Categories > Celebrities > Glay > ...As a Sign of My Love...

Part Three

by shiira_megumi 0 reviews

How does one show love when it's not supposed to be shown? Jiro and Hisashi try to do so.

Category: Glay - Rating: R - Genres: Drama, Romance - Published: 2006-12-13 - Updated: 2006-12-14 - 2457 words - Complete

...As a Sign of My Love...
Shiira Megumi

Part Three

The flute glasses were last to be placed on the table. After setting them into their places, Hisashi stepped back from the dining table he'd prepared. Head tilted to this right, he bit his lip while studying the covers for two, mentally doing a checklist of what should and should not be on the dinner table. Then, as though with a sudden startle at the recognition, he cried, "Napkins!"

Hisashi spun on his heels and went back into the kitchen. Once there, he stopped to recall where the damned table linens were kept. When no clue came out of his memory vault, he gave up the task of thinking and started to open the drawers and cupboards one by one. For a moment he cursed under this breath, wondering why he had to fuss like this. Had they chosen to dine in a restaurant, none of this bustle would've happened. But then he knew that it would only complicate matters. As one of Japan's biggest superstars, he'd never had any comfort dining in a city as populated as Tokyo.

His senses got back into him once he'd found what he was looking for. After choosing complementing napkin holders, Hisashi raced back to the dinner table and placed the linen accordingly. Satisfied with the task done, he went into the den and inspected a stash of DVDs, checking for something they could watch later in the evening to supplement the special occasion. He just hoped that by the time his partner would arrive, he had already decided on something.


"...How's everything?" Jiro asked to his wife on the other end of the line. As he listened to her, Jiro noticed the familiar black car in its usual spot in the basement parking. He couldn't suppress his smile even when he eased into the empty space beside it. For a while, he was tempted to smooth the lone stalk of Casablanca lilies nestled in the seat beside him but vetoed the thought to focus on Reiko's voice. "Well, that's good," Jiro said again after she had finished her story. He cleared his throat. "I need to go now. I'll be back tomorrow. Take care."

Jiro pressed a button to end the connection and moved to tuck the phone into one of his bag's pockets but stopped. He looked at the small gadget in his hand, his pouty lips pursed in thought. After some time of silently debating in his mind, he tinkered with a few more buttons. Rendering the phone silent, he placed it back in his bag. It didn't take long for him to get out of the car, bag on shoulder, lilies in hand. He double-checked his lock then sauntered to the elevator.

His idle fingers wouldn't stop drumming against his thigh as he waited for the cab to take him to his floor. To keep them busy, he dug around in his pocket and retrieved a small velvet box. He opened it, the two shiny objects inside twinkling happily, greeting his eyes.

The elevator cab stopped at the right floor with a chime. He closed the cube shut with a snapping sound, slid it back into his pocket and stepped out, glad that he had been alone throughout the elevator ride. Reaching the access of his own pad, he straightened his clothes and smelled his wrists, checking his perfume. He ran his fingers through his honey blonde hair then breathed onto his palm, making sure he had no afterscents from lunch. After deeming himself ready, he raised his hand to rap on the door with three knocks, not bothering to use his own set of keys--he knew somebody was inside--and waited.


Hisashi nearly jumped out of his skin in surprise at the sound coming from the door. He knew those knocks. It was like a secret code for them. The guitarist perked up, like a teenager going to the prom, before forcing himself to relax. After all, he is Hisashi Tonomura, the calm, collected Ice Man. Damnit, I feel like crushed ice right about now.

The lithe body skipped towards the door, halting for a moment to check himself in the mirror down the hall. With a deep intake of breath, he readied a smile then opened the door of Jiro's apartment.

His breath caught in his throat at seeing the lean bassist in the doorway, never looking a day over twenty-five. "Hi," he greeted.

"Hi," Jiro said back, smiling. He strode in after Hisashi had stepped back to grant entry. "These are for you," he offered, handing Hisashi the Casablancas.

Hisashi sighed, but smiled nonetheless and brought the blooms to his nose. "Yoshi," he said, using the name he'd always been calling him when they were alone, "I told you before you don't have to bring me flowers." Hisashi closed the door, locking it.

