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“Arisugawa. Amemura. You’re welcome to come inside, now.”
Relief usually comes in the form of sevens and six dots on a die rather than in the form of words and opened doors in pristine white prisons. A restlessness that’s only ever been associated with gambling dens sinks into the man’s bones. He doesn’t like it here. He doesn’t want to be here.
His feet move without his command; it’s often that his body moves without deliberate thought. The throw of a die, the pull of a lever, the flourish of a microphone, all are things he’s used to doing on reflex.
Thankfully it’s Ramuda that heads inside first. Dice follows after, more shuffling than anything else. The pungent scent of cleaning products and medicines with names more complicated than Dice cares to know assault him at once. He hates hospitals. Always has.
“If you need anything, any of you, please feel free to push the button on the nightstand,” says the nurse, tipping her head respectfully at them.
It’s strange to see a woman do such a thing nowadays but the kind lines of her smile and curls in her hair help to soften the otherwise harsh moment. She takes her leave, closing the door to the hospital room behind her – because of course it’s a room and not a curtain and not shared because unlike Dice, most people actually have cash for this sort of thing. And insurance. Whatever that is.
“Hewwwwo, Gentaro!”
At once, Ramuda is at the man’s beside. The gremlin springs forward like a cartoon and wildly begins waving his arms here, and there, and Dice just stares. He stares, hands in his jacket’s pockets, nose scrunched up. He feels awkward.
“Yo,” says Dice, a million different emotions flooding through him as he stands by the door.
“Diiiiice,” Ramuda whines, whipping his head back to stare at him. “Get over here!” And then back towards Gentaro who is still sitting stock-still upright. “He’s been super worried, yanno. But he won’t tell you that. So I will! Because we’re best friends!”
Dice snorts. He doesn’t think anyone needs to tell Gentaro that. The bags under Dice’s eyes, the heavy stench of nicotine and the thinning of his face from not eating (mostly because he hadn’t had the appetite and not, for once, because he gambled it all away), tell a comprehensive story.
Still, Dice obeys. The young man scuffles over and offers Gentaro a very weak smile. “Y’gonna say anythin’? You’re never this quiet, man.”
Gentaro blinks once, twice, thrice, and then tips his head to the side. Messy brown bangs fall in his face, obscuring the look in his eyes. It’s then when Dice notices those eyes, usually twinkling with mischief or fondness, are absolutely devoid of anything.
“Apologies but… who are you?”
Not even recollection.
Ramuda bursts out laughing, a wild shake of his head. “You’re too funny, Gentaro! That’s a lie, right? You can’t fool me,” lilts the designer.
Dice feels his blood run cold. Of course it’s a lie, Gentaro is always lying and pulling their legs, and maybe this one is a tad cruel, unlike the others, but he supposes Gentaro is in pain and hey, he’d probably do the same thing if he was a liar. Or something.
“Cut the shit,” sighs Dice and he clasps the back of his neck, looking away to try and save some face. He’s always been an open book.
Gentaro’s eyes wander down to his wrist where he finds a bracelet. The typical band that contains a patient’s name, a number, and the symbol of the hospital. It’s protocol and usually unnecessary but it’s a mild comfort in an otherwise chaotic world.
“Shibuya,” he says and then there’s a frown that doesn’t look manufactured. “…Was I transported?”
An eerie silence falls among the members of Fling Posse. Ramuda’s smile turns cold, the light in his eyes going out. Slowly, the shorter man takes a single step away from the bed and fixes a lifeless stare onto their third party member.
“You aren’t lying,” decides Ramuda after what feels like forever.
By that point, a range of emotions batter Dice. Fear, by god he’s so afraid and it’s just as bad as when Gentaro was hit with that wild attack from that rogue hypnosis mic user. Panic, and he wants to turn and run and eject himself from this. Confusion, because what the hell is going on? And lastly, a pang in his chest he can’t quite label, that feels like ice where his fucking heartbeat ought to be.
“I’m goin’ out for a smoke. Don’t leave before I come back, Ramuda.”
And so he goes with the option he’s always known – he runs.
* * *
“So, what’d he tell ya?”
Ramuda is gone, off to a meeting with a very important sponsor, leaving Dice to fall apart courtesy of his own internal crisis. There’s some reassurance, Dice thinks, with Ramuda leaving. If anything was truly terrible the gremlin wouldn’t have dared to ditch his posse for something as menial as extra cash. He isn’t Dice.
Gentaro is staring out the window. Gentaro is still in a hospital bed, hair sweaty and greasy, and noticeably with only a singular layer. The hospital gown doesn’t suit him but Dice has the courtesy not to voice that.
Dice really isn’t any better, standing by the door with his hands jammed in his pockets. As before, he reeks of cigarettes and if it wouldn’t be a ridiculously foolish idea, alcohol, too. For now, he’ll remain as sober as he can because this seems ripe for bad decisions.
