Chapter Text
i. who is Murata Ugetsu?
Prodigal son to parents who are neither here nor there. Exceptionally gifted musician. A devastatingly handsome man. Serial heartbreaker, once heartbroken and he swore never again.
People spoke of him as if he is someone magnificent, someone extraordinary, as if he is some untouchable creature born from an urban legend. Placed him on a pedestal, worshiped him, coveted him. They all want to fuck him, they all want to fuck with him.
It’s all so nauseating.
Everything is so unnecessarily convoluted.
Because the truth is much more prosaic.
Murata Ugetsu. A boy and then a man. The same as he was at sixteen, no different from when he was at twenty-two or thirty-one. Flesh and blood and bone, just like everyone else. Bleeds ruby red, cries silent tears.
So painfully human.
“Ugetsu-san,” Itaya mumbles into the juncture between his collarbones. Feather-light and dreamy, the feeling of silk sheets and cold skin. Messy ginger locks seem to shimmer under a patch of pale moon yellow that snuck in through the opened window.
“You can drop the honorifics, Itaya-kun. Haven’t I said that many times before?”
“Well, call me Shougo and I will consider it.”
His futile attempt at rebellion is always fun to toy with. Sitting up, Ugetsu moves to straddle Itaya’s hips, grinding his own hips down. “If I did that, you wouldn’t be able to handle it.”
“Try me.” Amber eyes glinting dangerously cold as Itaya adds with a purrs, “Uu-chan.”
Ugetsu can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from his throat. “You know, that’s what my grandmother calls me.”
Itaya blushes, pretty and pink and so pure. As if the god favours him and shields him from everything that is evil, as if he will be the one who will save Ugetsu from damnation.
Ugetsu trails his finger down Itaya’s sternum, tracing patterns across his abs. “Being cheeky will get you nowhere -,” he tilts his head and grins, bares his teeth, wicked and sharp, “- Shougo.”
Itaya blushes even harder but there is a dark edge to his voice when he says, “That’s not true.” He lets his gaze slide down from Ugetsu’s face to the red and purple blooms that littered his naked body, boldly appreciating his own handiwork, stacking a claim to what is his with hungry eyes. “Being cheeky has gotten me into your bed.” He grabs the root of Ugetsu’s hair and pulls him down, nose to nose, forehead to forehead, lips barely touching, “Isn’t that right, Ugetsu?”
So laughably human.
ii. what are you afraid of?
A life without music, never being able to play the violin ever again. Blood. Drifting endlessly with no shore in sight. Being weak. Commitment. Goodbyes.
Most of all, he is afraid of himself.
Because even someone like him knows that there is nothing scarier than a man in love.
A man in love is weak. A man in love is foolish. A man in love disregards age-old wisdom, ignores blaring warning signs and stumbles headfirst into an erupting volcano.
(Love is fucking terrifying because to love you have to trust, and to trust you allow yourself to be vulnerable, to be stupid.
Perhaps that is why you saw it fit to douse yourself in gasoline, kissed him gingerly on the lips before handing over the lighter to him.)
A man in love falls prey to quiet nights, to lonely nights that drag on with no end in sight, to starless nights that are only made somewhat tolerable by allowing himself to indulge in sweat-stained kisses and honey-sweet words.
//
It is 12am in London. It is 9am in Osaka.
Ugetsu yearns for a man that cannot touch, aches for a future that he cannot see.
The night is bitter and treacherous.
It is 1am in London. It is 10am in Osaka.
He is in bed with his hands between his thighs. He thinks of pretty lips whispering filthy praises in his ears, sharp teeth nipping on his collarbone. He thinks of calloused fingers on his bare skin, hungry eyes devouring him. He thinks of the time when pain equals pleasure, and -
White paints his hand, white paints the pitch-black night.
But it is not enough.
It will never be enough.
(And what is a lonely man left to do but to seek out the only salvation that he knows?)
Heaving out a defeated sigh, he wipes his hands clean. Reaches for his phone, types out where are you and presses send.
It is 2am in London. It is 11am in Osaka.
There is a knock on his door.
He doesn’t bother to look through the peephole.
He swings open the door, pulls Itaya inside and pushes him against the wall. Slams the door shut with a practiced kick of his feet, grabs Itaya by the collar and kisses him. Rough and desperate. Itaya tastes like twilight and beer and something that he can get drunk on.
Maybe it’s the thrill of what is to come, or maybe it’s the heat of another person pressed against him, but right now the night feels so much sweeter.
Itaya pulls away from the kiss, a little bit breathless, a little bit dazed. “Hey,” he says, “What’s wrong?”