The bassist showed a face of mock hurt. "You used to love me bringing you flowers." He draped the jacket he'd just peeled off his body and left it on an empty armchair along with his knapsack.

"I still do, but we're all grown-up now."

With both of his hands now free, Jiro took one of Hisashi's hands and gently led the smaller man to him, obliterating the distance between them. Sturdy arms wound around the guitarist's slim waist. "Sashi," Jiro began, using his private nickname for the other man, "we'll never be too old for what we have." Then his full lips brushed Hisashi's thin ones, attesting to what he'd said. His kiss was light and tentative, waiting for Hisashi to accommodate him.

In silence, Hisashi agreed by sliding his hands from Jiro's chest to rake his fingers into the bassist's hair to rest on his nape. The smaller man tilted his head, obliging, coaxing him to deepen the kiss.

They were breathless when they went up for air. Jiro used his thumb to wipe some of the moist off the corner of Hisashi's mouth. "Let's go into our bedroom," he said with a cocking of his eyebrows and a mischievous smile. It was answered by a pouting Hisashi. "Hey," the bassist complained, "that's my job!"

The petite one playfully slapped Jiro's shoulder. "You pervert! It's time for dinner. Aren't you even hungry?"

"Oh, I am hungry...for you."

"Stop that," he warned with a giggle. "Dinner's ready."

Since he felt his own stomach was grumbling, Jiro let go only of Hisashis waist, keeping the slim hand cradled in his. Hand in hand, they moved towards the dining area and were met by a table all set.

Jiro's eyes skimmed over the goodies on top of the oaken board. He couldn't suppress his smile at seeing what Hisashi had tried to do. "Aw, honey, you cooked," Jiro cooed in a tone something out of Pleasantville.

"I tried," Hisashi replied with a slight shrug of his shoulders. He tugged Jiro for them to move further. "I would've cooked spaghetti," Hisashi prompted. "But I know you do that so well so opted for steak instead."

Jiro merely nodded as his attention was caught by a white paper napkin on the floor by his sneakers. "Very impressive." He bent down, long limb and fingers picking up the tissue. "So, uh..." Jiro waved the white material bearing a restaurant's logo in front of Hisashi's nose, "you cooked?"

A rather sheepish grin found its way to bloom on Hisashi's face. "I said I tried."

Jiro returned the smile. And as both of them took their places, the bassist took glee in the idea that even though the guitarist hadn't personally cooked their shared meal, he did exert extra effort. To Jiro, that was more than he could ask for: to have Hisashi go through the trouble for him.

/For us/, he mused.


Over small talk, they finished their dinner of steak and vegetables. Their talk was nothing fancy, nothing too serious, nothing too demanding. It almost seemed...too normal. They laughed, smiled, pouted, sighed...exactly the same things two people enjoying each other's company would do.

"Could you please get me the glasses, Yoshi?" Hisashi asked while bowed over at the dishwasher, arranging the things they had used.

Jiro did as told, though not quite as he placed the breakables in the washer himself. Then he propped his arms against the counter to push himself up into a sitting position on the marbled top. Swinging his legs from side to side, he waited for Hisashi to close the door of the washer and tinker with the settings.

Hisashi straightened up as soon as the appliance begun its pulse. For some reason, the mixture of water, soap and suds splashing around behind the glass door of the washer interested him. He took a step back, tucked his bent left arm across his chest, the back of his hand supporting his right elbow. As a force of habit, he nibbled on his thumbnail as he watched with genuine interest the workings of the machine.

Jiro gave Hisashi the same interest the latter was giving the piece of equipment. He didn't think he'd ever get enough of observing Hisashi whenever the smaller man was in deep concentration over anything, be it his guitars, his remote-controlled cars, his Macs, or his model guns.

He especially liked it when Hisashi was intent on him.

Feeling he was being watched, Hisashi tore his gaze away from the washer to catch Jiro's eyes fixed on him, a smile present on the bassist's youthful face. His arms moved to plant a hand on his hip, the other dangling at his side. "What?"

"Nothing." The smile never faded. "I just find it amazing to see you so domestic."