“Something as ridiculous as the existence of rap groups that battle because physical violence and war has been outlawed for some time,” says Gentaro to the stained window panes.
Dice waits for it. Anytime now. He’ll say it, he’ll…
“Do you believe him?”
“I suppose I have to, given my current condition,” responds Gentaro and he finally looks back at him without a single lie in those green eyes that Dice has fallen for a million times before this moment.
A deep breath. Maybe two, maybe he just needs another smoke. Shit, he’s never been good with emotions and this is just a whole new level of incompetence. His head lowers, eyes observing the polished floor and not the curious and unfamiliar stare that’s grounding him to the spot. Breathe, Arisugawa.
“They uh… they said it’s just temporary, y’know,” Dice mumbles and he tries to get all the science-shit correct, “That the effect of the microphone will fade in a few weeks, max. They ain’t ever seen somethin’ this bad before, but you didn’t get any brain damage or whatever.”
“Comforting.”
Gentaro’s lips curl up into that dry half-smile that he usually reserves for people that aren’t Dice and Ramuda. Dice feels his chest tighten again – he doesn’t need to see it to know it’s there. He stopped needing to see things when it came to Gentaro a long time ago.
“Uh…” Dice finally rips his gaze back up. “They said you can leave. Like, be sent home. Just that me and Ramuda should check on ya.”
“I see.”
“…Y’don’t seem happy about it,” Dice notes with surprising delicacy.
Gentaro doesn’t answer. Instead, the author reaches for the notebook on his bedside table. He skims it for a moment or two before lifting his gaze back to Dice. “I don’t recall penning any of this. I don’t remember being to Tokyo more than a few times in my childhood,” he explains, slow and guarded, “And while I don’t necessarily distrust either of you – I doubt the hospital would have let you in if that wasn’t the case – I don’t know about either of you. So I apologize, but the idea of being watched over by two strangers is a tad unsettling, yes.”
So Ramuda hadn’t told him. Of course he didn’t.
Dice drags his hand through his hair and then drags the chair across the room to sit right beside him. “Ok, but you don’t gotta be a jerk about it,” he says in the nicest way he possibly can when his heart is tearing itself apart, memory by memory.
“I’m not aiming to be,” mutters the author, an annoyed little wrinkle of his nose following.
“Here.” Dice sighs, loud, as he leans an elbow on Gentaro’s bed. He doesn’t miss the way the author stiffens and watches him like a hawk; it hurts more than Dice imagined it would but he keeps his eyes on his phone and tries his best not to let his dumbass hands shake.
Dice brings up twitter and Fling Posse’s official page. He offers it to Gentaro, watching the way the author cautiously takes the phone and begins to scroll.
It seems to placate him, in the very smallest amount.
“All right,” says Gentaro as he hands the phone back, seemingly having had enough. “But I insist that you don’t need to keep watch over me. Even if I may not recall the last five or so years, I assure you I am a capable adult.”
Dice pockets the phone. He strategically keeps his eyes off Gentaro when he says, “About that… I kinda have been crashin’ there, y’know? I mean, I can always go hang with Ramuda, but he usually has chicks over and—”
“You’re homeless,” deadpans Gentaro without any sugary saccharine tone. No lilt, no airiness, no artful poetry spewing from his lips.
Dice immediately looks up, offended. “Hey,” he grunts and narrows his eyes just a bit, “I mean, yeah, but you don’t gotta sound like it makes me a complete piece of shit.”
Gentaro doesn’t seem to trust him and maybe that’s the worst part of all of this. Dice had worked hard for that trust, had done everything in his power to bring a certain light back into both of their lives, and here was Gentaro, liar extraordinaire, telling the truth with shocking frequency. Dice is starting to think he liked the lies better.
“Merely an observation,” amends Gentaro and there’s the stirrings of a smile he actually doesn’t try to hide.
Dice is caught off guard by it. The smile is there for only a second but it arrests Dice entirely. He’s never seen Gentaro so – honest; honest about everything.
“Is something wrong?” Gentaro asks and then laughs, the sound rough around the edges, “Apart from the obvious, of course.”
“Nah, I just—” Dice doesn’t put it into words. He knows better than to trust himself with words. “Anyway. Wanna get the hell outta this place? I friggin’ hate hospitals.”
Gentaro nods, rising from the bed. He’s already changed back into normal clothes, and it’s the same ones that he had come in, but freshly washed. Dice suspects Ramuda took the liberty of doing that but he can’t confirm. Still, it’s comforting to see Gentaro back into something that is familiar and not so contradictory like everything else about this situation.
“As do I,” says Gentaro, voice quieter as he grabs for the phone and book on the bedside table. “…But I suspect you already knew that.”
