Tatsurou - overconfident to the point of being obnoxious, fiercely intelligent, and probably the only person in the world he has no idea how to handle, even after knowing him for all these years - and he tries to imagine the two of them working together and pretending they're not absolutely crazy for each other when something suddenly breaks inside of him and tears start running down his face like water out of an open dam.
Tatsurou immediately notices. "Glad it doesn't only happen to me," he says softly despite Miya's best efforts to hold back.
All he manages to accomplish, however, is make his throat hurt as he tries to swallow back his tears to no avail. He finally surrenders, his shoulders shaking with each new sob, his attempts at muffling them into his pillow failing miserably. The thought that Tatsurou is sitting through it all is mortifying, but Miya can't even bring himself to move the handset away, just in case he'd say something. He doesn't, but there's something comforting about his silence, if only because he's there. Just his willingness to sit around with Miya sobbing into his ear like a fucking idiot for ages is like a confirmation that he's not given up on him yet.
It feels like Miya is never going to run out of tears, but he finally gets a hold of himself, at least long enough to talk. "I'm so fucking sorry," he manages, sniffling pathetically into the receiver.
"... Just come back home, okay?" Tatsurou's voice falters, even cracking a bit on the last word.
Miya didn't think he could possibly be more heartbroken, but he somehow finds the energy to crack a smile through the tears running down his face. "Tomorrow."
---
Sleep deigns no visit that night. Miya's bags are packed before the coffee is even done percolating and he's downstairs before his mother and her husband for the first time since he's in Ibaraki. He stuffs two peanut butter toasts into his mouth, kisses his (obviously confused) mother goodbye and steps into the diffuse morning light, headed for the train station.
He makes it to Tokyo before noon, backtracking through the main hall of Ueno station lined with cafés of all kinds and bustling with people in suits. The sight of sweets and coffee drinks topped with whipped cream distract him momentarily from the apprehension bubbling up in his stomach. Even it can't get in the way of his appetite, and before he knows it, he's walking down the corridor to his apartment with a paper bag containing two raspberry and white chocolate scones. He inserts his key into the door lock, turns the knob and steps into the living room. Home.
He finds Tatsurou sitting on the couch with a PS3 controller on his lap, visibly asleep, his head thrown back in a position that looks all but comfortable. There's a half-dozen of most likely empty beer cans piled up in a pyramid on the coffee table. A 3D character is standing in the middle of the TV screen, obviously awaiting commands. Miya recognizes the game as Dragon Quest. He carefully puts down his guitar case before making his way to the screen in order to turn it off.
His shin then connects with the edge of the coffee table, causing a loud thud and a bolt of pain in his leg. Gizmo's barks precede him and he's in the living room barely a second later, scratching at his leg. Miya takes the chihuahua in his arms, if only to spare his throbbing shin, earning himself several licks on both cheeks in the process. Now awake, Tatsurou stretches, making a pained face as he straightens his neck. That ought to be painful.
"I'm home," Miya says awkwardly, dodging Gizmo's enthusiastic tongue.
"Welcome back," Tatsurou replies, a sleepy smile on his face. It's been so long since Miya last heard him say that.
He nods toward the sports bag hanging from his shoulder. "I'll go put my stuff in my room." He then heads toward his improvised bedroom, puts down both Gizmo and his bag on the futon and opens the bottom drawer of his desk. He takes his chain out and looks at the simple ring hanging from it, smirking a bit at his own stupidity. He mentally apologizes to his father as he fastens the chain around his neck where it belongs.
Tatsurou appears in the door frame while Miya is still busy scratching Gizmo behind the ears. "Do you wanna move your stuff back into the bedroom?" he asks before clearing his throat. "I'll give you a hand."
Miya almost brings up their discussion of the previous night, but maybe Tatsurou is right and there's nothing left to discuss anymore. "I really wanna nap before, though. I'm beat."
One corner of Tatsurou's mouth curve upward. "I'll join you, then," he starts, "but come here first."
Miya wordlessly accepts the invitation. Tatsurou's lips are soft against his, his usual aggressiveness missing from the embrace. As he breaks away to look at him straight in the eyes, one hand lingering on his cheek, Miya feels a prickling sensation in his nose. The lack of sleep, he decides.
Then they're in the bedroom, kicking off pants and socks before flopping onto the bed one on top of the other. Miya drops his head onto the pillow, and the familiar and comforting scent of shampoo and Jean Paul Gaultier fragrance takes him to sleep almost instantly.
---
It takes a few weeks, but Miya's life eventually does settle back into the routine, so smoothly he could almost forget he has been on a months-long break if it weren't for the relief he feels once he's back to his usual tasks. It's only then that he realizes how much he's missed the studio and the rehearsals, the "ah ah ah"s of Tatsurou warming up, the jokes flying around, the irreplaceable wholeness he feels when it's just the four of them and their music.
Their first gig in God knows how long rolls by before he knows it. It's just how he remembers their past performances, the main exception being that the audience cheers for him louder than for Tatsurou for the first time in the band's career. What follows is the usual blur of music and screams ringing in his ears, the adrenaline, the choking heat, the umpteenth confirmation that there's nowhere else in the world he'd rather be. It's over in the blink of an eye.
Miya stumbles backstage, out of breath. A drop of sweat falls onto his lashes and he blinks it away, his heart still pounding as he lets himself fall back onto one of the couches. The last hour and a half feels like it lasted but a few minutes, and he'd run back on stage if he could. He already misses the stage fright, the bass pumping under his bare feet, his guitar as an extension of himself, the strobe lights all around him, the too-short communion with the two thousand people standing in the Shinkiba venue.
For now, though, a smoke will do.
After a few high-fives and compliments (the consensus is that he hasn't lost it), he finally gets to light one of his cigarettes, imitating many in the small room. Immediately afterward, there's nothing but him and the slight euphoria of the post-concert nicotine. He closes his eyes, enjoying the sensation of the smoke filling his lungs and the chill of sweat evaporating from the skin of his now shirtless chest.
