Fifteen Years: Prologue

[andrew_in_drag]

Title: Fifteen Years
Author: andrew_in_drag
Pairing: Die x Toshiya
Rating: mature
Warnings: sex, rock 'n roll, boyish attitudes
Chapter: 0/15
Synopsis: What does it mean when the story of your life is all about somebody else? Die unearths his old journal to find that every single entry is dedicated to his bandmate, occasional lover and enduring obsession: fifteen years of friendship and sex; love and fear; beginnings and endings - fifteen years of Toshiya. When he reaches the final page, however, he finds something he never expected; and it seems the story might not be over for Die just yet...

PROLOGUE: 22/12/2011

Die had a lot of nightmares, but there was one in particular that stood out above the rest.
The curious thing was that, throughout all the years he had suffered from his recurring bad dream, it never showed the slightest variation. In some ways, that amused him: the nightmare, like its subject, never altered. For better or for worse.
It began, always, in his bedroom – not his present bedroom, with its stark white walls and plain bed linen, but a bedroom from forever ago – a place with framed posters and pictures on the walls, and a bright red throw over the bed to liven the place up. Red curtains, red lampshades; red, red, red – there was no breaking Die of his obsession with it, and in that morning in his mind, it cast a rosy glow all around the room.
His bed back in those days had been a single, and he’d slept with his arms in a deadlock around his lover’s waist to stop them both from toppling to the floor. Every night they curled up together like two cashews; every morning Die woke up to thick, black hair and broad shoulders; narrow bones, lean muscle. Even if he was brain dead, he was sure he would recognise the feeling of that body against his: Toshiya, Toshiya. Through every passing year, the touch of him was just as sweet and soft; just as hurtful.
He never really changed.

The softness of Toshiya's skin against his hands was burned into Die’s memory. When he dreamt of it, Die would lie absolutely stock still in his sleep, as if that would somehow make the dram stretch forth – as if he could only just play possum for long enough, then whatever magic that guarded dreams would be fooled, and he could live in his sleepy, morning world forever. The yellow bands of sunshine through the windows; that autumn light against the soft cotton sheets. In his dreams he awoke a thousand times to the faint roar of traffic and a chorus of birdsong; in his dreams, his lover twisted in his arms to kiss him softly and greet him.
And then it happened, and at this point – lying in his dark room, his double bed half empty – Die would break his rigidity and twitch, and toss and turn until his sheets were in muddled strangleholds around his knees, and his hair was in such amazing disarray that in the morning, he would wake up and feel like taking a picture. It happened. The source of all nightmares: those three stupid, stupid words that had come out of his mouth.
In his dream world, he was cursed to say them over and over and over: I love you.
I love you.
“I love you.”
And the corners of the morning darkened as Toshiya’s eyes grew large with panic, and Die would wake up sweating and shaking and swearing that he would never do anything so stupid again; never make such a fatal error again; that he would never, ever say such dangerous words to Toshiya again. His dream protests were still on his lips as he pulled himself from sleep, and they forced their way out of him as he leant, limp and heavy, against the pillows:
“But I was only telling the truth.”
His voice was so soft he could have kidded himself that he’d never said anything at all, and so that was exactly what he did.

Die couldn’t really say what had prompted him to seek out his journal that day. He hadn’t touched the dusty old book in years, although there had once been a time when he was never without it. That wasn’t to say that he had been truly committed to it: sometimes months or even years could go past without him writing a single word. If you asked him, the silence told just as much of a story as the actual entries did: times when he had been too busy, working or else either fighting with Toshiya. Recording any of that would have exhausted him: living through it once was enough. In the end, he had stopped keeping his journal altogether, and it had rested in a neglected cupboard ever since: these days, he preferred to indulge his nostalgia with others, when he could sit back and let them finish his sentences for him, confident that the story they were telling was the truth he remembered. His journal gave him the curious feeling that he was viewing his own past selves as an outsider and finding the faces too young, pathetically young, growing soft whiskers and looking somehow unformed around the eyes; finding the thoughts and hopes and dreams to be glaringly naïve. The affection he felt for that younger version of him was painful and linked, somehow, with deep embarrassment.
He’d been given his journal when he was just nineteen years old – a gift from a rather odd aunt of his, who seemed to worry every day that he wasn’t “organising his thoughts” – and though he’d never seriously intended to write in it, that had changed quite suddenly on one cold, rainy evening in 1996.

Die sat at the kitchen table of his current apartment, just looking down at his journal and absorbing the sound of silence. He remembered that night in 1996 – he remembered it well. How could he not? It had been the most significant moment of his life, although he hadn’t known that at the time. No, back then, he’d simply been another wannabe musician with a nicotine addiction and skinny legs, taking a few quiet moments to enjoy a cigarette in solitude before he had to head back in the oppressive heat of the live house. He’d had no idea, he marvelled now, of how quickly and dramatically his life was to change.
Die sighed quietly and traced the front cover of his journal, not entirely enthusiastic about the prospect of opening it. He touched the red fabric binding; guided a finger along where the golden lettering – ‘memories’ – had mostly been rubbed off, leaving only an imprint. He knew that, as soon as he began reading, the words would jump into life before him in ways that were unwanted. It was as if that younger version of him would be staring up at him from the pages, the doleful look in his eyes crossed over with Die’s own densely-packed scrawl: have you really forgotten me, Die? Or is it just that you don’t want to remember?
And he still wondered why Toshiya had singled him out, that day. Had something really been so special about him, or had the younger man simply sensed a good time; an easy mark?
Die shut his eyes for some time longer than a blink. When he reopened them, his journal lay open on the table before him, pages trembling slightly as if just itching for him to read them.
22/12/1996. The day his world changed.
For a moment, Die was sure that he saw his own face peering up at him from between the lines of script, rain-soaked and hopeful and utterly unknowing. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly, and then began to read. 



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