BREAK THE LIMITS: 3/33

[andrew_in_drag]

Title: Break the Limits
Author: andrew_in_drag 
Pairing: Yoshiki x hide
Rating: mature
Warnings: foul language, yaoi, rock 'n roll excess
Genre: AU to bandfic
Note: I first wrote this fic about three (?) years ago, when I was still hallelujah_hide. Oddly enough, I still like it, so I thought I would move it here to my new journal. 
Synopsis: May 1998: Yoshiki Hayashi breaks down in a temple as he tries to take in the news that has changed his life forever - Hideto Matsumoto, the man he has been in love with for seventeen years, is dead. As the other mourners try to comfort him, Yoshiki finds himself falling back through history - to the day when it all began; the day when he met a boy who would, truly, break the limits...

CHAPTER THREE:

“Since I was born I started to decay

Now nothing ever, ever goes my way.”

– ‘Teenage Angst’, Placebo

As the months passed at school, we were avoided just as much as ever; outcasts, always, made even stranger by the bonds that tied us. Despite that, I was happy, and never more so than when we shared the music room between us at lunchtimes – him with his Gibson Les Paul, me with the grand piano – and laid down notes. Together, we must have looked strange: with the piano, I’d been taught to play perfectly, my back straight and hands so level you could have set a glass of water upon each of them. Everything about my music was classical, whilst Hide…

Well, Hide just seemed to go insane every time he heard an electric guitar. His music was sheer rock, hard as diamond and twice as beautiful, and together we sounded like nothing I had ever heard before. He was shy at first, believing me to be the better musician, but with encouragement he became a veritable whirlwind; a hurricane of energy with chords crackling like electricity in his fingertips, and twisters of words spiralling through his mind. Hypnotically, he became the music he played, his eyes flashing with anger or ecstasy or both. We were constantly asked to keep the noise down, but it wasn’t noise, it was music – pure, raw, beautiful music –; the sound of everything within us as it gushed from our hands and hearts. When he got his hands on that ’76 Gibson, he was like an explosion; and as I watched him kill his demons with his guitar, I fell deeper and deeper in love. On that first day of practise, I revealed to him my secret, and pounded the information all over the school.

I’d been secretly playing the drums for six years, I told him. And then I showed him.

And then we really made music.

Back then, it all seemed so simple. We made music for us, not for men in black suits with big chequebooks – and every word we laid down was sincere. Write what you know, the saying went – and so I did. What I knew was that I was in love with Hide, and having those emotions pouring onto paper before me was the sweetest, strongest, most cathartic feeling of my young years. It was like having a completely different personality; there was shy Yoshiki, and there was band Yoshiki who could manipulate his feelings into words and do something with them.

We never thought we could make it, though.

At that time, Hide wanted to be a beautician. I didn’t know what I wanted to be; all I knew is that I wanted Hide to be part of it, but he spent many a break time talking my ear off about things that I would usually dismiss as silly, girly: things like peroxide and eyeliner and the beauty course he wanted to take.

“D’you think I’ll be able to do it?” he asked me worriedly, sitting at my kitchen table and cradling a glass of water, “I mean, I’m a boy. What if they throw me off the course once they find out I’m not a girl?”

“Then we’ll take them to court and sue them,” I replied absent-mindedly, and he smacked an impromptu kiss onto my cheek.

“That’s a plan,” he conceded, “But I don’t like courtrooms. They’re like…like churches, only…”

“You’ve been in one?” I asked, shocked, and he bit his lip.

“I had to give a testimony once,” he told me, his voice unusually quiet, “About seven years ago.”

Our conversation might have gone further, but he accidentally dropped the glass he was holding and so set about apologizing profusely.

“That was probably expensive,” he gabbled, jumping to the floor in just his socks and piling shards of glass into his bare hands. I leapt off my chair, but I wasn’t quick enough.

“Hide, don’t do that, you’ll hurt—”

“Owwwwwww!”

Blood as red as berries splattered over the floor; more blood than I’d ever seen in my life. I’d never given myself more than a few scraped knees, but suddenly there was a deep gorge in Hide’s palm, and he was paling rapidly.

“Fine,” he gasped, “It’s fine, I’ll just—”

He brought his palm to his hand and, before my very eyes, ran his pointy little tongue along the cut. More of the red liquid welled in its place, though, and he slumped backwards against the glass doors of my kitchen cabinets.

“Out of ideas,” he confessed, “I think I need a plaster.”

“Hide, you need a bandage. And a lobotomy.” I tapped his forehead lightly, “Who picks up glass with bare hands?!”