Dice shrugs. “C’mon. I’m starvin’ and there’s, like, leftover food in your fridge.”
He just doesn’t tell Gentaro that it’s not the only thing of Dice’s in that apartment.
* * *
“Do you usually reduce my pantry to bare bones?”
Gentaro is making himself tea, something that apparently hasn’t changed with the relapse of his memories. Dice is seated at the tiny table shoved against small space between the kitchen and living area, scarfing down the leftovers he had mentioned before. It takes a few moments for the words to register and that’s all it takes for Dice’s cheeks to tint red.
“Yo… you’re brutal like this,” grumbles Dice as he shoves another mouthful of rice into his mouth. Just to be a brat.
“Am I usually not scathingly honest?” asks the author, glancing over from the tea kettle.
“Eh…” How should he put this? “Usually you’re making jokes left and right and confusin’ the hell outta me. I don’t think we’ve ever gone like, two? hours?, without you lyin’ about somethin’.”
Gentaro is quiet for a moment. The man’s pale hand lingers on the handle of the kettle before he turns off the gas and begins to pour himself a glass. The leaves have already been added and Dice is moderately mesmerized by the way the steam billows up, making Gentaro look even more ethereal than usual.
“I suppose I’m simply not in a mood to jest,” Gentaro finally answers as he brings his cup over to the table to sit across from Dice. “Forgive me, but losing your memories tends to put one in a foul mood.”
Dice snorts. He sees that playful brightness in Gentaro’s eyes and he knows that the other isn’t nearly as peeved and catty as he had been back in the hospital. For once, just for that moment, Dice thanks the gods for social media. Without that, Gentaro likely would have continued thinking he was some smelly con artist intent on robbing him. Or worse.
“Anyway…” mumbles Dice as he sets down his chopsticks. “D’ya wanna know anythin’? Like, about the group or uh—I dunno. What would people wanna know…”
Gentaro takes a sip, eyes closed. His lashes are long and Dice checks the urge to reach across the table and brush his bangs away. “Tell me about you.”
“Me?” Dice looks utterly confused. No one’s ever really asked about him before. Anything someone would want to know about him is evident within five minutes of meeting him. A gambling addict with an affinity for food and swearing. There’s not much else to it, Dice thinks, and he can’t quite figure out why Gentaro would even want to know after today. “Uhh… what about me?”
“I don’t know,” Gentaro responds and leans his cheek against his palm once he sets down the tea. “Why do you wear clothes that look like they’re from a thrift store, perhaps, could be a good first question.”
God, he’s brutal.
But Dice laughs again, one that stirs from his belly and rises up to his mouth, coming out loud and rough. Gentaro looks surprised by it, almost startled, but the man’s gaze returns to something smooth and moderately guarded in seconds.
“You’re really somethin’,” says Dice as he finally regains his breath. “It’s the first thing I bought on my own when I left home, y’know? With my own cash. It wasn’t just some stuffy piece of crap my parents bought me that was in a display case.”
“I see.” Gentaro flicks his gaze down to the black fur lining the hood that’s flopped over on Dice’s right shoulder. “And you chose… that?”
“Yeah. Yeah I did.”
Their eyes meet, Dice’s defiant and up for the challenge and Gentaro’s with a refreshing spark of mischief. It’s a lot more familiar than the distant one he had been given earlier that day.
“Next question,” interrupts Gentaro and he waves his hand dismissively, “Smoking is a terrible, nasty little habit. Why do you have a death wish?”
That’s a compound question and Dice decides to answer only the first of it. “You do it, too, y’know.”
Gentaro looks utterly scandalized. The author’s face contorts and then settles into a look of absolute petulance. Dice tries not to find it as fucking adorable as it is. He needs to keep his wits about him right now.
“I do not,” mutters the author, arms folding to his chest.
“Uh-huh…” Dice is grinning wildly. “There’s a pack on the counter over there.”
“Those are yours.”
“Nah. Mine are in my pocket.”
“Those are yours from whenever you were last here.”
“When was that, Gen?”
Gentaro glowers. It’s rare that Dice ever wins in a match of wits with Gentaro. And so what if he has a leg up, just this once, because Gentaro is suffering amnesia from a rogue microphone user. Dice will take his wins when he can. It doesn’t happen often and this one, he thinks, he’ll relish for awhile.
“Are you always this childish?” hums the author as he tries to recover, taking a sip from his tea.
Dice wonders, though. He wonders why Gentaro had changed his mind about smoking. For as long as he knew him the author had been known to smoke at random. He wasn’t an addict by any means but he didn’t seem to mind the fact he had developed a habit. The fact he doesn’t know that about Gentaro makes him suddenly restless, a nervous energy in his limbs that begs him to run.
