#daikyo

Yamato:

I would kill you.✧ I would physically hurt you.✧ I would attack you unprovoked.✧ I would manipulate you.✧ I dislike you.✧ You annoy me.✧ You scare me.✧ You intimidate me.✧ I hope I intimidate you.✧ I pity you.✧ You disgust me.✧ I hate you.✧ I’m indifferent toward you.✧ I’d like to get to know you better.✧   I’d like to spend more time with you. ✧ I’d like to be friends with you.✧  I’m unsure what to think of you.✧ I’m unsure how I feel about you.✧ You are my friend.✧ You are my best friend.✧ You are my mentor.✧ I look up to you.✧ I respect you.✧ You are my hero.✧ You inspire me.✧ You are my enemy.✧ You make me happy.✧ I want to protect you.✧ I would fight by your side.✧ I consider you an equal.✧ I think you are beneath me.✧ I think you are above me.✧ I would lie for you.✧ I would lie to you.✧ I would sleep with you.✧ I would sleep by your side.✧ I would hug you.✧ I would kiss you.✧ You are family to me.✧ I would die for you.✧ I would kill for you.✧ I would trust you with my life.✧ I would trust you with my most precious belonging.✧ I would trust you with a secret.✧ I would trust you with my biggest / darkest secret.✧ I love you (platonically).✧ I love hate you (romantically).

Kerice:

He’d known Klavier for as long as he could remember, and that included knowing Klavier long enough to write a damn list of all the things that annoyed him.

Of course doing that would be petty, and he wasn’t about to lower himself to one of those petty over-dramatic ex-girlfriends from a cliché sitcom (firstly, because he was a detective and detectives had pride, and secondly, because that would mean Klavier was the boyfriend protagonist and for once in Daryan’s life it wouldn’t hurt for the spotlight to be off Klavier), but every time Klavier opened his mouth—and Jesus, did he do that often—the list got a little longer.

It always made him laugh in the worst of ways, in the way that Klavier pointedly said made him look and sound like part-hair dryer, part-dog (but fuck what Klavier said and fuck what Klavier thought and above all, fuck Klavier) when fans went up to him with stars in their eyes and said Klavier was perfect. He would have done anything to rip the stars out of those eyes.

His throat tightened in time with his chest when he thought that he, too, had thought Klavier was perfect once. That was before he got past the whites of Klavier’s eyes (that could make you feel like you were everything and nothing at once, and God, he knew that), the straight-edge of Klavier’s teeth when he grinned or smiled or spoke (and Klavier was as good at taking things part as he was at putting them together), the chains around Klavier’s neck and the ones hanging from his belts of his leather pants (and Daryan wasn’t stupid enough to think that they were the things chaining Klavier in place).

He lit a cigarette, let the smell of it seep into his ribcage as he sat there looking like a damn fool. The smoke held onto him, washed over the distinctly Klavier smell of his office: leather and some pretentious foreign cologne. 

He’d forgotten why he was there in the first place, forgotten why he’d kicked his boots up on a paper-covered desk (yeah, Kla—Gavin would bitch and whine about that one, but he’d get over it too) and sunk into Klavier’s leather office chair before pulling out a cig.

It was funny in the dog-vacuum cleaner way. Everything seemed to lead back to Klavier. Daryan put the cigarette out, looked around, and put it in the little dish where Klavier kept his butterscotch candies. He considered counting the candies, just for the hell of it, and then shook his head, grabbing a fistful and jamming it into his pocket instead. 

Everything seemed to lead back to Klavier. Everyone seemed to lead back to Klavier. He groped around for the edges of whatever deep resentment he had buried under his fingertips, finding nothing but the beginnings of an ugly emotion that made his throat and ribs collapse in on themselves. For a moment, he was falling.

(For a moment, he’d forgotten that he already had.)