He gave me a hazy shrug, looking faint, and his head slumped onto my shoulder.

“What was your testimony?” I asked softly, and he got unsteadily to his feet.

“We’d better pick this up,” he stated, avoiding the question, “I’ll pay for the glass. Sorry.”

And he passed out straight onto my kitchen floor.

It took me laying him straight and splashing water onto his chest and face to make him come round. He stared at the bandage I’d wrapped around his hand in surprise, looking adorably sleepy, and I rubbed a concerned thumb over his chin.

“That was a stupid thing to do,” I chastised gently, and he blinked up at me with groggy eyes.

“Why am I all wet?”

I helped him up, eyeing the droplets of water slipping over his collarbones. I’d called a maid to clear up the glass, but when she’d offered to help with Hideto, I’d said no. He felt like mine, my responsibility, and as I patched his hand up I’d marvelled at how young he looked, how vulnerable – ridiculously vulnerable, in fact, for someone wearing what could only be described as red tartan bondage pants. These, he had paired with a long-sleeved, faded green T-shirt – which was better than it sounds, because if he’d worn a red T-shirt with those trousers and that hair, I wouldn’t have been able to look at him without my head hurting.

“Sorry, Yo,” he said apologetically, “I guess I was embarrassed that I broke it.” His face turned faintly miserable. “I bet this will raise me in your parents’ esteem.” He gave me a mischievous smile, and I forgot he’d ever looked sad. “Though you’ve managed to keep me out of their way quite well so far.”

“Hide…” feeling tongue-tied, caught out, I surrendered under that impish little smile. “My parents haven’t ever seen anyone with pink hair before,” I stated weakly, and he chuckled as he slipped his uninjured hand into mine.

“I’ve told my mother about you,” he told me, “And she’s really keen on meeting you, so you better come over to mine before she buys a red carpet just for your visit.”

Though his words were kind, I was suddenly hit with an unexpected dash of envy. It felt ridiculous – I was the privileged one and always would be, but his life abruptly seemed much simpler than mine.

“And your father?” I asked, my jealousy slipping as his adorably naughty expression dropped.

“I wouldn’t let my dad meet you for anything,” he announced bluntly, looking more closed-off than I had ever seen him. “He doesn’t live with us. I hate him.”

He caught the look on my face and his eyes softened as he squeezed my hand apologetically. “Sorry, Yoshi, I didn’t mean to snap. I just…” he ran a shaky hand through his hair, “I really hate talking about my dad.” He gave my fingers another small squeeze. “But it feels like I can tell you things, so I don’t know.”

Slowly, I sat down, intrigued by this side of him. Hide could be so indecisive that even changing the channel on the TV in my room could be a struggle for him, but to see him so pensive over something was truly a rarity. Clearly, he was busily battling out the pros and cons of opening up to me in his head – also strange, for he never usually had a thought that he neglected to share.

“I’ve never had a best friend to tell before,” he said suddenly, “And I’m not sure how me breaking a glass got to something so serious.” He laughed, but I had become aware of just how important this was to him, and how my reaction to whatever he had to say would be crucial; making or breaking our friendship.

Breathlessly, I stroked his hair. “You don’t need to tell me right now,” I reminded him, “Or at all.”

Overcome with a sudden rush of affection, I rubbed my thumb over his cheek. “When you’re ready,” I murmured to him, “I’ll hear it anytime.”

We stayed like that, him smiling shyly at me, until the unmistakeable sound of the front door opening and closing roused me. I heard the click of heels, but my heart didn’t leap into my throat until the owner of the shoes called me.

“Yoshiki, do you have a friend around?”

There was no missing the surprise in my mother’s voice as she found Hide’s shoes by the front door; nor was there any missing the shock in my face as I looked at Hide.

He lifted his chin in the air bravely.

“I’m your best friend,” he stated determinedly. “They can’t hate me that much.”

Introducing Hideto to my parents had to be one of the worst moments of my young life. For some reason, whenever I’d pictured the occasion, Hide had been dressed impeccably in a suit. That was ludicrous, of course, and my parents probably wouldn’t have liked him then any more than they would have liked him anyway. Still, it was only when my parents’ eyes swept over my new friend that I honestly realized what an awful idea it was to have them meet – the complete clash of personalities; Hideto and my parents about as likely to get along as an angel with demons. Feeling as though my mission was utterly kamikaze, I led Hide out into the foyer, almost unable to watch as he drank in the sight of my mother in her soft, oyster-coloured fur stole, or my father in his charcoal-coloured cashmere overcoat. Politely, Hide bowed low, glancing at me worriedly when neither of my parents adapted their rigid posture – and I felt panic rise in my throat as I realized that this situation was possibly more volatile and dangerous than I ever could have imagined; that my parents had the power to really hurt my friend if they didn’t accept him…and that, worst of all, everything was completely of my hands.