A tap on the shoulder brings him back down to earth moments later. "They're calling for you," one of their roadies tells him with a grin. Miya pays attention to the encore chant for the first time. No doubt about it, it's his name that the fans are calling repeatedly. A wave of exhilaration washes over him and he starts to laugh without thinking. Rarely has he felt so incredible.
He's still chuckling to himself as he butts his cigarette in the ashtray. He spots Tatsurou sitting at the opposite end of the room in front of one of the numerous mirrors, his back to him. A dark circle of sweat is staining the back of his shirt, long strands of hair encircling it. Their eyes meet in the mirror, and Miya's pulse accelerates again when Tatsurou's reflection winks at him.
---
It's one of those days when Miya and Tatsurou have nothing to say to each other - an unavoidable side effect of all the time they spend together. They don't mind, though. They don't even bother with words when it happens, instead filling the silence with their heavy breathing, the rustling of fabric and the slap of skin against skin.
The room is quiet again for the time being, although still filled with the heat of their lovemaking. Miya is lying on his back, eyelids heavy, his fingers intertwined with Tatsurou's. Snowflakes flutter lazily through the crisp air outside the window, contrasting with the warmth of their flushed and moist bodies.
Tatsurou's lips drop a kiss on the curve of his shoulder. "Wanna order takeout?" he asks, nuzzling his skin.
"Only if you promise to put on some clothes before answering the door this time."
Tatsurou chuckles against his skin, tickling him a little in the process. He then rolls over on his side to prop himself up on one arm, his long hair feeling like silk as it slides across Miya's chest. "Just answer the door yourself if you're gonna be such a prude." His free hand stays near his face, his fingertips traveling from his hair to his cheek, the light touches clashing with the mischievous grin on his face.
Miya turns his head to smirk at him. "And then you're just gonna walk naked in front of the door anyway. I know you, Tatsurou."
Tatsurou laughs this time, and it makes Miya smile. "C'mon, Miya. I'd never." He's now tugging lightly at the ring on Miya's neck, sliding it back and forth along the chain as he looks at him with those eyes that still make his insides melt. Funny how time goes by, Miya thinks. He still refuses to give the future - their future - too much thought, but they've been doing well so far. Compared to the past, if anything. He's too cynical to believe that they'll grow old together, but he never imagined they'd even be able to go back this.
"What's up?" Tatsurou asks, smiling through the obvious confusion on his face. He's now flipping the ring between his index finger and his thumb, probably not even realizing what he's doing.
"I was thinking about when I'd lost my memory," he starts, and Tatsurou looks serious for once. "I didn't remember that my ring used to belong to my dad, so I assumed you'd given it to me and I almost threw it out once when I was pissed at you." It sounds even more ridiculous said aloud.
"Man, you really were pissed, weren't you?"
Miya forces himself to smile as he stares out the window, following a fluffy snowflake with his gaze. "I hated you with every fiber of my being."
Tatsurou sits up, and Miya turns to look at him, watching as he takes off the ring he's wearing on his right hand. "Here, for the next time you hate me." He hands it out to him, dead serious.
Miya would have pegged this as one of Tatsurou's attempts to make light of the situation had there been the slightest hint of amusement in his expression. There's nothing of the sort, though. No hurt or anger, either, but something more somber. Miya wants to say that it's guilt, but he'll probably never know.
Without a word, he takes it between his two fingers and brings it to eye level. It's a simple, tarnished brass ring. He's seen it time and time again on Tatsurou's hand, although he never gave it much thought. "I'm keeping it," Miya warns.
"You better," Tatsurou replies, his smirk not quite distracting him from the persisting shadow in his eyes.
Miya unclasps his chain and slides the ring onto it before fastening it around his neck again. The two rings clink lightly against each other as they settle against his collarbone. He wraps his hand around them for a moment to see how they feel against his palm, as though he had a part of Tatsurou and his father resting together right above his heart.
"I'm dropping out of school," Tatsurou announces, his eyes shining peculiarly.
Miya blinks at him. "What? Why?" In a way, it's not really surprising. Tatsurou has been joking about it for a while now, but Miya had never expected it to be more than that - jokes. It also sounds like a fucking stupid idea, considering that they have only a few months left before being rid of high school forever.
"Because I'm losing my time there, and I can use that time to work on the band," comes the reply, told as if Miya were a complete idiot.
He chuckles as he throws his cigarette butt into the small river running a few feet below them. "Yeah? And what exactly are you gonna work on while the rest of us are going to school?" He pulls himself up to sit on the guardrail, waiting for Tatsurou's answer expectantly.
Tatsurou pouts, which makes him look like an overgrown five-year-old. "You don't have to be an asshole about it."
"Come on, man. I'm just as serious about it as you are and I still want my stupid paper," Miya starts. Tatsurou opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn't let him. "At least wait until we're signed before dropping out of whatever you'll be doing then."
Tatsurou's brow raises disbelievingly, and it's suddenly clear to Miya that he'd been hoping for his approval. "I never thought you'd say that."
"That's why I'm the band leader and you're not," he teases. The next moment, Tatsurou's hands are on his shoulders, and for a second, Miya is convinced that he's going to push him off the guardrail. It's enough to make him yelp and grip Tatsurou's forearms intuitively - which is probably the reaction Tatsurou was looking for because he's now laughing at his obvious dismay. Miya keeps his hands on Tatsurou's arms as he looks at him straight in the eye, smirking. "Do that and I'm pulling you down with me."
Online Coupon Code
Author: stupeur
Beta: hanako
Rating: PG-13 (language and implied sexuality)
Pairing: Tatsurou/Miya
Summary: When Miya wakes up one day with no recollection of who he is, all he wants is to recover his memory - but soon he realizes that some things were better forgotten.
Notes: I can't believe it took me nearly a year before posting the last part. @_@ I'm so, so sorry, but life just... got the better of me for a while. Here are parts 1 and 2 in case you need to refresh your memory (pun not intended). I really hope that the ending won't disappoint. ♥ Enjoy. :)
Miya is thinking too much - Tatsurou said the truth about that, at least - and every element of their conversation eventually becomes suspicious when he analyzes them a little too long. And yet, something in Tatsurou’s nonchalant affection renders him unable to do anything but give him the benefit of the doubt. The only solution left is doing his best to silence the insisting voice at the back of his head.
