Current mood:	weird
Current music:	Nakajima Miyuki - Utahime
Entry tags:	gackt/hyde, gackt/miyavi

The Death Of Pure Japan
Title: The Death of Pure Japan
Fandom: J-rock
Pairing: Gackt/Miyavi, Gackt/Hyde
Rating: PG-15
Summary: Miyavi breathed into the phone, slowly, painfully, “Ba-by.” That was the beginning. But for every beginning there is a past (Hyde), a middle (Megumi and Ryoko) and an ending.
Written: 02/2006; 05/2006; 08/2006; 02/2008

( Part 1 : "Strip poker." )


Note: The part marked *, see note at bottom for explanation. Just in case. ^_^

The very first thing Gackt noticed as they sat down to play, the glass coffee table between them, was that Miyavi’s fingernails were painted a dark colour. Like melting chocolate. Like a girl. Sometimes, the latter thought made that deep and curling hate that lay in between his ribs and his guts explode so powerfully that he would have killed Miyavi, if it could have made things better, if he could have made him a girl. But mostly it just stirred the poignant feeling that tingled in the back of his throat and behind his eyes.

“You know we can’t actually play right? We need another two people,” Gackt said.

“Yeah, whatever. I just wanted the strip part of the game.”

Hints of the young boy beneath the surface peeked out when Miyavi smiled, long and slow, like a cat. Miyavi shivered as he leaned back into the chair to take a drag of his cigarette. Gackt merely blinked and wiped the sweat on his palms onto his pants. He resisted the urge to warm him.

“Sho, trust me,” Miyavi said suddenly and threw the cigarette at Gackt.* He laughed.

A second of silence. Gackt realized his fingers had automatically arranged themselves as if to catch the cigarette between them.

“Why are you so fucking annoying?” Gackt asked and dropped the deck of cards onto the floor. Miyavi immediately stopped laughing. Gackt picked up his packet of cigarettes and walked towards the door.

Gackt stood a moment in the doorway, wondering if he should slam the door. That was his official excuse for waiting.

“WHY ARE YOU SO ANGRY?” Miyavi shouted. It was partly confusion that stopped Miyavi from apologizing -he didn’t know what he had done wrong- but it was mostly pride.

Gackt turned around, fist already in the air, ready to make Miyavi bleed as much as he could. But Miyavi was on his hands and knees. One hand supported his body while the other frantically picked up the cards Gackt had dropped. He arranged them in a neat pile, just as if Gackt hadn’t thrown them at all.

He stopped when he saw Gackt looking.

The shadows highlighted the harsh outline of Miyavi’s clenched jaw and his piercings glinted. His skin almost glowed against the dull gray of the carpet. Miyavi’s utter loneliness was suddenly apparent, if only because Gackt felt the same way.

Sometimes, he thought that was the only thing they had in common.

Gackt closed the door quietly and knelt down quietly next to Miyavi, picking up the cards he had missed. The shadows that sat sadly beneath Miyavi’s eyes had diffused his anger.

Miyavi handed him the cards without looking at him and said, “You win.” That was the closest thing to an apology that he would get. Gackt looked at him, sitting on the floor, almost naked. He swayed a little from left to right, as if he would fall over at any given moment. Gackt sighed, shook his head and ruffled Miyavi’s hair.

As expected, Miyavi looked up at him and scowled playfully. “Don’t do that, old man.”

“Then don’t talk about Hyde,” Gackt said, tone dead serious. And then, jokingly, “I’m not that old.”

Miyavi laughed and when he did, he tossed his head back a little and his lips pulled upwards to reveal his teeth. His eyes gleamed and the sound radiated throughout the room. It seeped into Gackt’s ears and Gackt lost track of all his senses. Gackt wished he could laugh like that.

The kiss happened suddenly. Gackt’s tongue moved to trace the cold metal of Miyavi’s lip ring and both of them stopped thinking.

When you kiss him, you can almost feel the smoke from his lungs invading your own. No amount of Platinum Egoïste can mask the underlying scent of tobacco and tar and everything that is bad for you that has soaked into his skin. His mouth tastes of cigarettes, not unlike your own. And this is it, you think. This is it.

Sometimes when you’re lying on your back and the metal of the bedpost is digging into you, he inhales and breathes the smoke over your face.

You hold him like you hold your guitar, the only way you know how to hold something precious.

