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At the beginning of this relationship that appeared so suddenly, Takato never saw a reason to be afraid when he observed the expression on Junta's face; he seemed like a dumb young man chasing fame barefoot. Although he was indeed afraid. Every time Junta would sit next to him in the studio, pushing the stool back with his weight as he sat down, his heart would race for no reason, feeling it stuck in a place higher up in his chest, almost bursting. If he didn't control himself, his body would start trembling as if he needed to pee, and he would only realize later that he was holding his breath. All these symptoms hidden behind a tough exterior.
Every time Junta would come with some silly conversation like "let's go out for a drink together," these symptoms would come with the fear of a beginning. Takato didn't know where this fear, this absurd anxiety, was coming from, and what was the beginning he feared so much. He didn't know and was even more afraid to find out. Eventually, he discovered that the fear that made his legs shake was the fear of entering a relationship. This fear was different from the fear he feel now. The previous presences by his side, the invitations with a warm voice, the familiar expression of desire, they brought the feeling of being cornered in an alley, with his back against the wall. It was good; no one would see them, and that moment would be sweet, private, and crazy. But it was also bad because no one would see them, and that moment would be desperate and disgusting. What if Junta turned out to be a bad person? What if Takato sacrificed showing his face for something bad? That was scary. He was afraid of being made a fool of, being used. But the presence in front of him now, that cold and yet calm voice, all this mess of emotions — anger, jealousy — trapped in that face, make Takato feel trapped in a stalled elevator. The fear of losing is greater because Takato has already settled in.
Junta grabs Takato by the wrist and tries to take him closer to the shower. Takato digs his feet into the ground, stopping before entering the shower, and curls up, with his back hitting the big mirror behind him. He keeps his gaze down to his knees. The tall shadow covering him only tightens the knot already in his gut.
"Did you really do that?" Junta asks, his arm wrapped around Takato's waist, holding him tightly almost painfully. "C'mon, talk to me. I can't hear you."
Junta can no longer hold his calm. He remembers all the trust he had brought into all his other relationships and the way only he seemed to bring that kind of stuff into the relationship. Too much trust just because the faces were too much beautiful. Clean of lies, it was as if they seemed. Sweet and thin voices of ladies who behaved like princesses deceived him ridiculously easy. And every time he deposited that trust, he did not receive the same in return. He was just giving and giving without getting anything in return, not realizing how much it would cost. Some gossiped to him "but I saw her walking arm in arm with another guy", "I think she has two boyfriends then", and Junta just told them to mind their own business. He was blind in both eyes. And the worst of all is that they always end up in the same way as Takato is now: hunched, head down to the ground, whispering voice, and a series of denials. Suddenly everyone gets scared.
Takato's trembling hands grip his shirt tightly, his whole body feels like a tuning fork and the fact that Junta either doesn't notice, or doesn't care, only scares him more. It's a déjà vu.
"I... We didn't do that, I would never have sex with him... I...would be scared." His voice, despite the persistent attempt to remain strong, sounds teary, like a child with an absurd fear of getting hit by their father. "Between me and him... We didn't do that... Chunta-"
"Do you remember?"
"No... I don't know, but I'm sure that it didn't happen because you're the only one who cares about this, only you would want to do this. I never-"
Oh God, Junta wants to laugh now. Hasn't he heard this before? Maybe not all these same words and not in these positions, but a similar sentence has come out of someone's lips to tell him this. How can he believe it? It's always the same excuses coming from the same dirty lips. Yes, Takato's lips may be soft and smooth, they may be sweet, but Junta doesn't even want to look at them now. He fears what he would do.
"Only me?" The pause he makes sinks Takato's heart, for a moment leaving him with wide eyes. "Takato, do you have any idea of the face you're making right now?"
With sweaty force, Junta turns Takato to the mirror and holds the back of his neck as he observes the reflection, the boy's body getting stiffer under the imposed pressure. In the reflection, Takato's blue eyes are wet with tears streaming down his chin, his eyebrows raised up and his lips trembling. He looks like a scared cat.
"C-Chunta..." Takato may wonder how ridiculous his voice must sound, fighting that same battle as always to stay in the cold and distant zone, but always close to the warmth, as if his throat was dry and his words needed a pause because speaking simply hurts.
The grip on his neck becomes stronger.