Ugetsu shrugs in response and sinks to his knees. “Nothing.”
I can’t sleep.
I’m being haunted by the past.
Fuck me so that I don’t have to think about anything.
(Everything is wrong and broken and you know it. But you are too busy using your body as a weapon, avoiding what you don’t want to see.)
Nimble fingers make work of the button on Itaya’s jeans and he can hear Itaya exhale. It sounds like resignation. Looking up with a triumphant smirk, he drags Itaya’s jeans and boxers down in one go.
“Ugetsu-san,” Itaya whispers and it is filled with reverence.
“Wrong.” He wraps a hand around Itaya’s cock, leans forward and licks a long wet strip up to the base.
“U-Ugetsu…”
He rewards Itaya by taking him whole. The tip of Itaya’s cock pushes uncomfortably against his throat but pain is pleasure and pleasure is pain and both tastes amazing on his tongue. Salty and cheap and sickeningly addictive.
“Fuck,” Itaya hisses, voice hoarse and laced with want. He tightens his holds on Itaya’s hips, hollows his cheeks out. With every twirl of his tongue and bob of his head, he drinks in sugar-spun poison, allowing himself to drift away in the ambrosial scent of lust.
He slows down and stares up, his mouth beautifully full and he knows. Dark eyes drowning in feverish desires stare back at him and he knows. He quickens his speed and he knows.
(You know the look of a man in love and god, it is truly a sight to behold.)
Itaya spills down his throat with an unsteady hand in his hair.
Everything is white-hot and exquisite and for a fleeting second, Ugetsu is not afraid of the night.
iii. besides music, what else do you excel in?
If sex is a language, Ugetsu has mastered all the filthiest words and sounds, he knows exactly when and how to utilise each breathless whimper, each hushed whisper of an imperative to ruin men and women alike.
If sex is a language, Ugetsu’s body holds the holy scripture and he relishes in allowing others to taste the sacred text on their lips. He looks down as they kneel before him, listens to them moaning out prayers and praises. He delights in hearing them sing, voice filling up the silence and darkness within.
If sex is a language, Ugetsu spits on everything that has been taught, he breaks every rule ever written. He bathes in the crystal clear lake and watches the water turn inky black.
(Turns out, being good at something doesn’t guarantee happiness. Somehow they always run adjacent to one another, never touching.)
iv. how do you celebrate your birthday?
On the sixth day of the sixth month each year, Ugetsu unconsciously itches to grab hold of something, anything. Literally, metaphorically. Does it even matter? He just knows that an unsettling urge sweeps over him, ferocious and a little bit sinister, sinking its fangs into him, refusing to let go until he has something in his hand. Until he has something to hold onto.
At age three, flanked by his father and mother, with his grandparents also in attendance, surrounded by the sweet perfume of jasmine and youthful wonder, he felt the warmth of the afternoon sunshine on his back. He grabbed his mother’s hands, her fingers lithe and delicate, and he held on tightly. A boy yet to walk past the gates of hell, a boy yet to dip his toes into a sea of fire. Life then was much simpler, much more placid.
At age fifteen, he received a melonpan from Akihiko during lunch time. Cafeteria-bought, slightly smooshed, nonchalantly shoved into his hand without a word outside the music room. He tore apart the packaging and took a bite. Sweet, he thought as he took another bite. Much too sweet. He supposed it was a sweetness that he could get used to; honeyed-thick and clinging to the back of throat. He found it a bit hard to breathe.
At age eighteen and nineteen, afternoons arrived accompanied by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. When night time rolled around, underneath the veil of moonlight, his moans spilled out onto the black canvas. When morning came, he thought of happy endings but somehow the image came out blurry.
At age twenty-one, he walked into Lawson in Ginza and allowed the sliding door to close on a chapter of his life. Outside, he was a world-renowned violinist who chose music over love. Inside, he was just a customer looking to buy a pack of cigarettes. His phone buzzed in his back pocket, he ignored it in favour of asking the young girl behind the counter for san-juu-go ban kudasai.1 The sliding doors opened and a cool breeze rushed in. Inside he was just a customer who had purchased a pack of cigarettes. Outside, he was a broken boy with a cigarette grasped firmly between his fingers, watching the smoky coil spiralling towards heaven.
At age thirty-two, an hour shy of sunset, Ugetsu stands in the middle of a nearly empty Kyoto Garden in Holland Park.2 A tiny piece of Japan right here in London, Itaya had said with a boyish grin. Kinda lame, he had thought but he went along with it anyway.
“Hey,” Itaya says from behind him. “Come here.”