“I’m not going to be your safety net,” he says as you run your tongue against his collarbone.

“Don’t need one,” you whisper. “I’m not goddamned Hyde.”

But he doesn’t hear you.

+++

After it was done, Gackt just casually slid off the bed and put on his clothes. Miyavi was still sprawled on the sheets, nicotine in his blood. Gackt only looked back once as he was leaving, as though Miyavi was no more than an afterthought.

“Wait. I’ll go down first,” he said.

But Miyavi was already standing there, guitar in hand.

Gackt sighed. “If you insist on coming, try not to look so obvious.”

Miyavi put on his sunglasses.

“I meant, put on some pants.”

+++

He let Gackt step out of the elevator first while he adjusted his baseball cap and jacket to make sure his hair and tattoos were covered. He had removed his lipring and slipped it into his pocket. He fiddled with the cold metal as he tried to make out his reflection against the shiny surface of the elevator walls. He almost failed to recognise himself without his lipring and the other physical markings that screamed Miyavi. It was kind off like being naked.

Of course, any person with half a brain could figure out they had come down together. Not many people shared an elevator at 4.36am.

Gackt was immediately approached by two girls who looked like they had just turned 18. They were already snapping pictures from afar. Although upon closer inspection, it was evident that the dim lighting and thick make-up concealed a woman of at least 30. Neither noticed Miyavi as he lurked behind.

“Picture please please please?” she said, trying to sound cute.

Miyavi’s lip unconsciously curled upwards.

“Of course,” Gackt said graciously and laid an arm around her shoulders. She leaned in towards him and Miyavi was sure Gackt was close enough to catch the scent of her hair.

More and more often now, Miyavi felt Gackt slipping away. It was with a rising anger and sinking desperation that he realized there was no way to stop it. He had never really owned him at all.

Miyavi buried his face in the long collar of his jacket as he pushed past Gackt and the woman, making it a point to push her with his shoulder. At that exact moment, the flash of the camera temporarily blinded him and that was fine. It was not like he wanted to look at Gackt anyway.

“I love you too,” Gackt said and laughed.

The woman could barely contain her squeals.

Liar, Miyavi thought.

+++

Hyde woke up that morning to a strangely beautiful sky and the crisp smell of morning. He dumped the newspaper onto the table and pushed his hair back impatiently. He found himself turning to the entertainment section without consciously thinking about it. Old habits. He tried to stop his eyes from looking for the word “Gackt”.

Unfortunately for him, the headline couldn’t have been more noticeable.

“GACKT AND UNIDENTIFIED WOMAN. NEW LOVE AFFAIR?”

Next to it was a picture of Gackt and slightly behind him, a woman in a baseball cap and a large jacket. They had just exited an elevator.

The sky suddenly seemed rather ugly.

---------

Note: *In case anyone got confused, this is a reference to the scene in Moon Child where Kei (Hyde) and Sho (Gackt) were trying to perfect this trick with a cigarette. They failed the first time but then Kei told Sho to trust him and Sho said, “I do!” and caught the cigarette between his fingers.

The Death of Pure Japan
Part 3

She was standing at the entrance, invitation in hand. She walked as if she owned the place, her 100,000yen hairdo making up for what her features lacked.

“I think they pay you to open the door for people like me,” she said and smiled.

The bouncer, taken aback, quickly pushed it aside and bowed slightly. “Welcome,” he said.

He didn’t recognize her but he was almost dead sure she was famous. Only famous people were that hateful. Her name was vaguely familiar and he looked at the guest list again to see if it would jog his memory.

Oishii Megumi.

+++

“I bet you saw the headline,” You said.

“And a very good morning to you too.” Gackt’s expression remained cheerful. He was, in fact, very pleased with the headline.

The staff casually walked by with unassuming expressions on their faces, trying hard to look as if they weren’t listening. Rumours about Gackt and his affairs were hardly anything new to the staff but they still spread any gossip in rushed whispers, the facts getting murkier and murkier as they passed from mouth to mouth.

You laughed but ignored the greeting. “Intentional?” he said. He was referring to the picture. Gackt was someone who rarely ever made a mistake, unless it was to his advantage.

Gackt grinned. “Of course.” Lying to his best friend was surprisingly easy.

