Chapter Text
“What am I doing…”
Haruchiyo stares at the bottle in his hand.
He can already picture it, the change hitting him like waves of a raging sea. Waters turning black engulfing everything—no, everyone. All the masks he had played till that moment, standing on the line of a very drastic decision.
Is it really what he wanted?
His frown meets the reflection in the mirror: long messy pink hair, eye bags and traces of a hangover. It's not exactly clear to him how that hair dye bottle ended up in his hand. His memories of the previous night are a confused blur of colored lights, a red hallway, the penetrant smell of varnish that felt so out of place yet made him feel warm, heart pounding, head light… but also gave him a terrible headache shortly after. He puts more effort into trying to remember past the dizziness—the only things actually making sense were the taste of too many different drinks on his tongue, the loud music’s bass that rumbled through his chest and hands all over it, leaving neon colored prints at every touch; Haru is not sure to whom they belonged, either. In his heart he hopes, he wishes they were his Mikey’s…
But he's also not a fool.
He knows they weren't.
Another mistake, piling up on his hoard of delusions.
Maybe, that was it: the last drop. What brought him to buy that black hair dye he’d been too coward to open. Staring at it, like it could magically solve all his problems. Would he want him, with that same sentiment, if he changed for him?
His star, unreachable…
Haru’s hand grips the bottle harder, leaving marks as deep as the wounds on his aching heart. Clenched teeth, as he holds back tears he doesn't want to let fall. How pathetic, wishing to become someone he's not—though not anyone, no, there's a specific kind of shoes he strived to wear.
Draken.
A name Haru can't pronounce without hatred and inadequacy taking hold of him. What did the singer have that he didn't? Why couldn't he be the one whom Mikey looks at with a spark in his eyes? The one holding him close, inebriated by his perfume, brushing the soft blond hair, caressing his soul… A train of self-loathing thoughts inevitably hits him, as he grips the sink's edge so hard his knuckles turn white, until he can't stand his reflection anymore. Until words pronounced with foreign kindness get through the ringing in his ears.
“Stop trying to be someone else”
He can still feel his face cupped by gentle hands, the deep and soothing voice, as reassuring as the forehead touching his. Mucho had told him several times, untying his ponytail, dissolving the illusion on which Haruchiyo was betting on. How dare.
Another glance at the mirror.
Another pang in the heart.
Maybe Mucho is right. It's not his hairstyle or color that's the problem, black dye won't change anything: Mikey still wouldn't see him. But will he ever? He wonders.
[And what kind of man is he
in his revered star’s eyes?]
Haru stares at his reflection as trembling fingers trace his own features, cheeks, chin, lingering on his lips—the same that will never experience the savor of mutually requited love…
He hates it.
He hates it.
He hates it.
He hates it.
He hates himself.
Snapping him out of it, this time, is the sound of a punch his body landed on the mirror on its own. That mess of a man with empty eyes, on the other side of the silver glass, stares back at him disgusted.
Anyone would.
Haru doesn't really blame them.
𝄢
Summertime always meant three heavily linked things for Haruchiyo.
The first: orchestral season was over, leaving him with plenty of free time; a vacation, if you will, even though he never saw it that way.
Consequently, a strong tendency to push himself with practicing cello—he couldn't slack, always striving for perfection to be a worthy accompaniment for his muse.
Lastly, the consuming longing for the season to start again, because what was he even supposed to do outside of the music scene?
Or better, that's how it used to be.
Haru couldn't let go of what happened that one night at the club. No, even before that, tormented by the image of Mikey holding his flowery love message without ever looking at him. As he wasn't even there, standing in front of him desperate for the tiniest bit of attention. Begging for him to look up, at least once, now that he wasn't standing at his back—Haru knew full well he wouldn't turn around, ever. That was his chance, his heart in full display, brutally trivialized.
In retrospect, he couldn't blame him either.
The only responsible has always been him.
Never enough. Never mattered.
An overall failure.
What was there, to love, anyways?
In the succession of shorter and empty nights, not even his music could equal and overwrite the sickening feeling pervading body and mind—mind that kept wandering somewhere else, to constructed realities in which he wasn't that… pathetic. Nor invisible or worthless. His pursuit of performance perfection vanquished by empty bottles and insomnia, because in his delusion there was a better world to live in. Why bother?
Why fucking bother.
His cello started collecting dust, abandoned in a corner along with his very last bit of self consideration. Mirrors were avoided to escape a reality check, as Haru neglected himself as never before; marks of tiredness hiding the faded and distorted trace of an ideal self he always imagined at Mikey's side, on the stage.
As a matter of fact, Haruchiyo never thought he could reach it; yet he tried.
He tried, and tried, constantly pushing himself.