And it was that, he realized, inside of Klavier’s office, sitting in Klavier’s chair with his feet crossed on Klavier’s desk and a bunch of Klavier’s candies (and as if it was instinct, he shook his head to avoid the feeling dangerous and bright rising behind his eyelids), that annoyed him most about Klavier. That made everything else he’d ever hated grow small. That made Klavier’s perfectionism, or Klavier’s stupidly long eyelashes, or that it took Klavier an hour to shower and do his makeup—and still have the nerve to waltz out of his bathroom in that stupid black bathrobe, perch on Daryan’s lap, and ask if he looked OK—all seem irrelevant.

It was that no matter what Klavier did or Klavier said or Klavier made him do, he couldn’t find it in him to hate him. Klavier was annoying. Klavier was worse than annoying. Klavier was every bad thing Daryan had ever hated packed into one, tan, blue-eyed blond-haired package, and that stupid package drew him into his orbit without any hope of reprieve.

Perhaps there was a time, although he did not know it, a time before—a time before he knew Klavier’s eyes were so blue it made you think you were looking away because they were too bright, not because it made you feel an ugly guilt for a crime not yet committed, a time before he knew Klavier’s smile was so wide it hid every secret he’d ever pressed from his lips to Daryan’s collarbone, a time before he knew Klavier was contradiction after contradiction, lie after lie, fragile piece after fragile piece. A time before he knew Klavier talked about himself to distract from himself.

But that time was over, had not existed for a while, and perhaps never had. He felt around in his pocket for the pack of cigarettes, and found only the butterscotch candies. For a long, dangerous moment, he felt sorry for himself—and sorry for Klavier. The brightness, guilt, and resentment all rose at once, and he closed his eyes, thought that he would drown in it.

Klavier opened the door and Daryan nearly fell out of his chair, gripping the sides of it for support. Daryan looked from his own boot-clad feet to Klavier standing in the doorway of his own office and raised a hand, said, “Hey.”

Shutting the door behind him with his own back, Klavier walked straight for Daryan and then stopped. Daryan’s throat tightened without his permission: a warning, a lesson.

He searched Klavier’s face for any kind of clue, finding none. He was wearing his sunglasses (indoors? Daryan thought for a moment, fists itching to jam themselves into Klavier’s nose, before his throat began to burn), and he had both his hands in the pocket of his leather pants. Daryan squinted.

“Ja, hey.” Klavier took a hand out of his pocket and raised it in greeting before putting it back. He raised an eyebrow at Daryan before making a point to (and God, he didn’t hate Klavier but he sometimes he wished he did) stare at the papers trapped under Daryan’s boots. “What brings you here?”

He gritted his teeth, opened his mouth—are you fucking kidding me, and of course Klavier wasn’t—and shut it. “The fuck, Gavin? You called me here. Band practice, or something.”

He hated it when Klavier raised his eyebrow. “In my office? Herr Crescend, surely you jest.”

“You have a hundred guitars on your wall. Don’t act like practicing in here would be crazy, or some shit like that.” He paused, reconsidered. “You probably play guitar on the fucking toilet.”

“Only when I’m having difficulties,” Klavier told him without missing a beat. He wriggled his fingers. “You use it or you lose it.”

“Not playing guitar for the five or so minutes it takes for you to take a shit isn’t gonna kill you.”

Klavier laughed at that. He wanted it to last, wanted to press that moment somewhere whatever (whoever whoever whoever) was eating Klavier alive wouldn’t be able to find it. That was before he recognized the burn in his throat. Daryan took his feet off the desk, slamming them into the hardwood floor. The office was alive with the sound of it, of them, of the ghost of Klavier’s laughter.

“Maybe not. But I wouldn’t want to take any risks, ja?” Daryan’s eyes caught on the small dimple on Klavier’s left cheek when he smiled. The burn in his throat caught on the rest of Klavier, just standing there, sunglasses on and hands in his pockets. He could read Klavier’s face. Klavier’s eyes were another thing altogether.

(There were times when he wanted to take Klavier apart, piece by piece, just to see what he would find. There were times when he wanted to, caught in the sweep of an investigation or the heat of the music, take Klavier’s hand off of what it hid and say: You’ve got me, I’ve got you, you’ve got me.)

“Seriously,” Daryan said. Klavier just stood there. He gritted his teeth before he knew it. “What are you doing here?”