And then they were alone in the meeting room and You said, “It wasn’t even a woman, was it?” Once, You might have said this with at least a hint of anger but the tone that came across now was more frightening than that. It was the tone of defeat, of letting go. Gackt felt a streak of naked fear course through his body and then it was gone, like a sword so sharp you don’t even realize it has cut you before you’re dead.

Gackt doesn’t like apologies so he settled with a peace offering instead. “The press doesn’t know that. And it wasn’t Hyde, if that’s what you mean.”

The look of surprise on You’s face was immediately replaced by false nonchalance when Ju-ken walked in, picking his nose. Gackt shook his head in mock disgust. Ju-ken just shrugged and sat down on one of the chairs.

His manager came in next; a small, pock-mark faced man.

“You’ll put me out of a job, Gackt,” Shun said, laughing as he came in with the newspaper that had published the photograph. “Damn good way to promote the CM. The press loves the idea of you and Yonekura screwing.”

Everyday Gackt wondered why he still hadn’t fired him. “Of course, that means you’ll have to make sure she turns up for my party.”

“Because you can manipulate him, that’s why,” You had told him, once.

“Yonekura?” Ju-ken asked.

“Yonekura Ryoko. Takano Yuri CM,” You said.

Ju-ken whistled. “Now she’s hot. Nice catch, Gackt.” He then looked off into space to imagine Ryoko naked.

Gackt followed the manager as he walked out of the room. “I want you to do something for me. That guy who was on Pop Jam with me recently? The one with the colourful hair?”

“Miyavi?”

“I want him invited as well.”

His manager was gullible but not entirely stupid. “You’re sure you want him there? It’s not like you kno--”

“As sure as I’ll ever be.”

+++

Hundreds of guests had been invited, the women glittering in various colours like fireflies against the dark wood of the walls. Still, in the mass of humanity, Hyde had found him.

“Where’s Megumi?” Gackt said, a small smile on his face.

“She didn’t come,” Hyde replied.

Gackt frowned. He could have sworn his manager had said the guest list listed her as “present”. So Hyde had come alone. Megumi always tried to minimize any direct contact with Gackt and often guilted Hyde into doing the same

“A woman, eh?” Hyde said suddenly, referring to the rumours.

Gackt shrugged. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he replied softly. He couldn’t help but notice the shadow that crept from the bottom of Hyde’s neck to the pools of his collarbones to the soft skin between of his chest. His hair was shorter now and Gackt almost had to turn away to keep himself from remembering his fingers intertwined in the strands.

“Who was it?” Hyde asked, quietly.

“It really doesn’t concern you,” Gackt said, eager to just walk away. He really didn’t need to hear Hyde’s voice. Not now.

“I hope she was worth it,” Hyde said and there it was again. That colossal grip around his lungs that made him feel like his ribs had collapsed against himself and he wouldn’t ever breathe again, not in this lifetime.

But as soon as Hyde turned around it was gone and Gackt was left with a distinct impression of Hyde’s malice. Without consciously thinking about it, he followed Hyde out of the hall.

“Hyde!” Gackt called and Hyde stopped just in front of the door to the mens’ rest room. And when he turned around, Gackt said, “Hyde, why can’t we be friends again?”

The utter absurdity of that question was apparent to the both of them but there it was, hanging out in the open, like an embarrassing smell that no one wanted to mention. It was fortunate that there was no one around but the two of them to hear it.

“Maybe you should ask yourself that question,” Hyde whispered, the anger dancing between the syllables. The colour of his eyes seemed much darker than they usually were.

“I didn’t do it to hurt you,” Gackt whispered.

“Sure, I believe you. Conscience better now?” Hyde looked towards his feet as he said this and his fingers rubbed the black beads of his rosary. His jaw was clenched.

“You’re the most fucking selfish person I’ve met, you know that?” Gackt said, not without pity.

“Is that why we can’t be friends?” Hyde mocked him. He said it in that annoying sing-song lilt that he liked to used when he was being sarcastic.

“Did you even think of her once?” Gackt fired back.

“DID YOU? I didn’t fucking ask for a baby.”

A short silence followed as Gackt thought about this.

“Neither did she, Hyde. Neither did she,” Gackt finally said. His voice was soft. The regret made it seem much more painful than it actually was. “If I hadn’t left you, she would have. Taken the child along with her, too. The press, well… You would have lost everything.”

Hyde offered him a lopsided smile.