"I'm serious. Look," Junta says, his calm voice raising a cold tone. "Any man would be manipulated looking at this face. They will want you and they won't be satisfied with tears. That's why he wanted to put his hands on you."
"Chunta-"
"Don't call me that. Not if you're lying to me."
What I do? What I say to him? Takato wonders in thoughts. You hate me now? You don't like me anymore?
Takato's body suddenly trembles all over. His crying intensifies, the sound similar to what he used to make as a child after being scolded. His tears flow down his face like small waterfalls. This feeling that it won't stop gives him a sudden cold wave passing through his body. He hates this tearful face in the mirror. He hates these tears and this soothing voice. This is why there was this fear of a relationship. Takato always feared that this self of his would start to manifest as Junta's arms became more comfortable.
"Takato..."
"D-D-d.... I-I didn't... I-I didn't do it... I-" he sobs." never would do that. You know, you know how hard it is for me to even start a relationship? Doing that with anyone is just disgusting. Be touched by a stranger... would be disgusting. Even being touched by you at first made me sick..."
Junta removes his hand from Takato's neck, the nape receives a sweaty breeze passing through it, and turns him towards him with a light grip this time, his hand even being careful not to reach a sensitive area. Junta sits in the shower stall and puts Takato on his lap, feeling his body trembling as he tastes the bitter taste of remorse on his tongue. Takato reluctantly wraps his arms around Junta's neck, as if his touch could trigger an explosive reaction.
"I'm sorry. Seriously, I'm sorry. This guy... He said some weird things on the phone yesterday after you went drinking after finishing rehearsing. He answered your phone, said he was sleeping with you." Junta runs a hand over his face. "I got mad, really mad, this kind of thing usually happens to me and I couldn't believe it would happen so soon with you. A lot of things went through my mind."
Takato's heavy breathing brings a warm air near Junta's ears. It's shaky. Takato doesn't look anything like that always cold guy with a distant gaze, who's always ready to push someone away from him with an open palm and also to separate lips with aggressive words. It's as if he had regressed, he had unlearned to hide emotions with a tough face.
"I understand," Takato murmurs, evident difficulty in the simple act of speaking.
For a while only the breathing of them is evident between the hug. Junta sighs. Why do things happen like this? You make a mistake twice and when you prepare to finally get it right the next time because you think the previous experience was already enough, you make a mistake again. What good is that experience then? How much do you need to get it right? I can't believe I yelled at you like that, Junta thinks. No, that experience helped him. The other times making a sad face he finally altered this pitiful expression. Maybe there was even a reason for suspicion; Takato never opens up. It's hard to get out of him what's going on, so having sex (even a talk) in peace was a bit difficult at first. If Junta tries to be more specific, once when he tried to be on top in bed. His great shadow covered Takato and his face expression was similar to the time when Takato was almost soaked by carelessness with water on set; lips trying not to press against each other, rapid breathing revealed by chest puffing and its emptying (the movement even more evident by the shirt being unbuttoned), and the eyes, not almost closed and uninterested as usual, but wide and scared. It was like a cat that crouches when threatened instead of fighting back.
Takato moved his hands to Junta's broad shoulders, and Junta, with the body soft and relaxed, found himself falling backwards on the bed, watching Takato sitting on his erection, with his fists pressing his chest. Despite how bony the hands are, there wasn't much discomfort in having them almost taking the air out of his chest. It was even good.
"What's your fixation on being on top?" Junta asked.
"What?" a pause. "I just don't want to be crushed by you." a low tone, he was lying. He's a good actor, knows how to tell a lie as if it were the truth, but it wasn't like he did that time.
Junta chuckled, but only a little, not wanting to hurt him. "Is that?"
"Just shut up."
Takato unzipped Junta's pants and freed the member suffocating in his underwear. He pulled down his own underwear and took a deep breath before leaning over to sit on Junta's cock. A loud moan escaped Takato's mouth, making him shiver and bite his lip to stop the sound. His cheeks were even more flushed, impossible to confuse with a pale skin. His blue eyes diverted from the green ones, a light sigh echoing through the room.
Do you feel trapp- vulnerable when you're underneath? Is that? Junta questioned in his thoughts that day, his hands gripping Takato's hips tightly, moving him up and down. He always had to play guessing games with Takato because he simply wouldn't say anything if Junta kept quiet. But Junta knows: Takato always wants him to know everything that's going on with him. Somehow he wants. However, he doesn't want to tell, he just wants him to know. That kind of thing went wrong in the past. In the present, Junta moves Takato's face away from his shoulder and holds his cheek with a palm.
