A brief background of Die's feelings for Shinya leading up to chapter one in Virulence. I felt that the subject wasn't elaborated enough in the story itself, so HERE YA GO! AUTHOR OSHII, OBVIOUSLY
Okay, so. This isn't really The Virulence Prequel itself, but rather something that has been nagging at me for a while. This is The History Of Die And Shinya's Dysfunctional One-Sided Relationship. xD
And the ending isn't that great, but I didn't particularly feel like going back and fixing it at the moment.
Die's fingers hovered millimeters above the phone. He still didn't have the balls to pick it up and dial the oh-so-familiar number that had been eating away at the back of his subconscious like battery acid. Just pick it up. How hard can it be to pick up the damn phone and dial the damn number? He wrapped his hand around said apparatus, pondering the numbers rather than touching them. He tried to visualize himself in an actual conversation with Shinya. "Hey, Shin. It's Die. I was wondering…" Yeah. That was really what he visualized in those special, lovely 'spare time' fantasies.
Die scowled and threw the phone down in exasperation. Fuck it, he thought, running a hand through his hair with a sigh. Just forget the whole thing. Leave our friendship as is, and don't do anything stupid to break it. Hell, he hadn't even publicly came out of the closet yet, much less admitted to his desired lover. He had the distinct feeling that confessing to Shinya would be somewhat unnerving to the poor drummer.
But then a wicked thought crossed Die's mind. He suddenly occurred to him that he actually wanted to tell Shinya. What would demure, taciturn little Shin-chan say to that? Especially after all the teasing and friendly insults throughout the years; would Shinya even think Die capable of an intimate relationship with him? Shit, what the hell am I thinking? There's absolutely no fucking way that Shinya would ever like me back. I shouldn't even like him this way in the first place. We're just friends. There's really no need to push it any further than that…right? He furrowed his brow and made his way into the kitchen. I need a drink.
Oh, but there was need. It was easier thought than done, the whole 'let's just be friends with Shinya' thing. The band had been together for roughly ten years. Ten years of surreptitious sideways glances; of downcast eyes; of blood rushing through veins at the sight of him; of suppressed longing; of internal battles; of stress; of worry; of fear; of heartache; of desire. Ten years was a long time. Ten years was too long of a time. Something needed to happen. And it needed to happen soon; or else Die was likely to explode.
The ripe, familiar taste of liquor was comforting as it slid down Die's throat. It cooled the inside of his mouth, sent a sweet hum coursing through his bloodstream. He brought the bottle up to his face and pressed the cold bottom of the glass against his forehead. That felt good too. A brief smile flickered across Die's face as he turned and went back into the living room. Perhaps there was something worth watching on TV. He needed a distraction. His head was reeling from all the thoughts crammed in his mind, writhing and convulsing tumultuously. His temples were starting to pound. Wonder what Shinya's doing right now, Die thought, falling into the couch and taking another swig from his beer.
It turned out there was one of Die's favorite sitcoms on. He tried to pay attention, and even found himself laughing in the beginning, but by the time the first wave of commercials came on his mind was distracted again. He brought a hand over his eyes and placed his index finger and thumb on his temples. This was starting to get annoying. He'd had feelings for Shinya ever since he'd first laid eyes on the svelte, effeminate drummer. For ten years he'd kept everything hidden—how he loved to watch Shinya in the studio, beating away at his drums behind the glass of the recording booth; how he loved the way Shinya looked in his exuberant, sometimes even lascivious visual kei costumes; how he loved those rare occasions when Shinya smiled, either at a humorous line in one of his fantasy novels or at the playful antics of his beloved Chihuahuas; how he loved Shinya.
He loved Shinya. There was no doubt about it. The man had plagued his thoughts, hopes, and dreams for nearly a decade. For nearly a decade Die's life had revolved around his music and Shinya, the latter of the two getting just as much, if not exquisitely more, attention than the aforementioned. That one was his career. Sure, he loved being in Dir en grey, contributing his part in playing guitar and making their songs sound whole. But he also loved Shinya, and something needed to be done about this.