He turns around and stills. Instinctively, momentarily. After all, existing within the periphery of others has always come naturally to him. Coming close was only done as an afterthought.
Itaya doesn’t falter. Holds his hand out. Patiently. Confidently. The setting sun casts a golden glow, drenching them both in warmth and something magical.
Ugetsu takes a measured step forward. Itaya’s eyes light up. Another nervous step and Itaya’s smile turns blinding. A smile that does something terrible to Ugetsu’s heart, causing him to hesitate slightly once more. Maybe something was reflected in his eyes, maybe it was the sudden shift in air that surrounds them, but Itaya senses something and he erases the distance between them in one stride.
“Hey,” Itaya says again, eyes laced with russet-toned affection. Wraps his arms around Ugetsu.
Ugetsu rests his head on Itaya’s shoulders, letting out a sigh that settles in the fold of Itaya’s shirt. A sigh that carried with it the weight of the world. Time seems to slow down a fraction. He closes his eyes and inhales. Itaya smells faintly like sun-drenched mornings and dew-dropped hydrangeas.
“Happy birthday.”
Itaya smells like home.
v. tell us about your favourite season?
June in London. Just because.
July in Hokkaido. Standing in a field of flowers, amongst a horde of strangers and a cloudless sky. Sunlight threading through his hair, sweat trickling down his nape. A kiss that tasted like lavender ice cream and carefree laughter. A ryokan off the beaten path, two futons on the tatami floor, pinky fingers interlocking together. Waking up to an arm around his waist, grounding and anchoring him to the present. Realising that being held down doesn’t necessarily mean being hindered. Finding out that he was looking for happiness in the wrong place after all.
August in Tokyo. A steady stream of water flowing down smooth granite. Washing away dust and memories from yesteryears. Incense smoke spiraling skywards, fingers that smell like sandalwood. White chrysanthemums upright in a vase, majestic and proud. A minute of silence and a second farewell. Obon is the only time that he sees his parents, the only time that he consciously makes an effort to return to Japan.3 Because he has been taught that tradition and familial bonds are something that you cannot and should not run away from. So he does as told. Religiously each year if he does not have a recital to tie him down. To have one constant in his life is not such a bad thing, he supposed.
It all boils down to one thing -
Summer.
There is just something breathtaking about summer.
vi. can you describe a typical day off?
Years of living alone in sterile hotel rooms has conditioned him to embrace the comfort found only in solitude.
Years of sleeping alone has taught him to dream in monochrome. Grayscale and noiseless.
Years of waking up alone in an empty bed has taught him to seek out distractions in the form of devastatingly sinful pleasure.
(Silence is relative. Dreams transcend reality. This is not love.
You repeat them over and over again. Again and again.
Until one day everything blurs together and you think you start bleeding gold.)
//
Ugetsu makes his way to an apartment that he has only been to when moonlight dances with shadows, an apartment that he always leaves before the pitch-black abyss makes way for a fire-red tomorrow.
He sidesteps a couple deep in conversation, fingers tangled together. He walks past a mother wrangling her son who is happily licking his ice cream cone. It’s a familiar path littered with unfamiliar sights.
A high-rise building comes into view. Past the sliding glass doors and opulent lobby, he heads straight up to the eighth floor. It’s another familiar path, one that leads to a familiar door. He has the key but he knocks like he doesn’t. It’s a farce that the man inside plays along with. Most of the time. Sometimes.
But not today.
“Why don’t you ever use the keys that I gave you?” Itaya grumbles the minute he swung open the door. There is a pout on his lips, disappointment staining his features.
Ugetsu glances past his shoulder. “Are we going to have this conversation here?”
Itaya steps aside to let him in. Albeit begrudgingly. A resigned huff trails after him as he takes off his shoes, a voiceless plea grabs hold of his wrist as he removes his jacket. He shakes it off with a practiced flick of his hand, makes himself comfortable on the couch and waits.
“Have you eaten yet?” Itaya asks, eyes seemingly searching for something deep within Ugetsu. “And before you say yes, coffee and cigarettes do not count.”
“Yes,” Ugetsu responds like the liar that he is.
Itaya sighs, like he knows that Ugetsu is a fucking liar. It is a tune that has played out before, endlessly on a loop, but tonight the coda is near.
“I did not come here to eat.”
“I -”
“And I also did not come here on my day off to discuss my eating habits, nor why I prefer to knock.”
Ugetsu doesn’t break eye contact with Itaya. Resolute and razor-sharp. If Itaya was a blazing flame that illuminates, radiant and golden, then Ugetsu was a glistening icicle, all jagged edge and bitterly cold.