He stays firmly planted in his chair. “Any other questions?”
“Why are you homeless? Is it because you ran away?” probes Gentaro.
Dice can’t blame him for jumping to that obvious conclusion, and he can’t blame him for being barbed in his inquiry, too. Dice had just made a moderate fool out of him. Dice settles back in the chair some, toying with the beads in his hair. It’d been awhile since he told the story, even to Gentaro, and he wasn’t even sure what details were particularly important or interesting.
“Yeah. My family kinda sucked and wanted me to do a lotta crap I didn’t agree with. So the second I was eighteen I left. It’s been rough but I’m livin’ for me now, y’know? Like. I do what I want. Live in the moment, chase some thrills. It’s great.”
“It seems reckless,” Gentaro offers, head tipped to the side. “And Ramuda and I have allowed you to stay in our places every single night?”
“Uhhh. Maybe not eeeevery night. Like, there was one time I kinda bet my clothes and lost and you had to come get me in the middle of the park and—”
By that point of the story, Gentaro has broken into a fit of laughter. There’s little wrinkles, creases, at the corners of Gentaro’s eyes as the melodic sound fills the otherwise empty apartment. Dice always found that sound to be the most gorgeous, the most freeing. It had always assured Dice that he had done something right and he wasn’t the fuck-up he felt like most of the time.
“How absurd…” murmurs Gentaro as he lifts a sleeve to hide the smile that’s reaching from ear to ear.
“Hey!” Dice looks way too excited as he pivots forward and slams his hands on the table.
“What?”
“There ya go!” Dice exclaims as he reaches across the table to awkwardly tug at Gentaro’s wrist and sleeve. Easily, he brings it down from the author’s mouth. The smile is gone and Gentaro is gawking at him like he’s grown two heads. “You do that a lot. Hide your smile. You usually do it ‘cause you’re crap at lyin’ and that’s your tell.”
“My tell?” Gentaro glances down at the roughened hand holding his wrist in place against the table.
“Yeah. Everyone’s got one. Mostly when they gamble. Bluffin’,” explains Dice. The man’s eyes follow Gentaro’s gaze and he realizes he’s still stupidly holding onto him. Quickly, Dice’s hand retreats and he chugs the remainder of the glass of water in front of him. Yikes.
“What’s yours, then?” asks Gentaro as he neatly folds his hands together. In his lap. Out of Dice’s reach.
“I can’t tell ya,” says Dice with a haughty little grin. “I ain’t that dumb.”
“Could have fooled me,” lilts the author and then quickly says, “…A lie. Is that how it’s done?”
The smirk on Gentaro’s face is just as beautiful as the one Dice knows and remembers.
“Yeah. That’s the one.”
* * *
Dice crashes on Gentaro’s couch for the next couple of days. Those days are spent gambling, getting out of Gentaro’s hair, and the nights are spent staying up late listening to Gentaro read the newest of his works. The author’s voice is as lively and poetic as ever and Dice finds it increasingly difficult to keep himself in check.
A text from Ramuda doesn’t make it any easier.
from: ramuda
have you told him yet?
It’s strangely to the point, lacking emoticons and wavy text and exclamation points. Dice supposes he’s fucked up big time. He glances over at Gentaro, who is at his writing desk, lost in his fictional worlds. Once assured that Gentaro won’t snoop over his shoulder, Dice deigns to answer Ramuda’s text.
from: dice
no. haven’t and not gonna.
from: ramuda
WAH!!!! DICE!!!!! :’( !!!!
from: dice
it’s not my place. guess half of it is? anyway that’s not what I want. ain’t gonna manipulate him like that.
from: ramuda
You’ve been dating for a year, Dice. If you don’t tell him, he’s going to figure it out. You aren’t subtle.
Dice shuts off his phone and flops fully on the couch. He stares up at the ceiling after that, frowning, stomach in absolute knots. Slowly, his gaze strays back over to Gentaro. It’s been five days, now, since he last brushed his hands through that unnaturally soft hair, five days since he saw that unguarded smile that’s only ever meant for him, five days since he last slept with Gentaro’s stupidly cold body curled against his, and five days since he started regretting never saying what’s always been on his mind, since the moment they started dating, since the moment Gentaro’s idiosyncrasies made Dice finally want to stop running and call somewhere home.
I’m in love with you, don’t think y’know that.
* * *
”Dice.”
Dice continues scrolling on his phone, holding it up in the air. He’s on his back, sprawled out like a cat that’s decided to claim this spot as his own, shirt riding up, hair messy, and face scrunched up in absolute focus. Gentaro isn’t too far away, fetching himself a cup of tea before he resumes the piece he’s editing. It’s only Gentaro’s repetition of Dice’s name that breaks him from his daze.
“Huh?”