But did it even matter anymore?
He should've just accepted he was the same as the trash scattered around his apartment—who would even pick him up from the floor, moved enough to care?
There is, someone.
Yet he clinges his knees,
pushing the thought away.
Undeserving.
Haru had lost the count of days, he doesn't know nor cares anymore. What he does know, though, is that he can't further stand the wetness on his cheeks. Every trail left by tears is anathema to him—almost burning the skin, feels like branding. And it doesn't take long before he mindlessly starts to scratch and tear it open, untended nails repeatedly scarifying his shame.
Trying to destroy someone he doesn’t want to be.
A vibration, followed by the bright screen that makes him squint his eyes, draws Haru's attention to the abandoned phone on the wooden floor. He grabs it, annoyed.
It's not like he expects someone to text him in the middle of the night, but the low battery percentage being the sure culprit for interrupting his self-loathing is even worse. Bitter reminder of his crushing loneliness.
Lock it and forget about it…
But his thumbs slide free on the screen instead.
Pausing briefly, as he stares at the name he composed before hitting “send”.
“Please come get me, Yasuhiro”
He's too tired to regret it.
𝆯
“What have you done…”
Never before was Mucho this grateful for his light sleep. When a message notification woke him up, with great surprise reading the sender’s name, he didn't think twice before jumping up to put some clothes on and rushing out of his apartment.
Sanzu never called him by his name.
It rang as a danger alarm—and sure that wasn't how he expected it to be, when the thought arose as he watched Sanzu warming up to him, briefly shortening the distance between them. It shouldn't have sounded so terrifying.
Sanzu didn't state where he was at that moment, and Mucho in his heart hoped, prayed he was at his place. When he gets there he struggles to recognize it: of that tiny apartment's meticulous order he saw just a couple of times, yet very vivid in his memory, there isn't much left. But what shocks him the most isn't the door left unlocked or the anomalous untidiness, nor the neglected instrument laying in a corner like an old keepsake to dispose of.
Welcomed by the strong alcohol smell and his friend laying on the floor akin to a badly mauled ragdoll, words refuse to form behind pursed lips as Mucho's eyes are fixed on the smeared blood traces all over Sanzu's cheeks—a view that stings, though never as much as it must do for the cellist, that he's sure of. His name, hushed in between breathed sobs, is Mucho's signal to act.
He kneels down, gently brushing back the wet hair strands all over Sanzu’s face to reveal reddened, teary eyes pleading for help for a split second, before being closed again, shutting him out.
I'm here, it'll all be fine now, but the words still fail to find their way out as Mucho picks the younger up, arms clutching him tightly against his chest in a shielding motion. It's impulsive and natural, hitting him only later that perhaps he’s crossing the line—after all, Sanzu had always been rather reluctant to physical contact, let alone even remotely affectionate deeds.
For a moment, he hesitates. Frozen in place, checking on him and ready to apologize for being so inconsiderate. Fully expecting Sanzu to oppose, yell, reject him once again: although bittersweet, it'd be a sign he's his usual self. Yet, the other doesn't complain.
[He would, he wants to]
Merely abandoning himself to the safe embrace, he's hiding his own shame in Mucho's shirt while clinging to his neck.
[He hates it]
An incredibly loud silence engulfs them, as Mucho carries him past the apartment's entrance.
[Sickening feeling of
a reversed marriage ritual
twisting the stomach]
𝄐
Would he let him?
Streetlights intermittently illuminate the figure in the passenger seat. Not once had he uttered a word nor taken his gaze from the window onto a world blissfully asleep, slipping away reflected in green and melancholia.
Would he let him say his name, now?
The scene from that day at the practice room, when he snapped, materializes in his thoughts—underneath the anger, the cellist looked so… hurt…
Mucho no longer had any clue about the nature of their relationship. More than acquaintances, surely good friends, but in the back of his mind there was always doubt scratching his faint hopes for reciprocity. He should continue to suppress it, as usual.
He should…
Upon arriving at his place, Mucho holds the door open for the unsteady Sanzu, his balance not at its best, gaze fixed downwards. Sanzu drags his feet through the door frame, keeping Mucho at an arm’s length to distance himself. Mucho keeps an eye on him, ready to catch him in the case that he'll fall, heaving a sigh of relief at the familiar avoidant behavior. He leads the way from the entrance, pointing to the sofa in the spacious living room. “Give me a minute, i'll grab the first aid kit”
The other doesn't make a sound, mindlessly going to sit where indicated, probably without even registering his words. Mucho doesn't like the idea of leaving him alone, even if it's just for a couple seconds; and when he hurries back to the room shortly after, holding a wet cloth and adhesive dressing, he's surprised to see Sanzu hasn't moved at all.