The smile dropped from Klavier’s face, changed into something darker, though in reaction to who, Daryan did not know. “Did you not see the sign when you invited yourself in? It’s my office.”

“Okay, check out of whatever little fantasy world you’re living in”—he purposely ignored the way Klavier stopped smiling to flinch before the smile was back before it had ever even left—“—and think for a moment, I know it’s hard. You called me, left one of your cute little messages, and expected me to come running. And now you want me to go.” And now you’re pushing me away.

He ran a hand through his hair, growled low. Somehow, things with Klavier always veered towards the same road.

“Look.” Klavier took his hands out of his pockets, crossed his arms. Daryan squinted again, something brought flaring, before faded just as fast. “I know you’re so eager to see me”—the resentment bloomed in all of its ugly glory, and Daryan bit his lip so hard he drew blood—“—but I have work to do.” He gestured at his boot-pressed papers. “Swing by later if you’re still so needy.”

“No, you look. I’m not here to fit into your own personal agenda.” He stood up, ignoring the way his throat and eyes burned when Klavier flinched backwards and away, talking before he understood what he was saying:

“I don’t know who the fuck told you the world revolved around you, or that people are just here for you to use like a stage prop, but they lied. I’m here to—“—and Daryan stopped looking at the floor to look at Klavier, to see Klavier. The anger and resentment faded and made way for the guilt that never left. He’d seen that look before.

“Frankly, Daryan, I don’t care why you’re here.” Klavier jerked his head at the door, voice even and clear save for the falter at the end that Daryan knew all too well. “All I care about is you leaving.” He flashed his million-dollar smile. “Right now.”

Daryan stepped forward. Klavier blinked (flinched, really), but stood his ground. Then: “You must think I’m really stupid.”

The smile dropped for real. Klavier said, “What?”

“You must think I’m really stupid,” he said, shaking his head and then letting his hands fall at his side in defeat. “I know you better than that.”

(And of course he’d seen that look before. Cornered animals lashed out, bit hard.)

“Know me better than what?” Klavier narrowed his eyes, stepped towards Daryan until they were almost eye to eye, close enough that Daryan could smell, faintly, a mix of mint and cologne. “If this is about—“

He shook his head. “Ain’t about anything.” He paused. “But you.” He let his voice soften. “What happened?”

The air in the room went still, and then Klavier was shaking his head, Klavier was laughing, Klavier was flashing him that mirror-practice time-perfected smile that had everyone else on their knees. “Nothing—happened. I want to work. It’s my job, Daryan. Literally.”

“Take them off.”

“What’s up with you? I said I wanted to work, not play, ja? But if you call me later I’d be happy to—“

“For Christ’s sake, Klavier! The sunglasses! Take off the sunglasses.”

Somewhere along the long, twisted road that was dealing with Klavier, he’d learned to read him. Klavier wasn’t like French or music notes. He had a language of his own, the kind of thing he hid in the subtleties of every performance he put on for every audience, but Daryan knew the cues.

“No,” Klavier said, somewhere between I can’t and I won’t and I shouldn’t. Daryan strained to hear it. The smile again, and for what seemed like the millionth time in his lifetime, Daryan wanted to punch that smile right off Klavier’s face until Klavier remembered smiles were kept for when you meant them. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just…” He trailed off, and his eyes went bright-blank. Almost, Daryan thought in spite of himself, like looking right into the sun. That was dangerous. You could lose yourself there, go blind. “Tired.” He gave a shrug. “I’m very tired.”

He knew, then, that Klavier wasn’t lying.

“Alright, then.” Daryan stepped away from Klavier’s chair, scratching the back of his head. He’d forgotten every word he’d ever known. All he had was: You’ve got me. I’ve got you. You’ve got me. “Take a nap.”

Klavier bumped his shoulder, and they stood like that for a moment, Daryan ignoring the warmth where Klavier pressed against him. “You’re a bad influence, Herr Crescend. I said I wanted to work.”