“Maybe. But at least I would have had you.”

After Hyde says this, he leans forward, supporting himself against the door and…






…he kisses Gackt.

He smells like sweat. He tastes like sweat. Salty, strange, human. Just like you. Even through his clothes, you can feel the heat radiating from his body as his shoulders press against your chest, his feet struggling to keep his head up.

You are almost surprised by what he’s doing but you saw him leaning against the door, trying to push his body towards yours. You felt him moving closer against you.

And you just let it happen.

His tongue is wet and thick against the roof of your mouth and his fingers spread like a web against your abdomen, moving downwards. His palms are sticky, the moisture now trapped between his skin and yours.

Your feelings soar, joy mixed with guilt laced with anger.

It feels familiar, like having the same dream twice, and instinct takes over thought. You forget to breathe and instead try to suck the oxygen from his lungs. Toothpaste and alcohol and saliva. You imagine you can even taste coffee. But you can’t really taste anything, they’re all just memories.

Chocolate. Dark, melting chocolate. Just like Miyavi.

Gackt abruptly pushed him away and both of them stood there gasping for air.

A desperate aching followed the path of his blood around his chest and he thought for a moment that he would die from the sudden jolt of pain. So this is what it felt like to miss someone, he had almost forgotten. It lessened in intensity every time he exhaled until it was nothing but a dull, vibrating ache; the sadness of a dream.

“Please,” Gackt whispered. “Don’t.”

Hyde walked away from him.




He was wearing a white suit and a thin, sin-red tie. His hair was up in a careless ponytail that let his colourful extensions run down the side of his neck. Gackt noticed that Miyavi’s fingernails were an offensively bright pink that day and felt an inexplicable delight bubbling up in his chest at the sight. Miyavi had arrived at 2:47am, about ten minutes after everyone had decided it was time to leave.

He tugged a little at his tie. “I was trying to, you know, blend in with the crowd,” he drawled and grinned. Taunting. Just a hint and Gackt was already reeling.

Gackt felt like the guests were staring but when he drew his eyes away from Miyavi to look around, everyone seemed interested in everything but him. Still, it was uncomfortable. He really, really hoped Hyde had left.

“Happy Birthday, old man,” Miyavi said. “I have a present for you.” But his hands were empty.

“Thank you,” Gackt replied. He paused for a moment to make it sound casual. “For coming.”

“Sure. Annnddd…” Miyavi drawled, dragging the last syllable. “Since you’re wondering, your present is outside.”

Before he knew what he was doing, Gackt had followed Miyavi out of the hall and into the basement carpark of the hotel. The sound of their footsteps bounced against the cement walls and floor, creating exaggerated echoes. Logic told him that the CCTVs were bound to capture them together and everyone would know and that would be it and god-what-would-he-do-if-they-knew…

The first thing he saw was a shiny red convertible. It was breathtakingly beautiful against the plain grey of everything else, like fire against ash. His breath caught in his throat and he muttered, “Oh, shit.” He even took off his sunglasses.

Miyavi looked at him and laughed. “Don’t worry, that isn’t it.”

Gackt dragged his gaze away from the car to Miyavi’s face. Gackt raised an eyebrow and suppressed the smile on his lips. Half laughing, Miyavi turned toward him and placed a hand on the back of Gackt’s neck.

Mere millimeters away, he whispered, “I hate it when you make me wanna kiss you.”

His lips are familiar but they still surprise you, the cold of his lip ring against your tongue still makes you gasp. You try to memorize the shape of his mouth and the way his tongue drags across your teeth, so that you can recall the feeling when you’re alone but it never works.

You try to bury the feeling that happiness like this never lasts, which never works either.

Your euphoria is stained by a sadness that you can’t suppress.

This urgency, too, is familiar. He tries to suck the oxygen from your lungs and his hands are clumsy and fumbling in their eagerness. Saliva. His teeth knock against yours. They bite down on your tongue.

His mouth is now next to your ear, so close his breath caresses your skin. “Don’t worry, this isn’t it either.”

You follow him into the car, even if you know this is madness.

++++

100

236

899

1023 feet.

The first indication was the gentle pop in his ears, his body adjusting to the difference in air pressure. Next was the odd the sensation of leaving his gut behind as he soared up, up, up, his senses escaping the confines of his body for the tiniest instant. The world grew smaller and it was like looking through the wrong end of a never-ending telescope.