The disappearance of Miya's notebook, in which he jots down all of his music ideas, gets the better of him, however. His head is filled with words he can't wait to stick to the chords he scribbled down onto it the previous evening, but he's rummaged through every room of the apartment and the damn thing is still nowhere to be found.
Resigned, he sits down on the couch. Could he have left it in the studio? Or is there a chance it might have fallen out of his bag and now lies somewhere in the city, most likely torn to shreds by the shoes of a million passersby? He lets out a frustrated groan as the thought crosses his mind. There had gone a few months worth of work.
He hears the familiar click of the front door opening. "I'm home," Tatsurou chimes. His keys clink against the wooden surface of the coffee table when he throws them onto it.
Miya doesn't even bother with greetings. "Have you seen my notebook?" he asks. "The one with the dog picture on the cover?"
Tatsurou nods briefly toward the living room shelves as he wriggles his feet out of his shoes, holding onto the door frame for balance. "It's on the top shelf."
No wonder. Miya doesn't even need to try to know that it's just a tad too high for him. "I'm too short," he grits between his teeth. The embarrassment and annoyance in his voice obviously fly right above Tatsurou's head, and his sole answer consists of a roar of laughter.
It takes Miya every little bit of self-control not to let his fist connect with Tatsurou's throat to shut him up. Instead, he watches him grab the notebook effortlessly and hand it to him, his eyes shinier than usual.
Miya snatches the notebook from Tatsurou's hands. "Don't touch my stuff anymore," he snarls. The amused smile that was still curving Tatsurou's lips immediately vanishes.
“I was just doing some cleaning,” he says defensively as he slips into his bedroom, raising his voice so that Miya can hear him from the living room. "It's not like I put it there just to piss you off."
"Just don't fucking touch it," Miya repeats, louder as well, and notices that his knuckles are white from holding onto the notebook much more tightly than necessary. Surprised at his own outburst, he throws it down onto the coffee table.
"Sorry about that," comes the answer, more annoyed than sincere. There's a pause, and Tatsurou walks back, changed into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. He flops down next to Miya before turning the TV on and throwing his heels onto the table. "Just clean up after your mess once in a while if you don't want me to touch your stuff."
Miya raises a brow at him. "Since when do you care about the mess here anyway?" It's a valid question - cleaning has never been his forte, and Tatsurou isn't exactly a neat freak either - but right now he doesn't care so much about the answer than just pushing Tatsurou's buttons.
It works. "I care because you’re not doing shit in this place," Tatsurou starts as he turns to glare at him. "I'm the one doing everything around this damn house. I have to do the cleaning, the groceries, the laundry, I have to cook because otherwise all we'd ever eat is cup ramen, I have to go to work, and what do you do? You sit around all fucking day."
"I sit around all fucking day?" Miya repeats in disbelief before chuckling humorlessly, shaking his head. "It's not a fucking walk in the park for me either!"
"Maybe, but you're not doing anything to make it easier for either of us!" Tatsurou throws his hands up and lets them fall onto his lap exasperatedly. "I wouldn't mind doing all this for you if it wasn't obvious you don't want me around. I can't even get a fucking smile these days." He stares resolutely at the cooking show playing on TV, jaw clenched.
A pang of remorse bores Miya's abdomen and he stutters an apology, but it's like Tatsurou hadn't heard him.
"I keep telling myself you're gonna come around, but it's clearly not gonna happen. You don’t trust me and I'm fucking sick of it."
The ease with which Tatsurou can see right through Miya never ceases to startle him, and every time it's like he's just been stripped naked. "It has nothing to do with you," he tries, but his voice rings false even to his own ears.
A wry smile distorts Tatsurou's mouth. "That's why you were looking at my phone while you thought I was sleeping, I guess?"
Miya's stomach sinks to his toes. His anger shifts against himself as he remembers the half-dozen passwords he input into Tatsurou's phone in a desperate attempt to pry into his mind. There's nothing he can say to that, and the hurt in Tatsurou's gaze as he looks him right in the eye deals the finishing blow.
"Fuck you, Miya."
The next second, Tatsurou is back to staring vacantly at the TV screen, and Miya knows he has to get out of here.
---
Yukke takes one look at Miya when he finds him on his doorstep and declares that they’re going for a round of beers.
"What is it now?" he asks into his beer mug. The feigned amusement in his voice can't conceal the genuine concern in his eyes, though.
"Tatsurou's driving me insane." Miya takes a long gulp of the beer Yukke insisted on buying him, not even trying to hide his disgust at the too-strong taste of malt. He puts the mug down and rubs his eyes. "And I'm pretty sure the feeling is mutual."
"How come?" Despite the question, Yukke's face is somehow void of any surprise.
Miya sighs loudly. "I don't know, man. I remember you, I remember our music, I remember buying my car, but I can't fucking remember him. It's like I have no idea who he really is. And I try to get into his brain, and it-" Hurts, he almost says, but he stops himself just in time. "And I don't like what I'm seeing there."
One corner of Yukke's mouth curve upward in some sort of pitying smile. "I know you guys are crazy about each other," he starts, "but sometimes I wonder what the hell you're doing together."
"Same here," Miya concurs with a chuckle. "All the time, in fact."
For a moment, all Yukke does is gnaw on the dry skin of his bottom lip. "Well, you're some of the most stubborn people I've ever met." He pauses to sip on his beer, obviously looking for his words. "But maybe it's time to let go. And I say this as someone who wants the best for the both of you."
Miya stares into his own mug as the idea makes its way into his brain. Somehow, he'd convinced himself that it was up to him to swallow his pride and figure out some sort of compromise, but maybe Yukke's right. Maybe putting an end to their relationship - and putting Tatsurou and himself out of their misery by the same token - is the only solution left.
Then there's another round of beer and rum and tequila shots, and before Miya knows it, the alcohol coursing through his blood stream has lulled the tornado that has been ravaging his brain for so long.