"I'm sorry, I was a jerk. But, you know, we should avoid this kind of thing in the future, and I think it would help if you talk more to me... And more honestly. I think you're too quiet and even try to change the subject when we talk about you."
Little does Junta know that this is one of the hardest parts for Takato in relationships. Takato has always been good at listening to others and always had a helping hand to offer. But his hands always end up in his pockets when he needs to be heard and helped. He doesn't want to make those embarrassing crying faces for anyone, he doesn't want to be the pity party that people will feel sorry for or anything like that. But maybe only with Junta he wants to be. After all, he has already seen part of those expressions.
"We can talk later maybe. But now I think I can show you" Takato presses his lips tightly for a second. "Some things. I had fought with you for entering that room, but now I don't think it's a problem anymore."
The bathroom is left after Junta turns off the shower and turns off the lights. They head to a room in the apartment that Takato had previously prevented anyone from entering, looking like a typical horror movie villain trying to hide his obvious crime, making all those faces if many questions arose and being defensive before many questions even arose. The time Junta took a peek through the not so narrow gap in the door, he saw that the walls were painted orange with white stars in each corner, resembling an old child's room. The floor was wooden and there were tables and boxes on top of them, instruments hanging on hooks on the wall, and a window with two tightly closed purple curtains. Cute is what Junta would call that view, unless the door was opened completely and you saw a body, which didn't happen that day. And today when Takato opens the door until it hits the wall, there is no corpse, no box of drugs. The room extends to reveal only more of what already existed. There are two murals side by side with photos hanging, photos of Takato as a child. In one he is sitting on a bench playing a guitar, showing a crooked smile to the camera. No corpse, no Ice. What's so wrong about this room?
Takato walks to the center, his eyes carefully capturing every detail on each wall, leading Junta to do the same.
"What's so bad here?" Junta puts a hand on Takato's shoulder, causing a slight shiver.
Before the answer comes (if it comes), Junta looks more closely at the photos on the left mural, and then on the right. The crooked smile, as if forced to stay on his face, is a general characteristic of most photos. Some stacked photos inside a drawer pulled slightly forward show the little boy with a blue bow with the number 2 in the center. Junta sees a blue bow next to the photos. He sees the blue bows. 2nd and 3rd, 2nd and 3rd, 3rd and 3rd, also 5th. There is no first place here. All the tangible memories of when Takato was in first place are hanging on the walls. All these things stored here, not as a sanctuary of good memories, but a dump of old nightmares, makes Junta remember that pursuing the path to becoming a star since childhood is often a nightmare, and can be even worse depending on who controls you. Young stars are always a target for the industry.
"You didn't like doing these things?" Junta asks, pointing to the mural. Takato was probably at festivals or contests in the photos taken. "Is that?"
"I used to like it at first, it was nice to have all the attention and everyone being nice to me." His voice makes it sound like it was never nice. "But then you realize why they act this way and you just feel disgusted. All the pressure to do things in a cute and flashy way made me want to kill myself. My father made me want to kill myself."
In the business world, it's eat or be eaten. Takato would hear that phrase coming from various mouths since his childhood, and somehow, it was only said once by his father, the man who introduced him to this world of business. Since he was 6 years old, Takato found himself in a world of men dressed in black, chattering about their problems, their desires, and above all, about everything he would do and be. Of course, none of them ever made the final decision before the father accepted the proposal, since he was Takato's voice, and this child's world was shaped by these adults. But after being stuck in a huge house for just two for so long, Takato found himself having his own apartment, away from what shaped him. He might have gotten even further away if it wasn't for his grandmother, who made him continue on this artistic path when he was almost fed up. She made Takato see beyond the controlling adults.
"But I changed my mind," Takato resumes. "I got rid of what was making me sick and started to enjoy all this again."
"But do you like anything that's here? You don't seem to like these things, especially since they remind you of bad moments in your life, right?"
Takato nods.
"So we should throw everything away. " Junta grabs Takato's wrist and brings him closer, receiving a crooked smile in return. "When we're done, we'll have a whole room just for..."