Apparently deciding that my parents might not go in for the traditional bow, Hide next offered his hand to them: first the bandaged one and then, blushingly, the other. My heartbeat seemed to stop entirely as my mother’s eyes flicked down to that proffered hand, lingered, and then moved back up to his face, which by that point was coloured pink with embarrassment. That blush was so fucking cute that I just wanted to hold him until it was all over, but all I could do was look on as his hand faltered, shook, and then slowly drew back to his side.

“I’m Hideto,” he introduced warily, slipping me a look that had transcended nervousness and was now just plain frightened, “Hideto Matsumoto. I’m in Yoshi’s…” he gave my father a fearful look, “Yoshiki’s year at school.”

My mother smiled, widely and falsely.

“I wasn’t aware they allowed that kind of hair colour at your school, Yoshiki,” she said delicately, and all of a sudden anger surged through me, and I clenched my fists in my pockets – for how dare she act as though he wasn’t there, ignore him so blatantly?

“Maybe they ordinarily wouldn’t,” I responded, trying hard to keep my voice level, “But Hide’s one of the top students in school. He got a scholarship.”

I didn’t mention that it was a music scholarship. Hide was an average student at best.

I held my breath then, praying that they wouldn’t be as awful as my peers – that they’d see a scholarship was something to be admired, not a stigma to label him as somebody who couldn’t pay fees.

“A scholarship.” My father’s tone was guarded, neither disapproving nor complimentary. “You must be ambitious, surely.”

Almost tentatively, Hide offered him a small smile.

“I want to be a beautician,” he replied, and I felt as if I was watching a gazelle being lowered into a den of lions.

“A pink-haired beautician,” my mother clarified, and I felt a surge of pride as Hide stood defiantly straighter, sticking his little nose into the air.

“Yes,” he answered firmly, leaving them looking a little taken-aback, and I couldn’t help the smug half-smile that crept across my face.

“Where do you live?” was my parents’ next question, dangerous territory to get back at him for having a little backbone; a little self-esteem. It worked its magic even before he answered: Hide seemed to shrink slightly as he realized my parents were the people he’d half-feared they would be.

“Just…just over on the other side of Tokyo,” he responded, with the air of one confessing to some crime, “Kanagawa. On the outskirts? In an apartment with my mother.” He swallowed and defensively added, “It’s cosy.”

“What about your father? Doesn’t he live with you?” my mother enquired imperiously, and that was it – the net had tightened, Hide having taken the bait well and truly, the lions moving in for the kill. My parents hovered like vultures, ready to pick his answer to the bones, and Hide exhaled slowly, calmingly. To me, the sound was like a sigh of a dying man as he releases his last breath, and I felt like screaming at my parents for placing this verbal noose around my friend’s neck.

He looked up at them in the same way a man at the scaffold will look up to the sky, and stared them directly in the eye as he answered.

“No, he doesn’t live with us,” he stated bluntly. “My father’s in prison.”

“Oh, fuck. Fuck. Shit,” Hide cursed, slamming my bedroom door closed and leaning against it heavily. “Fuck!”

“Hide—”

“You knew,” he accused, “You knew and you didn’t…you didn’t…”

He knuckled his eyes and opened his hands, cradling his forehead within them as if it might split apart.

“Hide,” I said desperately, “I’m sorry, I am, and I swear to God if I’d known they’d be that bad—”

“Shit,” he was murmuring softly, and when he next looked up at me I was horrified to see that his eyes were red.

“Hide,” I pleaded, taking his hands in mine, “It’s not that bad—”

“Not that bad?” he repeated incredulously, “They—they—”

“Hide—”

“They fucking destroyed me! I thought the skin was going to melt off my face! What exactly did I do wrong? Apart from having pink hair and not being, not being a fucking…a fucking bajillionaire, or whatever!”

He was pissed off at me – very pissed off – but strangely, I’d never wanted to kiss him more than I did at that moment. It wasn’t just because he was so adorably blustery and frustrated, but more because I knew that what I was seeing – his anger – was a mask for how hurt he was, and how frightened that our friendship might have been placed in jeopardy.

“Hide,” I begged, my heart breaking as he wrenched his hands from mine and ripped his cigarette packet from his pocket. His hands were shaking so hard it took him several seconds to light up, and he turned his back so I wouldn’t see.

