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He sees himself. He’s not blind. He notices and hears and feels how the world around him whispers and rotates, pushes and pulls. He sees the map of sprawling lines on his face, down his neck. He has learned to read it, memorize every detail of it, and manipulate it to his own advantage. He sees his own eyes. He sees a willow tree, at a tender age of twenty.
He credits himself in having the ability to understand the logic of why. He has the guts (he had to have the guts – make it, build it from scratch, from scraps of human dignity and pride, earn it – by whatever means, it is, was, will always be a necessity to acquire such black-and-white determination, fueled by fearless, yet guided guts) to think of the what-ifs and to actually have the soul to ponder about it.
He has a soul. He has a heart, contrary to the opinion of the majority – if anyone dares to ask, dares to say (or not, because lately everyone is whispering and looking, but never speaking).
His priorities simply lie to bigger, grander things.
He sits still and listens to quick shuffle of feet of the people in the room, their small talks – hurried and panicking – and the distant cheering of the audience outside, out there. From the mirror’s reflection, he observes how the handful of staff inside the room move around, how some tries to be polite, to not snap at each other despite the thick, choking air of anxiety and the resonance of: showtime.
After what seems like hours, he’s finally alone in the dressing room. The door still open wide and the white noise of the whole backstage is roaring in his ears but in here, inside the dressing room, he’s alone and everything is quiet and still.
The room is a balanced mess of strewn sweat-soaked shirts, make-ups, training shoes, papers and such. It’s a witness of their last few days of working-work-work, (don’t blink), step 1-step 2, arguing, (don’t eat), screaming, (don’t sleep), working-work-work before they’ve come to this point. It’s the last hurrah of tension and dread before the much anticipated magical explosion. Here in the epicenter of their universe.
He sees himself. He’s not blind. He can see it. He lays it out in the open; he doesn’t kid himself. It’s the truth – it has been all worth it because: this is it, finally.
A moment passes with Kame sitting in front of his dresser, his breathing trying desperately to even out and his eyes soft at the edges, with childlike excitement rousing his nerves, and much more, a jolting mix everything he has ever felt.
And, with the casual air and indifference of a titled regality, Jin steps inside the room.
He pauses, looks around and pauses again. And Kame –
They look each other through the reflection in the mirror. It’s brief and fleeting, not a second longer.
Kame looks down and stares at his fingers splayed on the top of his dresser. He hears Jin moves, and hears the door closes with a soundless echo.
“We’re on in 15 minutes.” Jin says quietly as he walks to his own dresser a feet away from Kame’s.
Kame turns and unabashedly stares at the other – adrenaline-blinded instinct is winning against himself. Jin’s eyes are straight ahead, looking at his own reflection, his jaw hard and his skin pale. It’s a new skin he’s wearing. It doesn’t suit him like it does with Kame.
Eventually, Kame nods and drags his eyes away from Jin, “Okay.” He goes back at staring at himself at the mirror, at the lines on his face, the stretch of skin on his collarbone, and the almost invisible tremble of his lips.
Kame stares. And then he sighs, smiling to himself.
“Are you happy?” Jin asks him, his voice seems vague and distant but Kame knows that slight lift of his tone, knows that familiar curving of words around his lips – like Jin isn’t sure why is he even speaking, why is he even here – knows how Jin’s eyes are now black and naked.
“Is this what will make you finally happy?” Is what he hears against the combined white, static noise of the busy backstage and fanatical cheering of the keyed up audience.
(Fueled by fearless yet, guided guts –) Kame sucks on the air and swiftly – and swiftly he goes. He jumps to his feet and strides to Jin and presses their lips together. Kame crowds Jin to the small space between their dressers.
This would.
Nothing happens. (Here in the epicenter of their universe)
Slowly, Kame draws away, his heart on his sleeves, bare toes curling against the cold floor and his limbs all too numb and soft. And when he finally wills himself to open his eyes, he sees Jin looking at him, wide-eyed, spellbound and weathered all at the same time.
It all comes crashing in – the long wait, the gravity of this moment, the pending decision and the deadening what-ifs. All of these are holing deep in Kame, but.
“Finally.” Jin sobs, face unreadable for a moment longer, and he pulls Kame back to him, and catches Kame’s lips once more; this time his mouth fervent and moving and hot against Kame’s and this time, this time something happens.
Kame pushes himself to Jin, and fits himself to Jin’s arms and braces himself, one hand on the other’s nape and his other hand on Jin’s chest.
It took them five years to come to this point – of Tokyo Fucking Dome, and it took them longer to come to this: Jin and him, bare and together. Nothing is certain and everything is frightening than ever, but – but.
Jin peels away and rests their foreheads together; he’s smiling at him and Kame thinks he’ll burst and die any second now.
He would lay it out in the open again and again (he’d do it in the future, to remind himself), It’s the cold truth – it has been all worth it because:
“I am.” He whispers to Jin and yes, at this precise moment, here in the epicenter of their universe, he is happy.
End.