Gentaro is standing over him, now, towering like a beautiful ivory tower that Dice has only begun to understand how to climb. Those green eyes are hypnotic and he meets them with practiced ease and permanent excitement. The adrenaline kicks in and Dice just smiles up at him.
“You’re over here quite often.”
Dice, unperturbed as ever, rolls his shoulders the best he can in this position. One leg crosses over the other and he’s restlessly wiggling the toes of one foot. “Uh-huh. Sure beats Ramuda’s place or the streets.”
An airy laugh and Gentaro leans down, hand sweeping along Dice’s cheek. Slender fingers cup it, just for a second, and then a pair of warm lips are ghosting over his. Dice can feel each breath, each hitch and intake, and he doesn’t move an inch.
“And why’s that?”
“You know why,” answers Dice in a whisper and he isn’t sure why he does, but he does, and he’s dying with anticipation. “Are ya gonna kiss me, now, or…?”
Gentaro laughs again, the puffs of warm air from it tickling Dice’s mouth and nose. “Patience, my dear gambler,” he murmurs and then he kisses him, slow and tender, with just a touch of worship, “Move in with me.”
Dice’s eyes snap back open mid-kiss. His already rapid heartbeat kicks into overdrive. Shit, he wasn’t – he hadn’t – he doesn’t shirk away but he doesn’t move either. “…Huh?”
“Move in with me,” Gentaro repeats, this time louder. There’s an undercurrent to it, something Dice has only recently learned from months and months of taking ill-timed sledgehammers to Gentaro’s pretty walls. There’s fear – there’s anxiety and worry and Dice feels it bleed through that next kiss.
Accordingly, Dice brings his hand up to tangle in Gentaro’s hair, still wet from his shower. He’ll kiss away every god damn fear if he has to. Gentaro doesn’t have to be alone anymore, doesn’t have to pretend anymore.
“’course I will,” Dice breathes against his mouth, smiling, and then whispers, “Wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else.”
Ever goes unspoken, but Dice hopes, prays to gods he doesn’t even believe in, that Gentaro knows.
* * *
It’s been two weeks. It’s been two weeks and Dice is slowly going insane.
“Show me.”
“Uh, I don’t think that’s a good idea, Gen. Like, that’s kinda how this whole thing started.”
Belligerently, Gentaro is leaning against the rail of his balcony of his apartment, arms folded, eyes narrowed grumpily at Dice. Dice fixes the other with a hardened stare. Nah, not this time. Gentaro isn’t gonna get what he wants. …And besides, Dice only ever caves to him when he’s either smiling brilliantly, brightly, or he has his hands wrapped around him and is whispering lascivious promises that have him blushing down to his toes.
“You don’t suppose it’ll jog my memory?” Gentaro presses.
“It could…” Dice concedes but only by a centimeter. “But we ain’t riskin’ it. We’ll try somethin’ else.”
Gentaro looks pissed, angrier than Dice can ever remember making him, but still, Dice remains steadfast. At least, at the very least, about the microphone he’s conveniently left at Ramuda’s to prevent another demanding inquiry from Gentaro.
“Whaddabout this,” begins Dice as he turns away from Gentaro and steps inside. Gentaro blinks. A cold rush of air blows by and the author is quick to shiver and follow the strange, wayward gambler back inside. Once assured that Gentaro is following, Dice pops a squat on the couch and throws his arms up on along the expanse of the back of it. “I teach you how to rap again. The mic shouldn’t make any difference.”
Gentaro, suspiciously, stalks closer. Like a cat that’s been sprayed with water, he hesitantly lowers himself to the couch, mindful not to let his back touch the arm that’s crowding the back of the couch. Dice tries not to let that hurt.
“All right,” caves the author. “But you go first.”
“Ok?” Dice laughs, and really, he hadn’t thought it’d be that easy to persuade Gentaro, but then again, his boyfriend always has been filled with never-ending surprises. “What do you want me to rap?”
“I’m not picky.”
“Yeah you are.”
“…Just start,” mutters Gentaro and he shifts so he’s leaning back against the armrest, as far as physically possible from Dice without falling off the god damn couch.
Dice isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or pout about all of this. Instead, the man scratches the back of his neck and thinks. God, he isn’t good at this. This whole thinking and brainstorming solutions bit. This is usually Gentaro or Ramuda’s job. Still, he won’t give up. He isn’t a quitter. So after ‘careful’ deliberation, Dice smiles.
“Got it,” he says, voice warm and resolute.
“Go on.”
Gentaro is watching him like a cat stalking its prey. As if he’s waiting for Dice to screw up or misstep so he can either belittle him or toss him back on the streets where he undoubtedly belongs. Dice ignores it again. It’s all he can do.
So Dice leans in, without really meaning to, but because without the microphone he isn’t exactly sure how loudly he can rap, he wants to be certain that Gentaro hears every single word.