Sitting next to him, Mucho is about to place the wet cloth on his cheek but stops mid air. He's not entirely sure he can take all this liberty with Sanzu, less than ever in his current condition. Worried eyes sit on the gracious features of his face, skin so delicate ravaged by anger and distress. He looks like porcelain a step away from shattering. He has to be careful. “Can I…?”
No response.
Then Sanzu moves away a few strands of hair, tucking it behind his ear, gracelessly sinking into the backrest in silent consent. In a way, Mucho is glad: he fears the words that could leave his rosy lips in such a state.
With an extremely light touch the pianist grabs his chin, tilting his head just enough to have a better view, and starts cleaning the scratches. They're deep for being caused by nails alone, he must've been doing it for so long before he called for Mucho, but it's nothing that couldn't be treated at home—luckily, as he's sure Sanzu wouldn't agree to getting handled by even more people, strangers furthermore.
“It shouldn't leave a scar”
He hums absentmindedly.
After applying the dressing, Mucho stares at his work in silence. Despite the circumstances, he still can't help but be enraptured by his undying beauty.
“Water…”
“Wait”
Just as he goes to stand up, his arm is instantly grabbed by a small hand twisting into the fabric of his shirt. “You need to—”
“Play for me”
Uh?
Mucho follows Sanzu’s gaze, fixed on the grand piano that dominates the room. It takes him off guard, yet the unexpected request brings warmth and a faint smile. He can't refuse.
When he stands, Sanzu is still anchored at his arm, following him along like a shadow. As gloomy as he is right now, though, Mucho could never consider Sanzu as such: shadows don't shine, they can’t bring light in his life as much as he does. As much as his smile does. What would he do to see it again...
He sits at the piano bench, Sanzu clinged to his waist. Such a small and precious thing.
“You know kintsugi…” he murmurs as he starts improvising a sweet, slow melody. The cellist looks up at him, a very self-explanatory annoyed expression painted on the tired face. “And what about it”, Mucho can hear it in his mind clearly, causing him to chuckle.
“I wonder, what is gold, really? They told us to celebrate and embrace flaws, hardships, and how there's beauty in healing. But we're no pottery. No such thing as literal gold for us, right?” He glances at Sanzu, sees his annoyance turn into a confused frown.
“Us?”
“Don’t focus on single words. Just listen”
Mucho takes a deep breath, his fingers dancing on the keyboard at the increasing rhythm. It's mesmerizing: little pauses that anticipate each accelerando, making you yearn for more every time his fingers linger at a few centimeters from the keys, before starting dancing again. “To me, music is my gold. It has put my life back together during hard times, and has always been there for me, filling my cracks. I used to be… violent. A lost cause without a future”
“I didn't know…”
His voice is almost a whisper, as if he didn't want to be heard. Or even forget he was there, at Mucho’s house, to begin with. Mucho can feel it, in the way Sanzu is trying to get smaller at his side, sliding away.
“But I look back at those years with content. Music gave me a purpose. It made me a better person.”
He stops playing, placing a hand on Sanzu's head and caressing his hair. “You can go sleep if you're tired”
Sanzu shakes it aggressively, making it clear he wanted for him to continue despite fighting against heavy eyelids.
So Mucho starts playing again.
This time, something more aggressive, moody.
Haruchiyo…
“When I think about you, this is what it sounds like. A melody that leaves no room for other instruments. Intense, and chaotic. You're bratty. Stubborn, evasive, and irritable. Your cracks are like bottomless pits no one would dare to look into…”
He takes a pause, hands almost shaking over the keys, as if he was scared to continue. “You are so hard to love.”
But…
Sanzu stays silent, not a single muscle moving.
Mucho’s heart starts racing. Despite the nervousness, notes fill the air one more time—soothing, a lullaby.
“But that's why I like you. I wish I could help… Falling apart is okay, you know? Sometimes we break. It happens, it’s nobody’s fault, just a part of life. What's important is to put the pieces back together. Again, and again, as long as it's necessary.” He swallows the lump gripping his throat, avoiding looking at Sanzu. Focusing on the keys, on the music: it comforts him, while thoughts he didn't expect to voice out are bursting out like a flooding river. Out of control.
He's not good at it.
They both are not good at it.
“Next time you’ll break, promise me you’ll keep the pieces. You don't have to do it alone, we can heal together, if you let me. I could be your—”
The music stops abruptly.
Gold.
Mucho can't believe what he just said.
Catching his breath, surprised and afraid.
In his arms, the most important person in his life is sleeping sound— did he hear him, he wonders.
Not that he’d directly address it again in the morning, that was already enough of a confession.
He picks Sanzu up, lips lightly brushing against his forehead.
If only you'd let me love you…