The summer is stifling. He sits quietly, however, in the cramped kitchenette of their fifteenth floor Tokyo rehearsal studio, tapping his pen on the tabletop as he stares thoughtfully at a sheaf of plain note-paper. The miniscule counter-top is bare and spotlessly clean, as is the table at which he sits, and the blinds are drawn while the air conditioning whirrs quietly in tune with the coffee machine’s gentle hum. The door is half-open, and the gentle sound of laughter chimes through the packed (canned, as he would rather think of it) air in the room, making him look up and smile softly in recognition. Voices trickle in amidst the laughter; cheerful, carefree, casual. His eyes widen slightly as he hears his name, and he allows the conversation to drift into his attention almost lazily, as his hand lies poised on the yet-unmarked paper.
“Eh? No, I think he’s in there, writing something.”
“Must’ve had a flash of inspiration! I thought we told him to lay off the drugs?”
Laughter ensues, and a voice chides the speaker amusedly, almost as if the reprimand is something habitual and is bound to have no effect. He smiles once more, this time more fondly than previously, as he taps his pen twice on the tabletop before leaning towards the paper and beginning to write.

Do you remember when we first met? Even in my color-blind state, your vibrancy placed you apart from the crowd, and although everyone else was a sea of gray your color struggled to fight its way into my vision. Do you remember? Your hair was long and red back then, your eyes had seen less struggle than they have now, and your smile was much more freely given.

Whilst all those days of performing with Jerusalem’s Rod blur into a hazy memory, I clearly remember that single live where you first attended. I remember, even more clearly, each one after that because I remember how I looked for you, searched amidst the crowd, occasionally forgetting my lyrics while I struggled to keep myself anchored in reality. I remember so clearly the first time you spoke, having sought me out backstage; the cheerful, unimposing confidence in your voice as you introduced yourself, and then abandoned the small talk in favor of first praising my voice, then telling me you would like to make me a part of your then-nonexistent band. I remember how I couldn’t answer, how my voice died in my throat in light of your smile, and how my fellow band members jeered and pushed you off, telling you that you were wasting your time. But you were never one for time-wasting, were you? Somehow, I don’t think something of that sort is in your nature. So you asked again, and this time I refused, avoiding your gaze in fear of your reaction. Your voice echoed regret, but you were still relentless, returning live after live in attempts to convince me to reconsider.

Reconsider I did. In some time, you had managed to find yourself a guitarist, a drummer, a name for your band and a new-found sense of purpose. Faced with this and your unwavering charm, how was I supposed to have refused you? I faced the future with the purest of expectations as I left my band, my career, with nothing more than you as a reassurance. I remember smiling at Hiro and Pero, brushing aside their snide remarks at my appearance as you clasped my shoulder gently, almost as if in apology for their rudeness. Even then, you seemed so adamant to appear professional, despite having yet to have accumulated a regular audience.

I remember the compositions, your struggle to book us lives, the arguments, and your support as we struggled through weeks with barely enough money for food. I remember the beginnings of our success, or success as we had known it at first. Those initial days of being beside you after a live was finished, basking in both the warmth of success and the intensity of your joy, were pure bliss. I loved hearing you laugh, watching your smile radiate sincerity while you flounced around the dressing room like a child who had consumed a truckload of sugar. Even then, you were easily pleased, and the love of the fans did more than just satisfy you – it drove you to give into their demands. Our number of live appearances increased, the number of fans grew... Sometimes I was too overwhelmed by it all to take in anything other than the fact that you were beside me more and more often, nagging me about yet another band matter you could never seem to put aside.

With lyric after lyric, chord after chord, our future was composed under your devoted care. Our future: as L’Arc~en~Ciel.

Then, I had to watch your world crumble as Hiro left us in June, claiming artistic differences as his excuse. I watched you wilt under the light of his departure, and I was torn between needing to comfort you and hating Hiro for what he was putting us through. I chose you, as I always have and always will, holding you as you wept in my presence for the first time, having been blinded by your innocence. Having left a band already, and having been in bands where I was left behind meant I had faced such predicaments before, but my confidence wavered slightly as I watched your suffer. However, you being you, you didn’t wilt for long. What was it that pushed you into such a selfless recovery? Desire, or simple obligation?