It’s Stella that spills from his lips. It’s Stella that’s settled deeply into his heart and has become a part of him. He’s never realized it until now, how those verses have interwoven themselves into his entire being. Gentaro’s artful flourishes, the raw emotion and captivating story; Dice isn’t a romantic by any means but he often wonders if it was meant as a love song for him.
When Dice finishes, he notices Gentaro is staring at him. Well, he was before, but now it’s less like a soaked cat. He’ll count it.
“…I wasn’t aware you could rap like that,” finally says Gentaro.
“…Uh. What’s that supposed t’mean?” Dice wonders and he feels his face tint red. Gentaro had never said that to him before, now or back then.
“It’s deeper. Refined,” Gentaro explains and his gaze is surreptitiously crawling all over Dice. “Did you write it?”
“…Nah. You did,” Dice says after a long pause. His eyes lower and he begins dragging his right thumb along the expanse of his left hand. He’s gotta stay calm, gotta not let on how touched he was when Gentaro had presented him a beautiful stanza that jumped off the page.
“For you?”
“For me…”
There’s something thick in the air, then. Gentaro’s eyes haven’t left him and Dice feels the red splashing all over him. He knows Gentaro doesn’t know the next stanza, that this Gentaro doesn’t have a clue that a petty thief is about to absolutely wreck the forlorn king. And yet… and yet Gentaro’s pitching forward, pretty eyes half-lidded as he inspects Dice’s every freckle.
“Ousama,” says Gentaro and Dice is suddenly very worried that he’s going to lose his fraying restraint and kiss him; kiss him like he’s wanted to for days now, to make up for every bad thought, for every sad thought, for every single god damn time he couldn’t make a smile appear on those kissable lips. Fuck, this is bad.
Dice swallows, and he does it audibly. The tips of his ears are maroon and he laughs, nervous and pitched high. “Your uh—your verse follows. You’re –uhh,” he stammers, rambles, and then quickly adds, “a thief and Ramuda is a weird scientist. It’s a group song. You wrote. For us – all of us, it rocks. Yeah.”
Gentaro stays still. Dice thinks he might be frozen, that he’s turned into a statue. Suddenly, Gentaro leans back and reclines against that armrest, that heady look gone. “I see. That does make a great deal of sense.”
Safe. Dice lets go of the breath he was holding and then shakes his head with another stuttering laugh. “Well… d’you wanna try rapping? You can free style or I can try and remember some of your stuff, or—”
It’s then when Gentaro drapes an arm over the back of the couch, right where Dice’s had been before this whole Stella mess. There’s a cockiness in those gorgeous eyes and the lift of his lips that has Dice convinced he’s even more doomed than he was a few moments ago.
Words pour from Gentaro’s lips, a verse and style he hasn’t heard from him before. Like Stella, the rhymes come quick, sharp, and lack the flowery prose that Gentaro is famous for. If Gentaro’s style were like anything, it would be a fine red wine, but this? This is like a smoky scotch, assaulting the senses and burning on the way down, satisfaction with each drop that warms once the burn passes.
What is Gentaro even rapping about? Dice isn’t sure. He can’t focus on the words. All he can focus on is the way his boyfriend is undressing him with his words. Who fucking needs eyes or hands?
“How was that?” Gentaro asks, a leading question if Dice has ever heard, and by god could that coy smirk kill.
How was it, he asks? How was it seems like a superfluous question when Dice’s mind is slam-dunked into the gutter and he’s doing his damndest to not embarrass himself and get turned on from a rap.
“You… haven’t lost your touch,” is what Dice goes with. He blinks, slowly, and adds, “I’m – uh—“
Gentaro hasn’t stopped smirking and he’s just lounging like he wants Dice to throw himself forward and trap him against that armrest. It’s fucking tempting as all hell.
“… Shit I just remembered, I gotta meet Ramuda. Crap, I gotta go,” lies Dice and he nearly trips springing up from the couch. Gentaro’s cup of tea on the coffee table wobbles, Dice’s elbow jamming into it.
The author looks genuinely surprised as Dice flusters, as Dice scrambles to his feet and grabs his coat and wallet and –
“Are you all right?”
Dice pauses. He looks back to Gentaro and there’s a look – he isn’t sure what it is. Is it fear? Dice isn’t even sure, it’s been so long that Gentaro had walls up and he’s gotten so shitty at deciphering what’s behind the curtain and—
“Yeah. ‘m… fine. I’ll be back later.”
But why? Why doesn’t he just stay with Ramuda and wait for this to run its course?
“All right.” Gentaro’s eyes track his movements across the room and back towards the front door. “Feel free to text me if you need anything.”
Isn’t that Dice’s line?