---
He wakes up the next day in somebody else’s bed, and the first thing he notices is that the naked body pressed against his own is not Tatsurou's. The short hair is a dead giveaway, for one, and the lazy hold around him lacks the assertiveness that has become second nature to him. Memories of messy kissing in the bathroom of a tiny club somewhere downtown filter through Miya's hazy mind, as syncopated as the too-loud music that was blasting through the speakers there. His head feels like it’s filled with cement, and the second he attempts to sit up after disentangling his limbs from the embrace, it's like a jackhammer is being drilled through his skull.
Miya barely makes it to the bathroom before throwing up. He's rarely felt as ashamed as he does now, kneeling naked on the cold tiles of a stranger's floor and puking copious amounts of liquid along with the half-digested edamame of the previous night. At least he's feeling slightly more human by the time he flushes the toilet. He steals aspirins and mouthwash from the cabinet, and catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirrored door as he pushes it closed. He looks like death warmed over, and it does nothing to relieve the revulsion he feels toward himself.
He goes back to the bedroom to pick up his clothes scattered across the floor, noticing only now that the guy asleep on the single bed is probably a decade younger than he is. He dresses himself hurriedly, leaves the apartment without a second thought, and stops to a nearby convenience store for a bottle of water and directions to the nearest train station.
No one dares sit next to him inside the homebound train car, which he puts down to the fact that he probably reeks of sweat and cigarette smoke. He plugs his earphones into his ears and selects Yuksek's album on his iPod before reluctantly pulling his cellphone out of his pocket. Better know now what to expect.
u coming home tonight? he reads on the small screen. This is code for "I'm sorry," and the taking for granted that they're both going to pretend the fight never happened is all but surprising.
He considers outright telling Tatsurou that he got shit-faced and hooked up with a guy he met in a club in Nichome, but he can't bring himself to do it. spent the night at yukkes, will be home soon, he lies through his fingertips.
lol hungover? ill make u some chazuke~
Miya doesn't even bother with a reply. The last thing he wants is Tatsurou to be nice to him, now of all times. However, he comes home to a warm smile and a hot bath, and his throat tightens when the smell of tea-infused rice reaches his nose. Shame is oozing from every single one of his pores, to the point where he feels like Tatsurou should be able to smell it. He fully expects a question about the scent of strange sweat and cologne sticking to his skin, but it never comes. He can barely taste the chazuke, the broth water-like and the texture of the salmon like pieces of soaked bread, and it's a wonder his stomach manages to hold it.
---
"How's my guitar?" Miya asks when a puffy-eyed Yukke appears in the door frame of the hospital room. He tries sitting up a little too fast, the pain bolting along his skull forcing him to slow down his movements.
A mixture of anger and concern distorts Yukke's voice. "Your stupid guitar is fine! What about your head?!"
"It's just a concussion," Miya replies dismissively, but he can't stop an unmistakable feeling of pride from raising the corners of his mouth as he remembers his spectacular fall off the stage. There's no doubt as to which performance is going to be talked about in the school cafeteria the next day. "Guess you can officially call me a rock star now, eh?"
"Shut up," Yukke manages before wiping off the two tears that had rolled down his cheeks with the back of his hand. "I thought you'd like, died."
Miya smiles at his friend's outburst. He'd take Yukke's tearful demonstrations over his mother's reproachful brand of concern any day, and he's glad to see him before being subjected to the obligatory reprimands and grounding. He scoots to one side of the bed and motions to Yukke to sit down on the now empty space next to him.
Yukke obeys, pulling his school bag onto his lap and rummaging through it before pulling out a strawberry-flavoured Kit Kat bar. "You fucking idiot," he says, handing him a piece of pink chocolate.
"You fucking idiot."
Disoriented, Miya turns his head to see Tatsurou's dark silhouette standing out against the bright hospital room. His memories of the past few hours are muddled and truncated, and he barely remembers being taken to the hospital.
The relapse draws very little pity. Not an ounce of concern is to be found on Tatsurou's face this time, anger being the only decipherable emotion. Even the doctor seems annoyed - he curtly reminds him that he might thwart his chances of recovery if he keeps subjecting himself to stress, and categorically forbids him to touch a music instrument or a score until further notice. Miya receives his sentence without a word and later considers his options as he follows Tatsurou's long shadow trailing behind him. How he's supposed to give up music and not go bonkers is beyond him.
Tatsurou isn't satisfied with the diagnosis, however, and lets it be known once the two of them are sitting in the car. "As if your damn guitars were the problem." They're still in the hospital parking lot, the engine idling. "It's my fault, right?"
"It's no one's fault," Miya says mechanically.
His answer falls on deaf ears, however. "I'm obviously doing you more harm than good." Tatsurou leans his chin against the palm of his hand, elbow propped on the door armrest. "Maybe we'd be better off breaking up," he mutters between his fingers.
It's not surprising that Tatsurou drew that same conclusion as Miya, but he still feels his chest constricting under the weight of his words. "Maybe," he manages reluctantly, the syllables scraping his dry throat. He can't even tell why he's so adamant that they keep together this ghost of a relationship, but something is still holding him back. Maybe it's the convenience of dating his bandmate, what little stability they bring each other, the comfort of coming home to someone, the sex - or maybe it's just because he's too fucking stubborn to give him up.
"Now's probably as good a time as ever," Tatsurou continues in what most likely is an attempt at placating the silence. "We have time to sort everything out while you're recovering, and then we can work on the band again when we're ready."
His contrived optimism sounds absurd to Miya's ears. It's like claiming that the glass is half full when it's nothing more than broken shards. "You're thinking about the band now?"
"The band is your fucking life as much as it's mine, Miya. But this," he says, gesturing vaguely, "this is killing us both. And you know MUCC is next on the list if we don't do something about it."
A tear rolls out of Tatsurou's eye and lands on the collar of his shirt. Miya looks away and stares at the car parked next to theirs, trying to ignore the sound of fabric rustling as Tatsurou dries his cheek with his sleeve. Their life is nothing more than a house of cards, he realizes. It suddenly occurs to him that the reason why he's scared of anything but the status quo is because he fears it would send the whole thing tumbling down and make him lose the two things that matter the most to him.