“It doesn’t matter,” he was muttering, seemingly to himself, “Because I don’t even care.” He spun around to face me. “It’s true. I don’t care!” he repeated, gesturing wildly with his cigarette, and I wondered which of us he was trying to convince.

“Hide,” I said soothingly, cutting off more angry words, “No, just listen.” I took his hands in mine again, careful of the cigarette, stroking over his knuckles gently. “You shouldn’t care. I don’t.” I shrugged. “They upset you, and damn it – that makes me so angry I want to kill them. But…”

He tipped his head back and swallowed thickly as I continued, “But I don’t care what they think, not one bit.” I squeezed his fingers. “I know you, Hide, and that’s all that matters…”

“They don’t care what I’m like,” he challenged, “They only care that I’m not rich—”

“And does that matter?” I interrupted, “Any of it? Money, status – any of it?”

He looked at me with wary eyes, and I cautiously pressed our hands against his chest, where I could feel his heart racing.

“You and I both know that the only thing that matters is what’s inside you,” I told him, feeling as if I could cry myself at the look on his face, “And that…that if they ever got the chance to see what I see, then – then they’d love you.”

He fell silent after that, using his shirt sleeve to wipe at his cheeks. He sniffed adorably and sighed, casting his eyes out onto the balcony.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last, his voice small, “I’m not angry at you, I just…” he sighed again, sounding tired, “I so wanted them to like me; to just…just give me a chance. But they hate me.”

He ducked his head. “They don’t even know me, but they hate me.”

At that, I felt guilty for even having them as parents, and I gently pulled him close. His bowed forehead nestled into my chest and I bent to kiss the top of his head, my hands light on his waist.

“It won’t change a thing,” I whispered against his ear, “Not a thing.”

His arms came up behind me and he clung on tight.

“What if they don’t let me see you?” he breathed, “Or say I can’t come round, or—”

“Then I’ll go around yours,” I laughed softly, amazed at how newly calm I felt. Wearied, he leant against me, and as I rocked him I imagined that we must have looked like lovers, pressing against each other so desperately.

“I can’t believe it,” I whispered into the quiet, my words raining on him like falling stars, “How they don’t see how amazing you are.”

He looked up at me then, his expression unreadable, and I realized just how close we were – so close, I could see the light smattering of freckles across his nose and at the tops of his cheeks, so pale they would have been invisible to anyone else. I could have counted them, I was that close, and I counted five—six—seven—

Then I drew back – forced myself to, placing my hands shakily behind my back in case they betrayed me by reaching for him again. He stared at me numbly, lips poised on the brink of saying something, and I strained my ears for his words, hope waging a war against common sense in my mind as he opened his mouth, drew breath…

“Shit!” he shrieked, flailing, his cigarette flying from his hand and soaring out onto the balcony. “Ow! That was my good hand!” he lamented, cradling it, and I realized that, while we were talking, he’d forgotten about his cigarette, and the small flame had reached the filter. We hadn’t noticed it spilling ash onto our feet but, judging by his reaction, Hide sure as hell noticed when it burned his fingers.

Unfortunate as it may have been, the sudden pain to his fingers effectively broke the tension in the room, and I was able to forget about how close I came to kissing him.

Well. Almost. It was still difficult to fight away the image of those adorable freckles, even as he bustled obliviously around my room, lighting up a new cigarette prissily and holding it between his lips as he carefully swept ash from my carpet, piling it up in his little hand.

“Sorry,” he said a little miserably, and then gave me a soft smile – that, I decided, was what I loved most about him; his ability to be both happy and sad at both the same time, like an angel caught between heaven and earth.

“It’s alright. Fuck it,” I decided, “Fuck my parents, too. I—” I drew off, disconcerted by the wide smile that had formed on his face. “What?”

“You swore, Yoshi!”

I caught his hands playfully. “Must be your terrible influence,” I teased, and he wriggled free to punch me gently in the shoulder. It evolved into a playful tussle, culminating with him pinning me down against the carpet – for slighter and skinnier as he might have been, somehow…I couldn’t hurt him. Not even jokingly.

“I win!” he announced with a grin, and rolled onto the floor next to me. “But you know,” he added, as if our conversation had never been interrupted, “When I started at your school—”

“Our school,” I corrected, and he shrugged half-heartedly.

“Supposedly. I feel like an unwanted guest there, even though I earned my place. When I first started, the headmaster looked at me the same way your parents did, and…” he paused, suddenly reflective.

“When people treat me like that,” he stated slowly, “It makes me want to be bad.”

He sat up and leant over me, his eyes now sparkling with mischief.

“Wanna do something naughty, Yoshi?”