So for the first time since Gentaro woke up without a single memory of them, Dice runs.
* * *
But he comes back. He comes back because he always does, like a boomerang that’s destined to stay in Gentaro’s gravitation. Maybe a moon is a better word for him, Gentaro a beautiful planet or sun that’s just out of this world. God, that’s cheesy. He’ll leave the artsy metaphors to Gentaro.
But nonetheless, he returns that night and stays.
A few more days pass. Gentaro’s out somewhere, fetching groceries or the like, and he hasn’t bothered to tell Dice to leave or to go entertain himself elsewhere. Dice, in typical Dice fashion, hasn’t bothered to do any laundry (or, given it to Ramuda to sigh over and tend to with an affectionate ‘dumb hobo, when is your boyfriend going to remember so he can do this?’). So he’s… down to a limited choice of clothing. It’s then when he remembers a spare couple of t-shirts he’s left in Gentaro’s room.
He hadn’t ever needed to take over an entire drawer or closet. Dice, unsurprisingly, had little to his name and moving in had been more of a formality than anything else. But he hasn’t seen those shirts in awhile and he’s sure Gentaro wouldn’t even notice.
He feels bad for snooping in what’s technically his room, now, too. In and out, he’ll be fast. Gentaro will never know…
Dice drops down in order to tug at the bottom drawer. Gentaro keeps a lot of his extra undershirts in here and given the small amount of dust on the lip of the drawer, it hasn’t been touched since he lost his memory. Good, thinks Dice, then he won’t have to worry about these weird shirts that are way more Dice’s style than Gentaro’s.
As neatly as someone like Dice can be, he nudges aside Gentaro’s shirts. All right, so his aren’t on the left, maybe they’re buried at the very bottom? He’s about to try to (carefully) dig on that side, when his hand hits something harder than the soft cotton.
Frowning, he hesitates, but then the impulse overtakes him and he grabs whatever it is and takes it out.
He had been on his haunches, crouching at that point, but he falls completely on his ass when he brings the nondescript grey box out of the drawer. This isn’t his. He shouldn’t, he should just put it back before he snoops and finds some old pocket watch or something that Gentaro has been holding on to and hasn’t wanted to talk about from his past, and that’s fine, everyone has secrets and pasts, and it isn’t his right to even look…
But he does. He looks before he can control himself.
He wishes he hadn’t.
“Are you fucking kiddin’ me…”
It’s hard to tell what gleams brighter – the water at the corner of Dice’s eyes or the very pretty diamonds lining a gold band.
Maybe the answer doesn’t matter.
* * *
“I don’t remember if I like coffee or not.”
Is what Gentaro had said at the start of week three when they were sitting around on their respective phones. That strange declaration had lead to an impromptu walk through Shibuya, the bright lights guiding them along. Gentaro usually wasn’t a fan of leaving his place after sunset and Dice had never pried as to why – he just figured it was an author thing. Now, Gentaro seems at ease by his side, walking calmly down the side streets that thrive with energy and potential because of Fling Posse.
“Where are we going, exactly?” asks Gentaro as he ducks his head chin down more into a pretty purple scarf. A pretty purple scarf that Dice bought for him for his birthday, thank you very much.
“To get coffee.”
“…Yes, I’m fully aware. I meant what place,” sighs Gentaro, nose wrinkling.
“You wouldn’t remember it, anyway.” Gentaro proceeds to elbow him, hard, in the side. Dice can’t help the explosive laughter that erupts from him. His eyes squint closed. “Sorry, sorry. Couldn’t help it.”
“Unbelievable,” Gentaro admonishes and he’s pouting but it’s happy, it’s so bright that Dice forgets. By god he forgets that he’s supposed to just be a friend and not a boy smitten with this prolific author who somehow loves him back, god, loves him so much he’d want to marry him, even if just symbolically, because fuck if Dice knows they even can, but it’s their version of forever and he—
And he leans over and kisses Gentaro.
He knows his mistake the second he touches warm lips and warmer breath.
Dice pulls back immediately, eyes wild and face a beet red. “Fuck, I—” stammers Dice and he wonders if this is how he loses Gentaro, if this rushed push of emotions is what will finally leave him homeless for the first time in years.
But Gentaro just blinks at him, surprise coating his face, but he doesn’t look upset.
“Don’t apologize,” Gentaro sighs, voice soft and low and authoritative as he stares at Dice’s lips, “Don’t take it back,” he breathes out, a little more desperate, “and don’t apologize,” he repeats.
Dice stupidly nods.
Gentaro is close, then, his hands winding in the folds of fabric at the front of Dice’s peacoat that Ramuda and Gentaro had gifted him last holiday season. Gentaro is staring at him like he’s the sun, like he’s someone, and his hands are trembling for fuck’s sake. Both of theirs are.