A sniffle, and then there's the sound of the hand brake being pulled. "This can't go on," Tatsurou says, and Miya knows that he's right.
---
A mere couple of hours after getting back home, he's standing on the platform of Ueno station. His sole luggage consists of his acoustic guitar, an old sports bag hastily filled with random clothes and two packs of cigarettes, and the memory of an awkward goodbye haunting his brain. The directions to Ishioka are written in marker on the back of his hand ("just in case") as the compromise they settled for when Miya turned down Tatsurou's insisting offer to drive him to Ibaraki. He couldn't imagine the two of them in a space as cramped as a car now, and he feels more at ease standing in the crowded train, his shoulders sore due to the weight of his luggage.
Tatsurou's precaution proves superfluous, and Miya makes it to his hometown by nighttime. After the bustling crowd of Ueno, the tiny train station of Ishioka looks like it could belong to a parallel dimension. They're only a handful of people getting off, and what would be the main street is virtually empty despite the not-so-late hour. As always, a momentary culture shock hits him when he's struck by the lack of, well, anything. There's not much besides a convenience store and a small boutique displaying outfits that no woman in Tokyo would be caught dead wearing. As he starts walking toward his mother's house, what few buildings there are become even scarcer.
Ishioka is as boring as ever, but it's a nice respite from Tokyo and everything it has come to mean. All he has to do is spend too much time in bed, smoke too many cigarettes or strum his guitar without the pressure of having to produce something decent. He doesn't even have to worry about chores or fixing himself meals, and his biggest achievement during his first week there consists of inflating the tires of his old bicycle and riding around the countryside one afternoon. It's the closest to a vacation he's gotten since he graduated from high school.
It's also the perfect setup for remembrance, and nostalgia descends more often than he'd care to admit. It's crazy how far he has to go back to remember his life pre-Tatsurou, back when he still bothered pretending he liked girls and had to show his finished homework before being allowed to touch a guitar. They met one fatal evening at the concert of a mutual friend, and an hour later, had formed a band together. Little did they know that they'd never stop hovering between love and hate afterward, experiencing every emotion in-between and then some. Sometimes, Miya catches himself wondering what his life would have been like had they not met. He's glad he doesn't know, though.
Tatsurou holds true to his word and refrains from contacting him. Eventually, Miya stops checking his cellphone compulsively, hoping for (or maybe dreading?) a text message or a call from him. At least he's found a way to distract his brain by riding his bicycle, earphones plugged into his ear, mouthing the lyrics of whatever song he's listening to. The blank in his head when he's racing down hills or struggling through tall grass more than makes up for the couple of falls he's accumulated. When all he feels is the burn of asphalt scraping the palm of his hands, he can pretend there's nothing waiting for him back in Tokyo. No Tatsurou, no band, no tiny bedroom cramped with amplifiers and piles of clothes, no responsibilities, no nothing.
---
Miya is watching TV, and this is a big deal because he's actually watching it, not simply using it as background noise or quickly checking the weather forecast before running out. He's been glued to the screen for a couple of hours now, admiring the inanity of one of those game shows that are advertised all over the city. Some B-list comedian is trying to figure out in what part of the body the tibia is located, scrunching up his face and whimpering like he was giving birth. The show has to be scripted, Miya hopes. That guy can't be this fucking stupid.
"You like this show?" his mother asks as she walks into the living room and sits down at the opposite end of the couch.
"Pretty sure it's my first and last time watching it," Miya defends himself, shaking his head disbelievingly when the contestant manages to get the answer wrong. He then notices the novel in his mother's hands. "What are you reading?" That's another thing he hasn't had the luxury to do in a very, very long time.
"The Unbearable Lightness of Being," she answers, the book resting on her lap. An amused smile appears on her lips when Miya raises a confused eyebrow at the title. "It's basically the story of a man who usually favors casual sex over love, but still falls in love with a girl."
Miya chuckles, the synopsis a little too close to his own life for comfort. "And then he stops sleeping around?" he asks with a bit of a taunting smirk.
She shakes her head. "No, he can't quit. He says that he views love and sex as two separate things, but the girl doesn't see it this way at all and it almost drives her insane." She opens the novel at the page indicated by her bookmark. "I'm enjoying it so far. The writing is beautiful."
Her last two sentences fly right above Miya's head. He can certainly feel for the girl in the book, although he has more in common with the protagonist than he'd like to admit. And as much as he tries to keep the thought from worming its way through his brain, he can't help but wonder with which character Tatsurou has the most affinity. He fears he knows the answer, though. "... How does it end?" he forces himself to ask, pretending to be paying more attention to the trivia question that has just appeared on the screen.
His mother chuckles softly. "I haven't read this far yet. But I'll lend it to you when I'm done if you want."
---
Miya doesn't wait for his mother to finish the book before starting to read it himself, working his way through it when she's busy with something else or at night after she's gone to sleep. Unfortunately, the answer he sought is nowhere to be found within its pages. Lost in the philosophical subtext and the politics of a region and an era he doesn't know much about, he feels his interest wane when a single sentence mentions in passing that the two protagonists have been crushed under a truck.
The too many similarities between the plot and his own life make him grow progressively more uneasy, however. Tomáš and Tereza are just as inept as he and Tatsurou when it comes to working out their issues, and only find some sort of salvation by moving to the countryside, remote from anyone to be unfaithful with. Not a viable option, in their case. As ridiculous as it is, he's disappointed that even an award-winning author apparently can't come up with a solution to their dilemma that doesn't involve isolation or death.
He doesn't even bother with the last chapter of the novel. Despite the fact that the sun is setting, he decides to go for a ride. His destination ends up being the local cemetery, his bicycle taking him there naturally as he's already visited a handful of times since he left the capital. Alone with his cigarettes, he sits down by his family's grave, decorated with the bouquet of withering flowers he left there on his first visit. His gaze follows the light of a firefly flickering through the dark as he tries not to imagine Tatsurou and himself dead under a truck.