Black gave birth to sparks of bright light. Not quite organic greens and reds and candy-yellows. Buildings disappeared upwards into the dark, their lit windows like eyes. At that height, nothing but the beauty of the city remained.

“Happy Birthday,” Miyavi mouthed through his helmet. The roar of the helicopter blades drowned out everything, even the obscenely loud beating of his heart. “I got you Tokyo.”

Gackt placed a hand on Miyavi’s thigh. He was surprised by the sudden, gentle warmth in his chest when Miyavi smiled.

So many feet above Tokyo, anything could go wrong at any moment. They could crash and die in a blaze that would streak the sky.

He couldn’t have cared less.

++++

Hyde climbed into bed fully dressed, trying to find warmth under the thin sheets. Like a sad child, he hugged his knees to his chest and tried to keep the shadows out.

But unlike a child, he stank of alcohol. He reeked of his father.

“How was the party?” Megumi said suddenly, startling Hyde. She was usually asleep or at least, had the good sense to pretend she was.

“Was okay,” he muttered. And then, “My head fucking hurts.”

He used this as an excuse to try to burrow deeper into the sheets, into the mattress, into the dark wood floor. Anywhere was fine with him as long as he could shut out the world completely.

“How’s Gackt?” she said next and suddenly his jaw clenched up and he felt like his head might explode. He felt her turn around to face his back.

“Fine,” he answered. He noticed the sheets smelled of fresh laundry, not a trace of his scent on them. Strangely, not a trace of her scent either. His bed didn’t even smell like home.

“Oh,” she replied and seemed as if she was on the verge of just saying it -what they both knew she meant- but she just tugged at the sheets and was quiet.

A reserve of bitterness rose up in his throat and he suddenly felt like he might cry. Without thinking, he turned toward her and placed a clammy palm on her shoulder. Instantly, she jerked away. It was too late to hide the dismay in her expression. Her brow furrowed and she frowned apologetically. There really was nothing to be said.

His hand hung there for a moment, outstretched in the dark. Then he pulled it back around his knees and tried to sleep.

Everything had fallen into ruin.

+++

Hyde wasn’t sure how they had started fighting. They seemed to be always fighting anyway, about something or other. They had forgotten how to speak to each other without trying to cause hurt.

“You’re exactly like him!” she spat vehemently and he knew exactly what she meant.

Hyde was like his father. He even smelt like him, for the concentrated smell of alcohol and tobacco doesn’t vary much from person to person, even generation to generation. The smell of a rotting liver and blackened lungs. The strange and deep embarrassment that settled in his throat refused to leave. He paced the floor of their apartment while she sat on the couch, watching him.

“I…” he began, but found that he had nothing to say.

In the past, the backroom of his mother’s tiny restaurant is where his father laid sprawled behind the cardboard boxes. The aroma of his mother’s cooking combined with the overpowering smell of sake and sweat and vomit and his father, who had not washed for days. He had tiptoed up to him and peered at his father’s puffy and liver-spotted face. His father who had turned to him, eyes rolled back into his head, seeing nothing.

“You don’t even know your own son!” Megumi shot at him.

“I…” Hyde whispered.

He looked up slowly and said the next few words softly but firmly. “I can be better.”

When he could finally bring himself to look at her, he saw she was crying. Huge, terrible, ugly, painful sobbing that ripped the breath right out of her. She was almost choking with the effort and her chest heaved unsteadily.

Regret crept up behind him and embraced him in its painful grip. Without really thinking about it, he sat down next to her. Anything to make it stop. He tried to apologize at first but the words felt foreign to him, from lack of use. Awkwardly, he placed an arm around her shoulders and tried to ignore how her tears felt against his skin. Hot, wet, disgustingly human tears. She pressed her face against his neck and the sound of her sobs echoed on his throat. They reverberated against his collarbone and it almost felt like he was crying, too. They sat like that for what might have been hours, or perhaps only a few minutes.

When he woke up the next morning, he found her sleeping soundly on his chest and couldn’t find it in himself to wake her. He brought his head closer to hers, trying to locate that faint scent of… of something in the air. It was when he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply that he finally knew, with a deep and painful longing, that it was the gentle scent of her hair.

He thought, resignedly, that it smelt nothing like Platinum Egoiste.