“Don’t tell me if I have you or not,” whispers Gentaro as he leans in and kisses him again, slow, beautiful, like a work of art that’s come to life, in pretty pastels and water colors that bring words to life in Dice’s heart. “Because right now,” he says, voice small, “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life. So please let me pretend I have it.”
Dice’s arm protectively curls around him and holds on tight. He listens to Gentaro’s breathing, feels the way he tentatively kisses him a third time, and Dice just knows that’s not a lie. “You sure you don’t wanna know the answer?” Dice murmurs, his free hand lifting to cup Gentaro’s pretty face, thumb swiping just under his cheekbone.
“I don’t,” Gentaro says and kisses him again, words coming between quick pants, “because if I waited this long to have you, I don’t want to know how truly stupid I grew to be. And if I did have you,” his voice drops even quieter, “I don’t want to believe that I’d ever forget.”
Fuck.
Dice holds him crushingly tight. The kiss breaks and Dice tips his head so he can kiss the crown of Gentaro’s head as the older man nestles into his chest in the rarest soft of vulnerability Dice can remember.
“Answer doesn’t matter,” Dice agrees, mouth near Gentaro’s ear. “I’m here. I’m yours right now. And I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
“Thank you,” says the author into wool, “One more favor, if you’d be so kind.”
Dice isn’t even afraid with the grave honesty of his answer, “Anything.”
“Bring me back to the apartment,” says Gentaro, finger smoothing back around Dice to his lower back. “I have a feeling that, regardless of what the truth is, I have a lot to show you in private.”
Dice’s grin is vibrant despite the tears that stain it.
* * *
Dice feels fingers in his hair and the warmth of the sun. He shifts, trying to get more comfortable, face nuzzling more into a clean pillow. It’s then that he remembers he’s slept in a bed for the first time in weeks and that his body is littered with stinging bruises and scratches from the night before. His legs are distinctly sticky and he has a familiar cold body pressed against his chest. For once, he wants to wake up.
“Mornin’,” yawns Dice as he tilts his head to the side to kiss the center of the palm of the hand that’s giving him such loving ministrations.
“Good morning, my messiah,” says a sweet voice, lips along his collar, his chest, going lower, lower.
“Huh—“ Dice already has morning wood, that he’s sure of, and it only hardens when he feels pretty lips drop down to his hipbones, brown curls disappearing under the sheet. “God, babe, it’s way too early…I dunno if I can go again this—”
Nevermind.
Gentaro’s lips are wrapped around his cock. There’s a cold hand that feels oddly good running up his thigh, fingertips teasing and deft as they reach the base of his erection that can’t quite fit in Gentaro’s mouth.
Any thought of not being able to come again disappear in Gentaro’s mouth and then throat, Dice coming hard as he fucks his face with a delicacy that’s hard to put into words. Fuck words, he has Gentaro.
“Fuck--”
Dice is trembling when he comes down from it, his mind still in a haze from both sleep and the sex. His eyes stare at the ceiling around the same time Gentaro emerges from the sheets, wearing them as a makeshift cape. He’s smiling, that same smile Dice fell in love with, and Dice brings a hand up to push the messy locks of hair over Gentaro’s ear.
“Best way to wake up. Ever,” Dice informs him, chest clenching with desperate want resurfacing when he sees Gentaro swipe his lips clean of Dice’s cum. “Gentaro—” he starts but is cut off.
“I love you.”
Dice shuts the fuck up.
“I’m even annoyed with myself for not saying it before,” murmurs Gentaro as he leans up to kiss Dice’s lips, and god, Dice can sort of taste himself and it’s making him hard all over again, “So I’ll say it now, if you don’t mind.”
Dice’s smile stretches for miles. “Fuck, Gentaro, I--“
Never knew what love was before you.
It occurs to Dice, then, the way Gentaro has been acting this morning. The realization smacks him in the face and a bewildered expression crosses the gambler’s features. “Gentaro?”
“Perhaps all my memory needed was a very large reminder of you,” murmurs Gentaro, leaning to kiss his ear, left hand sliding down to slot his fingers in the familiar spaces between Dice’s.
Relief floods through him. It’s indescribable and again, Dice can’t quite care because his beautiful liar is in his arms. “… Wait. Was that a dick joke?”
Gentaro’s laugh is brighter than the rays of sun coming in through the rain-stained window. This is home, Gentaro is home, this is all he’ll ever need again. And if Gentaro wants to marry him, he’ll act surprised when he sees that ring. He’ll wait forever for him, will make him fall in love as many times as he needs to in order to fall asleep with Gentaro every single night.
(And Dice won’t have to wait long, a month later, at most, before Gentaro has his forever stake shimmering bright on Dice’s hand)
And Dice thinks, maybe, they’ll be okay.