---
"Any idea when you're going back home?"
A chill engulfs Miya, too icy to be put down to the open fridge door. He doesn't need to look at his step-father to imagine the perfectly calculated aloofness on his face as he flips through the pages of the day-old paper and sips on his can of beer. The pear in Miya's hand feels like it weighs a ton all of a sudden, and he puts it back in the fridge, muttering a vague answer before leaving the kitchen.
He retreats into his room and takes cover under his blanket. The place he's hopelessly been trying to forget is the closest to "home" he's going to get, but somewhere along the line, he's found comfort in the complacency and inertia. Now he doesn't even bother with replying to his friends' text messages or jotting down the melodies that sometimes materialize into his mind on a sheet of paper. He's become a fucking coward, dragging his mother and her husband down into the hole he's dug for himself.
Guilt wrings his stomach as he holds the ring that his mother just handed him. It's a simple white gold band, and he's never seen his father without it for as long as he remembers. He'd always assumed his body had been cremated with it, but he immediately recognizes it nonetheless. He almost hates her at this precise moment. It's hard to see more in her gesture than a rejection of her late husband's memory, and he momentarily tastes the bitterness of betrayal he'd felt years ago when she announced that she was marrying again.
She sighs, watching him inspect the ring. "Sometimes I can't help but think that you wouldn't have turned out like this if he was still here."
It's been years since Miya has stopped hoping to see anything other than regret on her face when she looks at him. "Like what?" he asks as he tries the ring on a finger of his right hand. He knows exactly what, though. Her self-inflicted guilt has stopped drawing any compassion from him long ago. She should know by now that he's not going to magically stop being gay, and that, dead or not, his father has nothing to do with it. It's almost funny to think that she was done grieving his father in a matter of months, and yet she's still mourning the perfect little heterosexual son she'll never have. Maybe because he's still alive.
There's no answer to his question, but Miya isn't waiting for one. His stubby fingers apparently haven't been inherited from his father, he thinks when the ring refuses to slide past the knuckle. He thanks his mother and puts it in the chest pocket of his shirt before waking up and feeling his throat confusedly. His neck is destitute of its usual heirloom, something hardly surprising now that he remembers throwing it into the bottom drawer of his desk. Miya grunts. He's never felt so idiotic.
He sits up on his futon and rubs his eyes while they get accustomed to the dark. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a tiny light blinking in the dark, and he realizes that it's the vibration of his cellphone that just woke him up. He reaches out to grab it and flips it open. What little light the small screen emits is blinding in the dark room, forcing Miya to squint in order to read the text message he just received.
i fucking miss you
All Miya can do is stare at the characters, his heart into his mouth. The display eventually dims in order to spare the battery. No amount of staring at his phone allows him to figure out what it is exactly that he's feeling, though, and he doesn't give himself a chance to think it over before pushing the phone-shaped icon next to Tatsurou's name.
After several rings, he's almost resigned to hang up when there's finally a click, soon followed by Tatsurou's tired voice. "... Yeah?"
"Hey. It's me," Miya adds, as though Tatsurou could have possibly forgotten the sound of his voice in twenty-odd days. "Were you sleeping?"
"Yeah... but don't worry about it," he slurs, and Miya can practically hear the booze in his voice.
Neither of them says anything for what feels like hours, and Miya realizes he has no idea what to say. He hoped Tatsurou would take care of the talking, but it's obviously not going to happen. "I, uh... I got your message," he tries in order to fill the silence. It goes on for a long time before Tatsurou finally replies, however.
"Sorry about that. I just... I wasn't thinking straight." Miya hears him sigh on the other end of the line. "I meant it, though."
He feels like grime enough as it is without having to hear Tatsurou tell him that he misses him. "I cheated on you," he says flatly before Tatsurou has time to expand further and tighten the vice-like grip that guilt has on him. He expects him to hang up or yell at him, but against all odds, Tatsurou simply chuckles.
"In Ibaraki?"
The question takes Miya aback. "No, in Tokyo," he replies, startled. "When we had a fight that one night and I said I spent the night at Yukke's."
"Oh, there I was trying to imagine what kind of hick you would've cheated on me with," Tatsurou jokes. "Not with Yukke, I hope?"
"Tatsurou," Miya sighs, drawing out his name pleadingly. He, for one, can't see the humour in his confession.
"... So it's an eye for an eye, eh?" he says after a long pause, the amusement in his voice betraying a hint of sadness this time. Only after hearing this does Miya realize that it had been Tatsurou's self-defense mechanism at work previously.
He isn't sure whether he should be relieved to know that he's not completely paranoid or worried that lying to each other has become the norm in their relationship, but somehow, he feels no anger or sadness, just... relief. Regardless of whether he has to thank Tatsurou's blood alcohol content for it, he's glad that the truth is out at last. "I didn't do it for revenge, though," he starts, although he barely remembers what was going through his head at the time, "but just the fact that I did it says a lot about me."
A heavy sigh fills the phone line, dripping with remorse. "I fucking earned it, though. I figured it'd be either that or you'd kick me out one day."
Miya's brain still obstinately refuses to produce that particular memory, but it's obvious that his body somehow remembers. The pain he's felt then is still somewhere inside of him, like a scar that never quite fades away. "Why did you lie about it then?"
He can almost see Tatsurou gnawing his bottom lip to ruin, some hundred kilometres away. "I always thought you'd never let me forget it, but after you lost your memory, things were going so well for a while that I just... I didn't want you to remember. Which I realize was stupid as fuck since we're back to square one anyway."
"Well, if it can make you feel better, we're even now," Miya tries after poring over what Tatsurou just said for a moment.
"Right." There's a long pause, followed by a chuckle. "How about we both move the fuck on?"
"You better not regret saying that when you sober up," Miya mutters. The ease with which Tatsurou seems willing to forgive him stands worlds apart from the resentment he's felt for weeks now, months even. Then he remembers Tomáš and Tereza, and for the first time, he considers the fact that maybe they really just are wired differently.