I remember your return to my apartment, merely a few days after Hiro’s departure, cheerfully announcing that you were in the middle of convincing an old childhood friend to abandon his tertiary education, in favor of a vague dream as a Japanese rock musician. However it was that you did, you managed it, and within a few weeks I was with you as you welcomed Ken to our band. Despite my better conscience, I was reluctant to accept Ken, possibly because of the attention you devoted to him upon his arrival. Yes, I was jealous, I don’t see how I can deny this. Your Ken-worship made me more than resentful and I fretted away for hours at the thought of losing you to Ken’s all-too-talented shadow. How could I not have understood? You were like this in the face of each new experience! It shouldn’t have surprised me in the least that you were overjoyed to be working with your childhood best friend. In any case, I can’t deny my joy at seeing you return to your attitude of “Valiant Leader” as referred to by Ken (do you see what I mean? He even nicknamed you before I did, the bastard!). Your determination and recovery gave us renewed strength, and we continued with fresh vigor and even higher hopes than ever. When December came around, bringing with it news of Pero’s departure, you nodded your understanding of the news with such maturity that I note, and take much pleasure in noting, that even Ken seemed as surprised as I did. I doubt you ever realized how surprised we were when you set about haunting the Live Houses immediately in search of a new drummer.

I remember asking you once, when you were at my shoddy apartment to discuss a new song, if you had already guessed that Pero would leave us. Your smile in reply to this was not as exuberant as it usually was, but steadier, almost self-assuring. I remember the dull thud beneath my ribs as you gently placed your coffee back on the table, before raising your head to meet my gaze, your smile widening ever so slightly, the light in your eyes held firm by thoughtfulness. I remember the softness in your voice as you denied prior knowledge to Pero’s announcement, as you then continued to tell me that everything would be just fine, provided I didn’t leave you as well. Leave you? How could you have ever thought I was capable of anything of the sort? Did it never occur to you that I may have, even back then, found it easier to leave myself instead?

So I stayed. Of course I stayed. I stayed with you late into the night as we covered my apartment with attempted compositions. I stayed with you while you scoured Live Houses, searching for a new drummer, and for this I didn’t have to stay too long. Luck seems to favor you almost as much as I do, and I didn’t need your over-excited squeaks emitted over the phone to know that Sakura would be our new drummer. I stayed, however, to bask in the joy of your success, laughing with you at our luck, at our incredible fortune which had finally shone so brightly as to reward us with such a wonderful opportunity. You were becoming different with each day, and I noted only later that you were beginning to succumb to the pressures of your role as a band leader and manager rolled into one. You devoted to us your very essence, and I was grateful for this as you finally managed to return us to our previous success, and then coaxed us to surpass it.

Was it love I felt for you, even then, where your very being was enough to coax me into outperforming myself? Do I even know what love is?

The coffee machine emits a slight whirr before stopping with a gentle click. He pauses in his writing and looks up as the final drop from the filter hangs precariously, growing heavier by the second before dripping into the dark liquid in the plastic jug, drawing gentle ripples in its wake. The laughter has ebbed, and the sound of voices has dimmed down to an occasional murmur, punctuating the sound of rustling paper and the twang of guitar strings. A few electronic echoes can be heard, no doubt from the mixing tables in the back of the studio. He hears the sharp hiss of a soda can being opened, and the distant but throaty glug of what is most likely the sounds of the can’s contents being swallowed. A soft sigh escapes him as he shields his eyes with his palm before peering out the window. The shadow of the pen in his hand draws a dark, steady stroke across his face, which ebbs as he lowers his hand back to the paper and begins to write once more. The tiny refrigerator in the corner begins to drone loudly, almost as if in eagerness to replace the coffee machine. This sound finally succeeds in overshadowing the rustling of his note-paper, and of the steady scrape of his pen.

Finally, success was tangible. You were so exquisitely elated at having this chance to achieve a secure shot at the success you had always dreamt of. The seasons seemed irrelevant, the fans grew from an erratic stream in cramped halls to arenas filled with a sea of adoring faces, and you stood above it all with your bass held high in an all-encompassing sign of victory; a physical representation of your struggle, your determinations, and your eternal faith. Did you believe in them, did you have faith in the strength of their support? Do you have that faith now? You believed in us, had faith in us, and that seemed enough. If nothing else, it was all I needed. We finally got signed, released a CD, were recognized in the eyes of fame as we had best known it. We followed you when you insisted on a change in image, we believed you when you said we were fast outgrowing the constraints of being an ‘indie’ band. You insisted, in that way only you can manage, that the only way we could stay on top of our success was by keeping one step ahead of the success we had already. We followed. Why wouldn’t we, after you had lead us this far? Through each trial, each abandonment, each betrayal, each failure? After all, we had finally secured ourselves as a ‘band’, hadn’t we? We had each instilled something in the band that we felt was important to us; your trust, my fate, Ken’s future and Sakura’s career.