Suddenly Die shot up with a burst of inspiration, both after his reverie and seeing a commercial with two seemingly happy newlyweds living out the rest of their lives in two minutes. I'll tell him. I'll tell Shinya everything. I won't take no for an answer. He grinned, completely forgetting about his headache, and relaxed back into the couch cushions, downing another swig of alcohol. Shinya and I will be happy together. We wouldn't have to tell anyone else. We could be happy. I could make him happy…
But Die realized the next morning—as he was awakened by falling out of bed in his haste to reach the bathroom—that his plans of making Shinya happy anytime soon would have to be postponed. Damn, how did this happen? Such perfect timing. Shit…He tossed around a few choice phrases in his head that adequately suited his dissatisfaction as he bent over the toilet bowl. Yep, he could really make Shinya happy now. In a brief fit of morbid hysteria, he pictured himself sauntering up to Shinya, all puffed up with the gallant and splendor of a determined lovesick man about to confess his feelings and sweep his object of worthy affection off into the sunset, and then becoming violently ill all over. Mm-hmm. That would really go well.
With a weak, defeated laugh, Die flushed the toilet and turned around to face the mirror above the sink. He frowned at his appearance. I look like hell, he realized. His vibrant red hair was jutting out at unnatural angles and there were dark circles under his blurry eyes. Overall, he resembled a rather unfortunate, exhausted, wan soul who had been brutally maimed in the back alley behind the grocery store and then exposed to the world, later being left alone to wallow in humiliation. All in all, the details weren't far off from how Die felt at the present moment.
In the background of his own reflection Die took notice of the bathtub, sitting there, holding all promises of cold, wet euphoria. I need a shower.
He pulled on the nozzle, saturating his fingers in the steady stream of water gushing from the faucet and rubbing them on his face, reveling in the feeling for a moment before turning on the shower and adjusting the water temperature to his liking.
As Die stripped his clothes off, he vaguely wondered if they had scheduled a practice at the studio today. Gotta call Kaoru, I guess. After the shower. Every cumbersome, minute distraction of his life was going to wait until after his shower. Truth be told, he didn't really give a shit if there was a practice—well, not for playing, anyway. More like discreetly ogling Shinya from afar. Or from right next to him.
But then the vigorous streams of water pouring from the showerhead wiped away his thoughts. Die let out a small groan of ecstasy, using one hand to prop himself up against the wall, letting the water pound his back and shoulders; knead into his strained muscles and leave little trailing grooves on his flesh. He imagined long fingers trailing, tipped with perfectly manicured nails, and smiled lazily.
After he'd gotten out of the shower, Die wrapped a towel around his waist and staggered into the living room, finding the phone wedged between the couch cushions from where he'd thrown it last night. He picked it up and threw a glance at the clock before dialing the number. The sweet relief of the shower was ebbing away now, being replaced with the hard, pulsating onset of another headache that only worsened upon the ringing of the phone shrieking through the soft tissues of Die's brain; with that came a dull rising nausea. He closed his eyes and inhaled through clenched teeth as Kaoru finally answered.
"You know, there'd better be a good reason you're calling me at seven in the morning on an off day," He threatened, his voice still rough with sleep.
"Off day?" Die echoed. As in no practice?
"Yes, Die. There's no practice until tomorrow." Kaoru clarified, breaking off his sentence with a yawn.
Die furrowed his brow, his eyes still closed. Damn, he thought. Another Shinya-less day that promised to draaaaagg. He sighed and brought his free hand up to his forehead. "All right. Just checking," He mumbled, starting to feel the heavy fog of lethargy wash over him.
Kaoru waited a moment before responding. "You sound like shit, Die."
"You look like shit," Die automatically shot back, managing a half-assed grin. He could hear Kaoru's scoff on the other line, accompanied by: "Seriously. Rough night?"
"More like rough morning…" Die grimaced at the memory of his rather audacious awakening.
"Ah. Have you gone pub-hopping without me?" Kaoru's voice had an edge of mock betrayal to it.
"Shit, I dunno…" Die found his voice trailing off. He wanted to crawl back in bed and lose himself in one of those vivid, razor-sharp dreams he would have more often than not; the kind of dreams where Shinya would always appear as a beautiful seraph and all of Die's ubiquitous longing would be satisfied. Those were the kind of dreams that he clung to long after waking, just for something surreal to reflect on during the tedium of the day.