Another chuckle. "I think I'd regret it more if I wasn't drunk and fronting instead."
"I don't know why you bother with a hypocritical asshole like me," Miya confesses. Then again, he's stopped trying to make sense of Tatsurou a long time ago.
"Because I love you. And don't give yourself too much credit. I'm an asshole, too, remember?"
It's such a simple answer, and yet Miya hadn't seen it coming at all. Tatsurou is right. They're both assholes, liars and hypocrites - and perfect for each other. He considers his previous assumption that maybe they could go back to what they used to be before they settled into this toxic symbiosis, go back to being friends, perhaps best friends, and colleagues. Then he considers Tatsurou - overconfident to the point of being obnoxious, fiercely intelligent, and probably the only person in the world he has no idea how to handle, even after knowing him for all these years - and he tries to imagine the two of them working together and pretending they're not absolutely crazy for each other when something suddenly breaks inside of him and tears start running down his face like water out of an open dam.
Tatsurou immediately notices. "Glad it doesn't only happen to me," he says softly despite Miya's best efforts to hold back.
All he manages to accomplish, however, is make his throat hurt as he tries to swallow back his tears to no avail. He finally surrenders, his shoulders shaking with each new sob, his attempts at muffling them into his pillow failing miserably. The thought that Tatsurou is sitting through it all is mortifying, but Miya can't even bring himself to move the handset away, just in case he'd say something. He doesn't, but there's something comforting about his silence, if only because he's there. Just his willingness to sit around with Miya sobbing into his ear like a fucking idiot for ages is like a confirmation that he's not given up on him yet.
It feels like Miya is never going to run out of tears, but he finally gets a hold of himself, at least long enough to talk. "I'm so fucking sorry," he manages, sniffling pathetically into the receiver.
"... Just come back home, okay?" Tatsurou's voice falters, even cracking a bit on the last word.
Miya didn't think he could possibly be more heartbroken, but he somehow finds the energy to crack a smile through the tears running down his face. "Tomorrow."
---
Sleep deigns no visit that night. Miya's bags are packed before the coffee is even done percolating and he's downstairs before his mother and her husband for the first time since he's in Ibaraki. He stuffs two peanut butter toasts into his mouth, kisses his (obviously confused) mother goodbye and steps into the diffuse morning light, headed for the train station.
He makes it to Tokyo before noon, backtracking through the main hall of Ueno station lined with cafés of all kinds and bustling with people in suits. The sight of sweets and coffee drinks topped with whipped cream distract him momentarily from the apprehension bubbling up in his stomach. Even it can't get in the way of his appetite, and before he knows it, he's walking down the corridor to his apartment with a paper bag containing two raspberry and white chocolate scones. He inserts his key into the door lock, turns the knob and steps into the living room. Home.
He finds Tatsurou sitting on the couch with a PS3 controller on his lap, visibly asleep, his head thrown back in a position that looks all but comfortable. There's a half-dozen of most likely empty beer cans piled up in a pyramid on the coffee table. A 3D character is standing in the middle of the TV screen, obviously awaiting commands. Miya recognizes the game as Dragon Quest. He carefully puts down his guitar case before making his way to the screen in order to turn it off.
His shin then connects with the edge of the coffee table, causing a loud thud and a bolt of pain in his leg. Gizmo's barks precede him and he's in the living room barely a second later, scratching at his leg. Miya takes the chihuahua in his arms, if only to spare his throbbing shin, earning himself several licks on both cheeks in the process. Now awake, Tatsurou stretches, making a pained face as he straightens his neck. That ought to be painful.
"I'm home," Miya says awkwardly, dodging Gizmo's enthusiastic tongue.
"Welcome back," Tatsurou replies, a sleepy smile on his face. It's been so long since Miya last heard him say that.
He nods toward the sports bag hanging from his shoulder. "I'll go put my stuff in my room." He then heads toward his improvised bedroom, puts down both Gizmo and his bag on the futon and opens the bottom drawer of his desk. He takes his chain out and looks at the simple ring hanging from it, smirking a bit at his own stupidity. He mentally apologizes to his father as he fastens the chain around his neck where it belongs.
Tatsurou appears in the door frame while Miya is still busy scratching Gizmo behind the ears. "Do you wanna move your stuff back into the bedroom?" he asks before clearing his throat. "I'll give you a hand."
Miya almost brings up their discussion of the previous night, but maybe Tatsurou is right and there's nothing left to discuss anymore. "I really wanna nap before, though. I'm beat."
One corner of Tatsurou's mouth curve upward. "I'll join you, then," he starts, "but come here first."
Miya wordlessly accepts the invitation. Tatsurou's lips are soft against his, his usual aggressiveness missing from the embrace. As he breaks away to look at him straight in the eyes, one hand lingering on his cheek, Miya feels a prickling sensation in his nose. The lack of sleep, he decides.
Then they're in the bedroom, kicking off pants and socks before flopping onto the bed one on top of the other. Miya drops his head onto the pillow, and the familiar and comforting scent of shampoo and Jean Paul Gaultier fragrance takes him to sleep almost instantly.
---
It takes a few weeks, but Miya's life eventually does settle back into the routine, so smoothly he could almost forget he has been on a months-long break if it weren't for the relief he feels once he's back to his usual tasks. It's only then that he realizes how much he's missed the studio and the rehearsals, the "ah ah ah"s of Tatsurou warming up, the jokes flying around, the irreplaceable wholeness he feels when it's just the four of them and their music.
Their first gig in God knows how long rolls by before he knows it. It's just how he remembers their past performances, the main exception being that the audience cheers for him louder than for Tatsurou for the first time in the band's career. What follows is the usual blur of music and screams ringing in his ears, the adrenaline, the choking heat, the umpteenth confirmation that there's nowhere else in the world he'd rather be. It's over in the blink of an eye.
Miya stumbles backstage, out of breath. A drop of sweat falls onto his lashes and he blinks it away, his heart still pounding as he lets himself fall back onto one of the couches. The last hour and a half feels like it lasted but a few minutes, and he'd run back on stage if he could. He already misses the stage fright, the bass pumping under his bare feet, his guitar as an extension of himself, the strobe lights all around him, the too-short communion with the two thousand people standing in the Shinkiba venue.