Itaya flinches slightly. And then he straightens himself up, takes the five steps needed to stand in front of Ugetsu. Leaning back against the couch, pinned to the spot by Itaya’s analytical stare, Ugetsu clasps his hand together. Resists the urge to drag Itaya down to hell with him.
(Such beautiful hands, so delicate and lissome yet capable of such wanton destruction.)
And then Itaya kneels down, gazing directly into Ugetsu’s soul. One hand cupping his cheek, the other moves to unravel his clasped hands. A determined glint in a pool of liquid gold, a smile so tender gracing his lips, and something inside Ugetsu crumbles.
(You are ice but he is fire and you never stood a chance.)
He lets Itaya intertwine their fingers together, melts into the palm of his hand.
“What is important to you?” Itaya asks.
“Music.”
“What else?”
“Smoking.”
Itaya chuckles, his eyes say go on.
A second passes, two seconds, three and what feels like time coming to a standstill.
Ugetsu squeezes his hand timidly. “This.” He finally admits.
A grin slowly draws up the corner of Itaya’s mouth.
“Now what if I told you that you don’t have to choose? That it is possible for you to have them all.”
“What -”
“And what if I also told you that I will always meet you in the middle?” He tucks a stray lock of hair around the shell of Ugetsu’s ear. “I showed you that I would, didn’t I?”
Ugetsu thinks back to a day in June in a park. A warm embrace reminiscent of the aftermath of tsuyu; the sky painted vibrant with saturated tones and life bloomed from the ground.
Ugetsu also thinks - how unfair it is that Itaya can turn something so terrifying into something so stunningly gorgeous.
Itaya kisses his knuckle, softly and reverently, expression fond. Like he is deserving of all the care and delicacy in this world.
And god, Ugetsu folds. He always folds.
Itaya sees it, he senses the exact moment the wall finally tumbles down. He surges forward and kisses Ugetsu. Scorching hot, tightly wrapped with unsaid words of devotion.
When it is the both of us together, everything is messy, everything is beautiful and I fucking love you.
And Ugetsu is being carried to the bedroom, Itaya’s grip on his thighs firm and filled with something dark and possessive.
“Only you,” Itaya growls wet and hot into the crook of his neck.
“It has always been you,” Itaya whispers as Ugetsu’s shirt comes off.
“Always will be,” Itaya promises as he crowds Ugetsu onto the bed.
Itaya straightens up, slips his shirt over his head, and reaches out to his bedside table for condoms and lube. Gently and slowly opens Ugetsu up with slick fingers, all while pressing open-mouthed kisses across the expanse of his thighs.
Eyes fluttering close, Ugetsu is hopelessly lost in the sensation of being loved. He is pliant and breathless.
Gone was the anticipation of a quick and hard fuck that always left him with painful bruises on his hips and pinpricks in his chest. Gone was Itaya thrusting into him in one fluid movement, harsh and chasing after mindless pleasure.
Instead, Itaya pushes into him unhurriedly, bit by bit, little by little, drawing out a needy whimper from Ugetsu.
Ugetsu burns with desire and affection and something ethereal.
And once Itaya is buried inside all the way to hilt, he takes his time to prove his love.
Each languid and deep thrust stretches Ugetus wide open, before filling him up again, completely and entirely. Each whispered word of affection turns his blood into molten lava, searing heat coursing through his veins. Each adoring gaze that flits past Itaya’s face pushes him closer and closer and closer to the edge.
He is melting and everything feels so safe and secure, so absolutely perfect and -
Ugetsu unravels with a muffled cry and a name falling out his lips.
Shougo.
He sees Itaya’s eyes cloud over, so impossibly dark. He feels Itaya’s cock twitching inside him. He hears the stuttered breathing and declaration of love. And Itaya too unravels, spilling inside him and he feels so full.
Later, Itaya carries him into the bathtub. Cleans him, puts him back together and kisses all his scars, smoothing out all the sharp edges. It all feels so sweet. A different sort of sweetness from the ones that he was used to. Not cloyingly thick but something soothingly nostalgic and floral like the unmistakable tang of summer peaches.
He finally has found a place to return to, a place where he can stay.
“Thank you,” Ugetsu says, leaving a chaste kiss on the corner of Itaya’s mouth.
so who exactly is Murata Ugetsu?
A boy who grew up too fast, too clumsily. A boy who built a wall around his heart, and erected a moat around himself. A boy who -
It’s actually not that complicated.
Simply put, Murata Ugetsu is a man in love and loved in return.