The grin that slashed across Hisashi's delicate features was of flirting, a face he maintained as he approached Jiro stealthily. "Oh, really?" He fit into the space between Jiro's parted thighs and slithered his arms around the other man's waist.

A pang of disappointment hit Jiro when Hisashi never closed his limbs around but reached behind him instead to retrieve a clean rag. "Here. Your wipe the dishes dry." Hisashi spun around, still in the cradle created by Jiro's legs and reposed against the solid chest, his arms relaxing on either of the bassist's thighs. "That way we can both be domestic."

Jiro didn't say a word. He simply buried his face into the nook of the Hisashi's shoulder, lips curling into a smile pressed against the side of the guitarist's neck. They stayed that way for minutes, Jiro's fingers tracing irregular patterns along the guitarist's slim arms, Hisashi's fingers doing the same on Jiro's denim-covered thigh.

The moment was interrupted by the shrill buzzer of the washer going off. Hisashi disengaged himself from Jiro. "You can start drying the dishes."

"And what will you do?" Jiro queried, jumping off the counter.

"I'll take a shower." With a wink, Hisashi turned on his heels and walked away, never seeing--but feeling--the bassist's eyes on him.

Jiro's gaze had reflected his longing laced with a tinge of desire.


"What are you watching?"

"Star Wars," came Hisashi's curt reply. He took his eyes momentarily off the flat screen to focus on Jiro who was fresh out of the shower. His hair dripped all over the carpet. The guitarist returned his attention to the movie, but not before smiling at the way Jiro rasped the canary terry cloth against his hair, trying to get the tendrils dry.

"We've seen that before," Jiro commented.

"I know." Hisashi budged his weight on his elbows planted on the throw pillow in his lap. "I just hadn't paid that much attention to it before."

/Indeed, you haven't/, pondered Jiro upon realizing Hisashi won't be granting him his interest in the next few seconds. This he ran over and over in his head even as he got rid of the towel covering his delicious hips to step into a pair of gray jockey shorts, a white T-shirt and a smiley pajama bottom.

Sensing Jiro about to occupy the space beside him, Hisashi--eyes still glued to the screen--scooted over to the right side of the comfortable divan at the foot of the bed. The bassist hunkered into the space Hisashi had created. He leaned back against the mattress, legs bent and heels touching to create an angle, right elbow holding himself up and immersed in the flick he'd already seen once too often.

Somewhere in the verbal exchange between Yoda and Luke Skywalker, Hisashi switched in his seat, svelte legs piled neatly side by side on his right, his torso leaning towards the bassist. Wordlessly, Jiro accommodated the snuggle as he draped an arm around Hisashi's lithe body.

As the movie came to its end, Jiro felt Hisashi's entire weight down on him. Brushing the hair off the guitarist's face and sneaking a glimpse, Jiro became conscious of the fact that Hisashi had dozed off. Whether it was from the exhausting day at the studio or the soothing predicament Hisashi was in, Jiro wasn't sure. /Little brat/, he chided all the while swathing the guitarist's arm around his shoulder while his own arm remained around the guitarist's body. Careful not to stir Hisashi from his sleep, Jiro slid off the couch--still holding Hisashi--and tucked his other arm under Hisashi's knees to lift him up.

The smaller man was unbelievably light. It hadn't been difficult at all to set him down on the left side of the bed--Hisashi always insisted to be on the left side--and tuck him in under the covers.

Jiro walked around to get to the other side of the bed, stopping for a moment to turn off the TV and turn out the lights and allowing the moonlight to flood their room. Gently, Jiro slid under the duvet, trying so hard to shift the mattress as little as possible. Hisashi, instinctively sensing in his sleep the presence of the other man beside him, moved his body towards Jiro, hand seeking the warmth that the bassist's chest can provide. And then his arm rested there, moving with the rise and fall at Jiro's every breath.

With his hand continuously stroking the double-hued mane of the man snuggled in his arm, Jiro could only watch Hisashi's face and be mesmerized by the beauty he possessed under the usual guise of cosmetics, the sweetness that lay beneath that cool and aloof persona, the looks of concern behind those eerie contact lenses. In that silence, Jiro knew how much he loved everything about the guitarist.

And the thing about it, the one thing that should have had bothered him but hadn't, was that everything felt so natural.
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