For now, though, a smoke will do.
After a few high-fives and compliments (the consensus is that he hasn't lost it), he finally gets to light one of his cigarettes, imitating many in the small room. Immediately afterward, there's nothing but him and the slight euphoria of the post-concert nicotine. He closes his eyes, enjoying the sensation of the smoke filling his lungs and the chill of sweat evaporating from the skin of his now shirtless chest.
A tap on the shoulder brings him back down to earth moments later. "They're calling for you," one of their roadies tells him with a grin. Miya pays attention to the encore chant for the first time. No doubt about it, it's his name that the fans are calling repeatedly. A wave of exhilaration washes over him and he starts to laugh without thinking. Rarely has he felt so incredible.
He's still chuckling to himself as he butts his cigarette in the ashtray. He spots Tatsurou sitting at the opposite end of the room in front of one of the numerous mirrors, his back to him. A dark circle of sweat is staining the back of his shirt, long strands of hair encircling it. Their eyes meet in the mirror, and Miya's pulse accelerates again when Tatsurou's reflection winks at him.
---
It's one of those days when Miya and Tatsurou have nothing to say to each other - an unavoidable side effect of all the time they spend together. They don't mind, though. They don't even bother with words when it happens, instead filling the silence with their heavy breathing, the rustling of fabric and the slap of skin against skin.
The room is quiet again for the time being, although still filled with the heat of their lovemaking. Miya is lying on his back, eyelids heavy, his fingers intertwined with Tatsurou's. Snowflakes flutter lazily through the crisp air outside the window, contrasting with the warmth of their flushed and moist bodies.
Tatsurou's lips drop a kiss on the curve of his shoulder. "Wanna order takeout?" he asks, nuzzling his skin.
"Only if you promise to put on some clothes before answering the door this time."
Tatsurou chuckles against his skin, tickling him a little in the process. He then rolls over on his side to prop himself up on one arm, his long hair feeling like silk as it slides across Miya's chest. "Just answer the door yourself if you're gonna be such a prude." His free hand stays near his face, his fingertips traveling from his hair to his cheek, the light touches clashing with the mischievous grin on his face.
Miya turns his head to smirk at him. "And then you're just gonna walk naked in front of the door anyway. I know you, Tatsurou."
Tatsurou laughs this time, and it makes Miya smile. "C'mon, Miya. I'd never." He's now tugging lightly at the ring on Miya's neck, sliding it back and forth along the chain as he looks at him with those eyes that still make his insides melt. Funny how time goes by, Miya thinks. He still refuses to give the future - their future - too much thought, but they've been doing well so far. Compared to the past, if anything. He's too cynical to believe that they'll grow old together, but he never imagined they'd even be able to go back this.
"What's up?" Tatsurou asks, smiling through the obvious confusion on his face. He's now flipping the ring between his index finger and his thumb, probably not even realizing what he's doing.
"I was thinking about when I'd lost my memory," he starts, and Tatsurou looks serious for once. "I didn't remember that my ring used to belong to my dad, so I assumed you'd given it to me and I almost threw it out once when I was pissed at you." It sounds even more ridiculous said aloud.
"Man, you really were pissed, weren't you?"
Miya forces himself to smile as he stares out the window, following a fluffy snowflake with his gaze. "I hated you with every fiber of my being."
Tatsurou sits up, and Miya turns to look at him, watching as he takes off the ring he's wearing on his right hand. "Here, for the next time you hate me." He hands it out to him, dead serious.
Miya would have pegged this as one of Tatsurou's attempts to make light of the situation had there been the slightest hint of amusement in his expression. There's nothing of the sort, though. No hurt or anger, either, but something more somber. Miya wants to say that it's guilt, but he'll probably never know.
Without a word, he takes it between his two fingers and brings it to eye level. It's a simple, tarnished brass ring. He's seen it time and time again on Tatsurou's hand, although he never gave it much thought. "I'm keeping it," Miya warns.
"You better," Tatsurou replies, his smirk not quite distracting him from the persisting shadow in his eyes.
Miya unclasps his chain and slides the ring onto it before fastening it around his neck again. The two rings clink lightly against each other as they settle against his collarbone. He wraps his hand around them for a moment to see how they feel against his palm, as though he had a part of Tatsurou and his father resting together right above his heart.
"I'm dropping out of school," Tatsurou announces, his eyes shining peculiarly.
Miya blinks at him. "What? Why?" In a way, it's not really surprising. Tatsurou has been joking about it for a while now, but Miya had never expected it to be more than that - jokes. It also sounds like a fucking stupid idea, considering that they have only a few months left before being rid of high school forever.
"Because I'm losing my time there, and I can use that time to work on the band," comes the reply, told as if Miya were a complete idiot.
He chuckles as he throws his cigarette butt into the small river running a few feet below them. "Yeah? And what exactly are you gonna work on while the rest of us are going to school?" He pulls himself up to sit on the guardrail, waiting for Tatsurou's answer expectantly.
Tatsurou pouts, which makes him look like an overgrown five-year-old. "You don't have to be an asshole about it."
"Come on, man. I'm just as serious about it as you are and I still want my stupid paper," Miya starts. Tatsurou opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn't let him. "At least wait until we're signed before dropping out of whatever you'll be doing then."
Tatsurou's brow raises disbelievingly, and it's suddenly clear to Miya that he'd been hoping for his approval. "I never thought you'd say that."
"That's why I'm the band leader and you're not," he teases. The next moment, Tatsurou's hands are on his shoulders, and for a second, Miya is convinced that he's going to push him off the guardrail. It's enough to make him yelp and grip Tatsurou's forearms intuitively - which is probably the reaction Tatsurou was looking for because he's now laughing at his obvious dismay. Miya keeps his hands on Tatsurou's arms as he looks at him straight in the eye, smirking. "Do that and I'm pulling you down with me."
Online Coupon Code