The two separate in a rough shove, almost falling to the ground.
"Get out! Is that all you think about? I don't know why they call you an angel... I've never seen an angel and a pervert go by the same name."
His comment provokes a laugh from Junta, leaving his cheeks flushed.
★ ★ ★
Plastic bags and some duct tape are enough for the room's cleanup; most of the things are already boxed up and the rest just needs to be put in bags and tied up. Takato prefers to leave most of these tasks to Junta, after all, it was the Perverted Angel who had this idea, and a part of him doesn't want to touch these things again and feel them. In the end, the angel is right. Holding onto bad memories is not a good thing. It's in the name.
The instruments are in good condition despite their age; selling them might be interesting. Takato puts the violin back on its hook and turns around, his face contorting at the sight of Junta carrying a heavy box full of VHS tapes, labeled KT. He places it on the table before moving the pencil holder aside and picking one up.
"What are these things? Contest recordings?"
Takato's face contorts even more at the content of the box, and he hurries over to Junta, grabbing it and keeping it out of reach, by his hip.
"You're right, we should get rid of all of this. I'll dispose of these ones, and you can put those folders there" Takato points to the folders on the table. "in a bag."
Junta nods, but a little smile creeps in.
"You didn't answer my question." Junta approaches and Takato takes a step back, still holding the box to the side. "C'mon, what's this? I thought we were supposed to tell each other things."
"Even this?" Takato grips the right sleeve of his shirt tightly and doesn't let go.
""Even this?"" Junta repeats, losing his smile. "Is it that bad?"
"Yes, it is. It's horrible. It's a terrible, ridiculous, and despicable thing."
Silence fills the conversation. They stare at each other for a moment, each one studying the other's mysterious face. Takato shrinks, his face dropping down, and his nails grip the box so tightly that it leaves tears in the cardboard.
I think even if I hide it, he'll end up seeing it anyway. There are websites for everything, and with a search he could find this shit. I don't have much of an escape...
Takato looks up to observe Junta and sees that he grabbed one of the tapes in his moment of mental turmoil. KT #18 is what is written on the tape.
"How about we just watch just one and then throw everything away after watching?" Junta proposes, serious this time and normally there is at least a slight smile on his face. What does he think it is? There is too much suspicion in that face.
Takato shrugs. "Sure."
Whether the night will end well is a question that arises for both of them, more persistent in Takato's mind. He can't read Junta's face clearly, there's no smile, not even a small one, and he's not chewing Fresc or his own finger. This emptiness is a little more frightening than the anger that surfaced in the bathroom.
"Are you sure you want to watch this whole thing?"
"Oh, sure. No problem." Perfect: cold and distant, even though his expression shows some of his current disturbance.
As they return to the living room, Takato tries to settle on the couch, squeezed into the corner and hugging his legs. Junta, being the only one to suggest it, puts the tape in the player, pressing the button to turn it on, and grabs the control tightly. He sits next to Takato, but not too close, and the pixels on the television form images once the red button on the control is pressed. His arms cross tightly against his chest and his face is clenched in what seems to be anger. This expression suddenly softens as his eyes watch a stage and a boy on it with a violi- Young Takato!
"... and I really, really want to be named the champion. That's why... I'm going to perform a gentle melody," the boy smiles, his cheeks slightly pink. He plays his instrument with trembling hands, looking at it as if it were gold, although it was only clean wood.
Current Takato shrinks even more into his own body, his face from the nose down cannot be seen because the area is covered by his crossed arms above his knees. It was a terrible time, wearing those short shorts that made him look like an elf with very thin legs, forcing his voice to sound thinner than it already was, having to swallow anxiety when he looked at the audience watching him with that looks that made him feel naked and also, at his father's request, he should occasionally glance at the judges with a sweet smile even if he wanted to keep his eyes on anything else, like his instrument.
"It was that?" Junta scratches his hair. Just like in the previous situation when the two of them were in the bathroom, so much went through his mind that he forgot about old thoughts. "One of your competitions? Hey, that's cute. I don't understand your desperation." He strokes Takato's hair.
"I hated it more than anything... That was awful, if you want to know."
"Why did yo-"
"My father forced me."