“That’s why you wore the sunglasses, dumbass.” Daryan gave him his nastiest glare, but they both knew it had no real bite to it. “To sleep through meetings. I know you.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to look cool, although I don’t need the sunglasses for that.”

“God,” Daryan said. All of Klavier was there, and for a foolish moment he wondered if this was where Klavier retreated when he wanted to hide the parts of him that no one else knew existed, if this was Klavier at his core, breathing and open and alive. “Now sleep.” He patted Klavier’s office chair. “I knew this was too comfortable for a reason.”

Obedient for perhaps once in all 24 years of his life, Klavier slid into the chair, resting his head against the back of it. Daryan reached out and then drew his hand back. They stayed like that again, Klavier’s eyes closed (he thought so; the sunglasses made it hard to tell anything), Daryan standing there, the sound of Klavier’s breathing an even tempo between them both.

“One request, Daryan,” Klavier said, eyes still closed.

“Sure,” Daryan said, ignoring the part of him that whispered: Anything in spite of the rest of him. God, Klavier could do that to you. Klavier did that to you. Klavier took you apart.

“Not a word.” He shifted in the seat, stopped. “To anyone. About this.”

Daryan looked at him, and said, as if he’d spoken any louder he’d ruin the moment or yank Klavier out of the cusp between sleep and wake, “I’ve got you.”

He stood up and wandered to the wall near the doorway where Klavier’s light was still on and shut it off before moving to the back of Klavier’s office. The city outside the window was still and everything slept. Daryan closed the blinds.

And hell, Klavier was a goddamn brat more times than he wasn’t (another thing, Daryan thought, that needed to be added to the list), but there weren’t any laws that prevented him from acting like a child every once in a while.

He walked over to Klavier, reaching out for a second time. To hell with it all. Grasping at Klavier’s face, Daryan took Klavier’s sunglasses, folded them, and put them on Klavier’s desk. Even in the dark, he saw Klavier’s eyes were swollen. His heart rose in his throat. Daryan took off his jacket and stopped for a minute before draping it over Klavier’s shoulders. He shook his head, this time at himself instead of Klavier.

Klavier peeked an eye open and Daryan just stood there for a moment, frozen by the pooling in his stomach, before the scowl took over and he jabbed at Klavier’s face.

“What the hell? Go to bed, man. Seriously. Don’t make me babysit you.”

Klavier said, voice thick with sleep, “I’m flattered.” The eye closed again and Daryan stood there by him, feeling every part the fool he had from the first damn day he met Klavier. “I’m going, by the way,” Klavier told him, half-there and half-not, “to Borigina tomorrow, in case you forgot. Try not to be too lonely without me.”

He stilled, then grinned around the lump in his throat. Something in him ached, but he pushed it away. It hadn’t mattered before and it hadn’t mattered now. In the morning, Klavier would wake up, and then he would leave. “Go fuck yourself, Gavin,” he said, and Klavier only laughed.

(He did not consider himself a romantic, and even less an unrealistic romantic, but he knew that in his mind he’d already tucked this moment away. What would it have been like? He knew it would have been easy to just walk out of Klavier’s office and never come back, to change the conversation into goodbyes neither of them knew they were saying. But whether it was for Klavier’s sake or his own, he did not know.

Not that mattered, not that it ever had. He’d made his decision already, and Klavier, without knowing it, had made it too.)

For what felt like hours (but couldn’t have been more than ten minutes—he wasn’t stupid), Daryan stood there, taking in the silence of the room and Klavier’s even breathing. Then, sinking his hands into the pocket of his jeans, he walked towards Klavier’s door and opened it. He took a moment to look at Klavier, knowing full well it was the last time he’d ever see him like that again. There was no regret, only a dull pang of what Daryan could only barely recognize as longing.

“Daryan,” Klavier said, breathless in all the right ways, and grabbed him by the wrist. It wasn’t the one holding the cigarette (Klavier knew him better than that) and Daryan let him, ignoring the warmth where Klavier’s skin touched his own. After he looked at Daryan the smile dropped from his face. Klavier furrowed his brow. “Where did you go? I had to explain to everyone there that my—“—he let go to pat Daryan’s wrist—“—second guitarist had vanished into thin air.”