True to your word, they loved me; my voice, my appearance, the lyrics I penned and the way I moved my body during each live performance. In all honesty, I couldn’t see what they saw in me, and despite my best efforts I can’t see what they see in me today. Maybe it’s because I didn’t look at myself through their eyes. To me, all that mattered was how I was reflected in yours, and at that moment, in your eyes, I was becoming immortalized. Now isn’t that a ridiculously romantic notion, for a non-believer like me to want to be immortalized in memory?

Determined to stay ahead of our success, you cut off your beautiful red hair. At that moment, I was torn. To me, this had been your most defining feature. I had been used to its vibrancy saturating my color-starved sight, used to its adding life into my dull-grey cycle of wake-rehearse-perform-sleep. Almost in an echo of your actions, I cut my hair as well. I was no longer being mistaken for an underage girl, and for that I was entirely grateful. And oh, but when you smiled, this change all became worthwhile, did you notice? You would smile, and the future became haloed in your joy. Isn’t it odd how quickly you had become fully integrated into my life? How soon you had become a part of me? We were maturing as artists, but you were maturing in your own stride, accustoming yourself to the success whilst training yourself to be humble, supportive, and both the best band leader and friend we could have hoped for.

But were we family? Of course not. Success we had in abundance, I worshipped you, Ken worshipped the women, you threw yourself headlong into your workload and unbeknownst to us, poor Sakura was on a downward spiral.

How could we be family when we had failed to notice this until it hit us standing? Had I been you, I would have raged, vented, taken out my anger on Sakura for having punished us and betrayed our trust. How surprised I was, when you took it in your stride in a heightened imitation of your reaction to Pero’s departure. How supportive you were; listening to everything the police had to say, allowing yourself to be subjected to drug testing, all while keeping the peace amongst us as band members and inflicting as little blame as you could on Sakura. To this day I wonder how you managed the press, the fans, the company, and everyone else who seemed all-too-happy to see L’Arc~en~Ciel meet its end, all too happy to drain us dry before chewing us up and spitting what was left back out. It was only in those initial days of chaos that I finally saw the adult in you, when you took hold of our careers and truly established yourself as the leader of our band, of your band. You were confident, determined, adamant that we would not only find a drummer and return to the success we had tasted before, but also that we would surpass what we had been previously. You told us we could become successes in a sense we had never dreamed possible, and with every ounce of faith I had placed in you, I couldn’t doubt you for an instant.

Did I love you back then? Do I even know what love is? Have I known it and not recognized it?

Will I ever know?

You refused to announce a break, I remember, and I also remember being surprised at not feeling surprised by your insistence. We would not let this get us down. You wouldn’t let this get us down. And yet, it almost did. Months went by where you searched fervently for a new drummer, whilst we made mock-covers of our own music in an attempt to remind fans that we had yet to die out. How hurt you must have been, how frustrated, how humiliated…

How elated you were, then, after having found Yukihiro despite these odds. Your smile returned, and we succumbed to it once more, welcoming Yukihiro; our new drummer, the seventh member of L’Arc~en~Ciel to date, the final color on our flag of success, and our biggest hope. We fought, and success returned. Concerts sold out, our fans increased, and I had to smile with amusement when you once waved that T-Shirt in my face, with “GOD” scrawled messily over the front in streaks of wine-red paint. Did you not realize its irony? I remember Utaban, I remember first meeting Megumi, I remember your teasing and your idiotic jokes about my clumsiness when embarrassed. I remember realizing I was in love with her, that I had found someone I wanted to marry, and I remember you beside me, supporting me every time I stumbled. Supporting me the way you did when I was your band member, but this time because I was your friend. I had reached a point in your life where I was necessary, where you needed me, wasn’t that all I had ever wanted? If I have you, do I need anything else?

What are we?