Die yawned. "Look, Kao, I'm about to pass out. We'll talk later," He promised.
"All right. Hope you're better."
Mutual goodbyes were exchanged, and the lines disconnected. Die set the phone on the coffee table and summoned up some strength to lurch off the couch and stumble back into the bedroom. The last thing Die remembered was his towel falling to the floor as he immersed himself in a shroud of blankets.
Oh, Die and Kaoru talked later, all right. Die was the one who, after throwing up for the fifty-seventh time, decided that he wasn't going to practice tomorrow, Shinya be damned.
"That's a bitch," Kaoru muttered from the other line in response to Die's explanation.
"You don't say." Die rolled his eyes. "Trust me; if I were a little less incapacitated, I would be at practice." He leaned over to rest his elbows on the kitchen counter, using one hand to hold the phone to his ear and the other to knot in his hair. His eyes closed as he waited for Kaoru's response.
"Um, it's all right, Die. Trust me; I'm glad you decided to wait out another day." The way Kaoru said that implied that he might be grimacing. "I mean, not that I don't care about you, but it's better for everyone if you're well before you come back to the studio," He quickly clarified, for Die's benefit.
"Yeah, sure. Thanks." Die mumbled. Then, suddenly, he stiffened as a wave of nausea ripped through him. "I gotta go," He said urgently, rushing over to the sink.
"Er, um, all right, then. Bye." Kaoru quickly hung up.
The next time Die woke, it was late in the afternoon, and his phone was ringing. Under any other circumstances, he would've ignored it, but this time the ringing seemed so…urgent, almost pleading. As if personifying the caller's desperation on the other line. Die decided that wouldn't do well to be ignored. So, apparently, these weren't normal circumstances.
He shifted a little, stretching one arm out from under the tangled nest of bed sheets to fumble for the phone on his nightstand. "Moshi-moshi?" His voice was hoarse, his throat dry. He closed his eyes, already on the verge of lapsing into his coma again.
"Die? You sound horrible," Shinya blurted out.
At that point, Die's heart skipped about four beats. He was instantaneously more awake than he had been moments before. Shinya, fucking endearingly sweet, honest-to-God too-good-to-be-true Shinya, of all people, was calling him. Get a fucking grip, Die coached himself, rolling onto his back and bringing his free hand up to knot in his hair. It's not like you haven't spoken to him via phone before.
"Yeah, I know…this really sucks, Shin. I feel like shit." The hand in his hair slid down to cover his eyes as he waited for Shinya's reply, internally cursing various forms of demonic incantation upon the headache rapidly making itself known again. What had he done to deserve this damned illness? He stifled a groan and sighed raggedly instead.
"Die, I'm coming over, all right?" The way those words came out of Shinya's mouth really left nothing up for Die's ability to give permission; he was so goddamn concerned, so caring, so…impossible to say no to. He was Shinya, for God's sake.
But I can't have him coming over and seeing me like this, Die immediately realized, starting a bit at the thought. "No, no, Shinya. Really, it's okay…" How seethingly trite. That was real convincing.
"Just to check in," Shinya persisted. "I'll be there soon. Do you want anything while I'm out?"
At this point, Die was too stunned by Shinya's sudden maternal assertiveness to argue. "No, thanks," He mumbled resignedly.
Shinya hung up.
Die slowly brought the phone away from his ear, placing it back on the nightstand cradle. He rolled over to face the opposite end of the room, thoughts heaving much like his stomach a few hours hence. Why was it that Die could uphold regular conversations with Shinya perfectly fine until now, when Die's long-inhibited hormonal urges abruptly decided to surface with the same sort of merciless onslaught as a newly pubescent thirteen-year-old schoolgirl's? Hadn't he just two nights ago been infused with a burst of aggressively confident determination to go to Shinya and confess his true feelings and all that other maudlin shit? Look at him now—Shinya comes to him, and he's too much of a puss-bag to feel any sort of emotion revolving around good about it because he's too embarrassed to have the object of his currently one-sided love witness him so sick and seemingly, utterly defenseless and dependent on someone other than his cocky, booze-hounding, brutally teasing self.
Then again, Die thought, rolling onto his back again and staring up at the ceiling. Maybe this is fate giving me a chance to confess my maudlin shit feelings to him.