Leave it to Klavier fucking Gavin to make it about himself again. Daryan shook his head, shaking Klavier’s hand off his wrist in the process.

“You’ll live,” he said, although the look on Klavier’s face was making him think otherwise. His hair had gotten a bit messy (that was fine, Daryan thought in spite of himself, more than fine) and his makeup had smudged, but somehow it made him like brighter and sharper at his edges. He pinched the cigarette in annoyance. “Or can you not make it that long without me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Klavier told him, but laughed anyway, and for a moment Daryan felt like he was home. “It’s bad for publicity. The fans will think we’ve broken up.”

He took a moment for Klavier’s words to register and then Daryan shook his head in disbelief, though whether it was at himself or at Klavier, he didn’t know.

“’S just—“—Daryan stopped and then continued, telling Klavier the truth for all of one sentence—“—that I felt weird. Like I didn’t wanna stand with all those snobs.” He opened his mouth, closed it. Klavier did not yet know that Daryan’s hand was more accustomed to holding a gun than a guitar.

“Stand with me, then.”

“You’re one of the snobs.”

“The best one, then.” Klavier leaned against him and looked at him from the corner of his eye, and Daryan didn’t have it in him to lie.

“The very best.”

“Gavin,” Daryan said, the name always on his lips but not out of, the third poison he found coursing through his bones in that one moment. That was a particular talent of Klavier Gavin, he thought, searching for an edge but finding none.

(There was a time—or maybe really there wasn’t—when Klavier’s name in his mouth was like a song lyric he hadn’t heard or written, only felt somewhere deep where words didn’t matter. Now there was only blood and gunpowder, surging under the surface of his skin from the moment he picked up the gun.)

Klavier looked at him, looked through him, and where Daryan might have felt hurt there was only the recoil of the gun, singing in his shoulders like a prayer. He closed his eyes and opened them again.

“Did you think?” Klavier told him. For a moment Daryan sought out the familiar patterns, the rise and fall of Klavier’s voice, but that moment left as quickly as it had come. “That no one would find out?”

(Klavier had a certain way of asking questions, he knew, knew it more than he’d known anything else. Sometimes he asked like he was cross-examining, the answer he already knew caught in the crossfire of his words and eyes. He left you looking at him, looking without really seeing, all deer in the headlights.)

Daryan licked his dry lips, opened his mouth, shut it. If there was an answer, any damn thing that he could have spat into Klavier’s accusing face, he did not know it.

(Other times Klavier asked like he was writing songs and you were the chord progression he spun himself around, pressing bits of himself into the parts you hid away for safekeeping. It was give-take with Klavier, he thought. Always had been.

But sometimes Klavier gave without taking, gave without thinking. He thought of Klavier in his leather pants and laced-up boots, Klavier’s two-part smile, Klavier’s guitar-calloused hands, the smell of Klavier’s cologne. Now there was only blood. Gunpowder. He drew his hands into fists.)

“Dunno, Gavin,” Daryan said, and laughed, laughed like it could take everything Klavier had ever hid away in him and give it back.

Klavier looked away and then looked back up again, and for a remarkable moment the both of them were without words.

(He wasn’t a deer any more than he was Klavier’s second guitarist. Whatever it was that Klavier wanted from him wasn’t his to give.

Deer didn’t murder, but then again, neither did detectives. Gunpowder, and blood. Klavier’s cologne. Klavier’s hand around the guitar, Klavier’s hand in his own. If there was a time when Klavier’s name fit in his mouth like a song and not a battle cry, he did not remember it, and did not think that he ever would.)

“Were you sorry?” Klavier said suddenly. He pressed his fist against the glass screen as if testing its strength and then drew back, never once looking away. “Ever?”

Daryan closed his eyes again.

(He wasn’t a deer, not by any sense of the word, and he especially wasn’t Klavier’s—and enough had happened that he wasn’t Klavier’s anything anymore. His fingers itched for a song he knew he’d never play again.)

(He had always been too proud to lie. He bit his lip, tasted gunpowder.)