The door creaks open. A soft chuckle precedes the footsteps into the room, and a slightly taller man steps in, his eyes scanning the room quickly as he enters. He does this in a subtly fluid movement, and the sunlight bounces off the face of his watch, making the other man squint reflexively. He smiles cheerfully as he notices the sole occupant of the cramped table, and his obsessively stylish black sneakers squeak upon the tile as he contorts his way into a seat at the table, opposite the other man. He rests his chin on his left hand, and points with his right at the note-paper which is now half-obscured by the other man’s hand which rests on top of it.
“Whatcha doin’ there?”
He smiles in response to the taller man’s question, waving his left hand casually at nothing in particular, almost as if to imply the lack of importance held by the aforementioned papers.
“Just one of those never-mail letters. Y’know?”
“Oh, you mean the ones you write out and don’t actually send?”
“Yeah, it’s supposed to be therapeutic to the thought process, or some fuckery like that.”
He takes in the sight of the other man’s short hair, remembering the longer, vividly red hair of his earlier years. He notes the now refined, selective style of clothes; the jeans, the low-top converse sneakers, the sleeveless black T-Shirt bearing “my name is sick boy, isn’t it?” in defiance. The color of the writing is yellow, he remembers, having managed to guess by the particular shade of gray his vision allows him. It’s from their SMILE tour, and he is surprised by the fact that the other man still has it after all these years. He remembers the buffalo platforms, the fluorescent shorts, the ever-changing hair color, the nail varnish, and the unadulterated innocence.
“So you’re summer-cleaning your thought process?”
“Something like that.”
They both smile softly, understandingly, and “sick boy” stands up to leave, the sound of the chair against the tile echoing throughout the tiny kitchen. Before he leaves, he reaches a hand out and ruffles the shorter man’s messy, jet-black hair. He watches him leave, the smile ebbing a little but never faltering as his gaze returns to the note-paper.

How long has it been? 16 years now? I’ve seen you struggle for longer than anyone save yourself; longer than our fans, longer than our manager, certainly longer than yukihiro with the little ‘y’ and even longer than ken with the little ‘k’. I’ve seen you develop your quirks, like the de-capitalization of our first names, and I’ve seen you discard those quirks in exchange for other, quirkier quirks. I’ve seen you smile, held you when you cried, hugged you in joy and kissed you on stage. I’ve watched you mature into the artist you are today, accepted your support when you needed it as much as I did, and thrown my life into making your dream come true. I wrote this just because I felt like a complete fool this morning, you know? A simple letter from a fan, oh go figure, and all the poor girl did to tip my world on end was tell me it was sweet how we’re such close friends. How lucky am I to have such trust even after having reached stardom? What have I done to deserve you?

I know love, I do, and I know that I do. The fans love me, I know that. I love my wife, my child. They love me, I know that. I love Ken and Yuki (no, not ken and yukihiro, because they’re the people fans see, not the people I’ve been fortunate enough to know), and I’m guessing the feeling’s mutual or we’d never have survived all those tours together. I love my success, my life, the expectations I have to live up to, and most of all, I love how worthwhile I’ve become in your wake.

Do I love you?

He pauses thoughtfully, almost as if enraptured by revelation. He rests his left cheek against the palm of his left hand, and quietly twirls his pen in his hand. He writes one more phrase, before carefully folding up the note-paper. A small smile ghosts his face once more; this time it is one of simple, unadulterated joy. He raises his head, letting his hand fall as he stands up from the cramped little table. The paper is held lightly in his right hand, and he pushes away the chair before making his way towards the sink. His left hand reaches into the pocket of his jeans in search of his ever-present lighter, and he holds the papers above the sink contemplatively for a moment, before positioning the lighter beneath them and watching as the flames begin to feed. The smile remains, and he holds his arm out towards the centre of the sink, the corner of his set of note-paper held cautiously between thumb and forefinger.

He remembers thinking his life would be defined by the long red hair or the fluorescent clothing. He remembers the pure, indefinable joy at having seen that smile each day. He remembers how he felt when he first saw that smile, in comparison to how he feels now. He acknowledges what it has meant to him, what it means to him today and what it will continue to mean to him in future.

Does he love him? Maybe not in the way he loves his wife, or his child, his friends or his other band members. He loves the fact that he knows he is needed, that it is purely emotional, and that the other man is not a lover but is more than a friend or family. Above all, he loves the fact that they both understand and are content with each other, the way they always have been.

Do I love you?

Of course I do.

He drops the paper as the flames reach too close to his skin, and watches as the last shreds of it curdle into a wispy black mess before he turns and exits the kitchen. The rehearsal studio is a welcome sight, littered with furniture, equipment, instruments, food-related rubbish and masses of paper. He smiles at the three men seated around the room, waving one arm slightly as they smile in return. An overflowing ashtray sits beside one, while a crumpled can of Coca-Cola serves as a paperweight for the manuscripts in front of the other. The two return right back to work cheerfully, having acknowledged his return to reality. “sick boy” is seated on the floor, his favorite fiesta-red ESP bass positioned comfortably in his lap. By the looks of things, they have been hard at work, as usual, and he thinks it’s awfully generous of them to have left him to his thoughts for as long as he wanted. He sits down opposite the bassist, who notes his quiet demeanor curiously.
“So, how’s everything going?”
hyde smiles reassuringly at tetsu, and his heart sighs contentedly as he receives a smile in return. He has his answer, and for him, it feels like this is everything he could ever have wanted.
“Everything’s perfect.”