Takato leaves his shrunk position and stretches his long legs to the ground. "You don't win because you never try," his father said in the early years. Every time the bow passed over the strings, it wasn't like in the cartoons he watched in the mornings. A sharp sound, like iron being scratched, echoed through the room. And every time that happened, his father shouted as if Takato had broken a glass on the carpet. "Can't you do anything right?" And that was just the musicals era; the theater came into this child's life to worsen an already fragile problem. Takato felt sick more than three times just by looking at the black chairs and imagining the number of people who would be there on the day to see the theater, the theater he would participate in. But he couldn't complain about these feelings of sickness and couldn't give up at any moment out of anxiety. Once Takato was very convinced that he wanted to stop, and he was slapped as motivation.
"If I said I didn't want to go, he would scold me, then I would feel bad and go anyway. I was still very young and even though it was cool, it was also kinda scary."
Junta sighs. "Your father was the worse. No wonder he... " Junta observes the dull blue iris in Takato's eyes that are looking at the floor. He doesn't finish his sentence, just puts an arm around Takato's shoulder, who wants to growl like a mutt seeing a motorcycle.
Do you understand what I mean when I say I hated it?
Takato watches Junta nibbling on his thumb while his eyes focus on the screen. One of his feet taps on the floor non-stop, and the sound is not too loud, but it is inevitable not to notice the movement of his knee seeming to be trembling.
Do you also get stressed watching this thing?
Junta doesn't respond to him, and it's not like he expected him to. Junta just keeps analyzing the images on the screen, occasionally shifting his gaze. He's restless, maybe wanting to say something, but Takato wants him to feel it. Takato wants it to make as much sense to him as it does to himself. He didn't even know he wanted to be understood so badly, the idea had always been intimidating.
Look at me... Please, I want you to understand. I just don't know how to explain.
Is that the reason Takato keeps the words stuck in his throat? Not knowing how his voice should sound or what expression his face should assume? The awkwardness of the situation always comes to him as if the other person is strangling him. His voice gets stuck not knowing what form to take. He has caught himself nervously laughing in front of a question as simple as "Are you okay?" Takato fears explaining and not being understood, so he tries to rely on gestures. What does Junta rely on? It's likely both forms, everything just seems too easy for him. Some things just seem unable to touch him, like a news that he lost 8,000 yen or something similar.
"Saijo, I was wondering backstage if you're mad at me because of the list." That's what Junta said on the first day they met. He spoke so absentmindedly that it was like it meant nothing. It seemed like he was talking about a grocery list for his mom. Does Junta understand him through his gestures?
What's your fixation on being on top?
Oh, it's true. He noticed. What else did he notice? Did Junta realize what's wrong with this situation?
Please, turn off the TV and say that... I don't know, that you're sorry for me? Why do you keep watching this crap? I said I hated it. Do you understand that?
Takato looks away from the floor. His blue eyes focus on the clear TV screen, and his left eye twitches nervously at the sight of the audience, where the presence of adult men is dominant. It's strange to feel so dirty when 20 years ago everything seemed elegant and fun, everyone having their attention drawn to him like they were metal being pulled by a magnet.
You're all disgusting.
Takato turns his face into the arm of the couch and presses a fist against his cheek. There's no reason to cry. There's no real reason for it, right? That's what he's telling himself, but cry it's what he wants to do; his throat hurts.
Junta turns off the TV, the screen going dark is a wonderful sight.
"That's what I was trying to say earlier," the control is placed on the arm of the couch. "I wanted you to talk to me and tell me if something was going on, and you still can't do that. You want me to know, so why don't you tell me? I won't always get it right by playing guessing games."
Both surprise and embarrassment spread over Takato's face. The shock was so sudden that he didn't even notice his slightly open mouth, leaving a sentence hanging. His breath is released.
"Ah... It's th-that..."
Damn, it was coming. The whole sentence was almost out, but now it fell back down his throat. Apparently he does better with gestures. Takato crawls on top of Junta, sitting in his lap. One of his hands clenches his shirt, and the other hand moves to his mouth with Takato biting his index finger knuckle while his eyes wander from side to side observing the spaces of the apartment. His face reluctantly rises to face Junta, who finally softens his expression.
"Chunta, touch me." Now both of Takato's hands grab the grey shirt, squeezing as if he would fall if he let it go. "Please, touch me."
"What? You want to fuck?" It's not like he'd deny it, of course.
"Yes."
Takato feels his face heating up. When you touch me, you'll understand