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Hibiki Wataru has a beautiful face.
It's not narcissism on his part- he knows, now, that he was crafted as so. Sculpted by skilled hands, he had been painstakingly rendered to be a pleasing visage- a visage fit for performance, conversation, and crowd. Versatile, unique, and lovely; he’s sure these were the words kept in mind with his creation.
He, too, tries to keep these words in mind during the late nights where he loses time in the mirror, poking and prodding at the synthetic skin that lays all along his body. It’s stuck to him, fastened like glue, but there’s certain places where when he drags his nails along the surface, his nails will catch. Crevices, deep canyons that go beyond his fake skin, hidden to all eyes but his.
The first seams he had caught were on his forearms. Idle itching had turned to frantic searching when he had realized there were places where his skin would tug, prying apart if he pulled harder. It made for the unsettling discovery of panels- lids making for the entire outer shell of his forearm. He remembers how he had shuddered when he had closed them, and the seams made themselves nearly invisible once more.
That incident had commenced a full-body search, which would be repeated for weeks on end. His count has come to this- two matching panels that open up on his forearms, same for his calves, one large panel that covers the expanse of his chest, and one smaller one between his shoulder blades. Terrifyingly, he had discovered one long, continuous seam that runs all along the side of his body, meaning that if he were somehow severely damaged, or required a full internal check, he could probably be opened up head to toe, giving access to his entire internal skeletal structure.
The worst, he thinks, is the seam he found along his jaw. If he stares into the mirror, pushed up so as to sit on the counter and press his face close, he can see the way it winds up his jawline, past his ear, and runs just under his hairline. It makes for a complete circle around his face- one night he had dug at his chin with his thumb, and he felt the way he almost managed to lift it up. The action had made his stomach roll unpleasantly. He spent the rest of that first night pressing into his cheeks to make sure his face stayed put and his seams stayed hidden.
He doesn’t want to know what his real face looks like. The wires and metal that wind through his arms and legs, the thick mass of tubes, plating, and glowing buttons that sit under his chest where a heart does not, the voicebox that is not made of cartilage with a thousand voices- these things, he has come to accept as real. As part of him. Wataru understands, fundamentally, that the existence of these within him confirm the reality that he is not human. He understands this.
But his face- his face. His stagnant, beautiful, human face.
This is the face that he sees, that his fans see, his friends see, his parents see.
The face that Eichi sees.
If he can just keep this one little thing- just keep pretending there’s nothing under this mask of his- then he will be happy. Ignorance is bliss, as they say, and he’s certainly much more blissful watching Eichi’s face flush at his appearance than he would be watching him recoil in disgust at the unknown thing underneath.
Except- he knows, eventually, he’ll have to come clean. One way or another, Eichi will find out that he’s inhuman, that his blood and bones are merely wires and metal, and that the face he sees is yet another addition to Wataru’s collection of masks.
It’s unfair to keep this from him. It makes something dark and ugly curl up in his chest, makes it hard to breathe some nights- ironic, that such a thing would matter to him. He doesn’t need air. It’s just his curse that he feels like he does.
Eichi will know someday, and Wataru will be able to stop lying to him. He only hopes his beloved will let him down easy.
Tonight is one of those nights- those nights that he can’t shake the feeling of ants under his skin, of wires and sparks and metal on metal. He can’t sleep, can’t think, can barely do a thing, which is why it’s absolutely perfect that Eichi’s door is always open.
He sweeps into the hospital room with vigor, relishing in the way Eichi visibly brightens at his entrance. “My dear,” he drawls, taking a slow bow, “your most favorite performer has arrived.”
“Wataru,” Eichi sighs, relief in his voice. “I’m so glad you came. It’s been dreadfully boring these past few days without you.” He motions for Wataru to come to his side, which he does. His hand prods at Wataru’s bag. “Have you brought something?”
“Your majesty has good eyes,” Wataru grins. “The bluebird has adorned me with an assortment of gifts for you this fair night. Please,” he says, pulling a stack of books from the bag and laying them gently across Eichi’s lap. “Take your pick.”
Eichi smiles graciously, and warmth floods Wataru’s cheeks- he thanks whoever played God and gave him life that they also blessed him with these sorts of sensory afflictions, the pushes and pulls that Eichi Tenshouin provokes in him. Whether it be hotblooded anger or dizzying giddiness, he can count on Eichi to bring about the strongest reactions programmed within him. And he does it all by smiling- really, how much power can his emperor hold over him?
“You’ve brought a great many things,” Eichi muses, delicately lifting one book after the other. “Is this an adaptation of Cinderella? ”
“Indeed.”
“How nostalgic.” He flips the book a few times, from summary to cover, before handing it to Wataru.
“This one, your majesty?”
Eichi lets out a resigned sigh. “Will you ever just call me my name?”
“But how will I remind you of your crown otherwise?”
“We aren’t doing this today,” Eichi says with a wave of his hand. “Yes, that one. Sit down, before your legs give out on you.”
Wataru’s legs will never give out on him, but Eichi doesn’t need to know that. Besides, if Eichi knew that his legs would never tire, would he still offer a space on his bed? A mystery Wataru isn’t keen on finding the answer to. He sits swiftly, carefully avoiding where Eichi’s own legs lay, and he smooths out the covers from where they wrinkle beneath him. “You’re sure you want this one?” he asks as he opens the book. “I’m always one to relive the classics, but I asked that dear bluebird to put together his most amazing selection for you.”
“This will do nicely,” Eichi says simply. He tips his head back, resting in much the same position Wataru had found him in, but now his face is graced with a soft smile. “Please, go on.”
“As you wish.”
The book is charming, certainly, and it provides ample opportunity for Wataru to showcase his theatrics. There’s a certain pleasure in knowing that no matter what he does, or how he performs, Eichi will always clap for him. He will always find something to love in his shows- if not everything. Perhaps Wataru should fear his ever-growing pedestal, but right now, he can only take comfort in it. In much the same way his legs will never tire, Eichi will never tire of Wataru’s tricks.
This should be a good night. The ants should be going away. He should stop feeling the thrum of electricity, the press of wires into metal, he should be feeling better. Why isn’t he feeling better?
“ As Elena stood from her chair, the prince stood as well. His face was slack, breathless, and his cheeks were stained a ruddy red. ‘It’s you,’ he gasped, gaze raking over Elena’s figure- her hand-me-down of a hand-me-down dress, her knotted, oily hair, and her skin covered in scars, bruises, and dirt- upon his gaze making its way back to her face, he broke out into a large grin. ‘You’re the one I’ve been looking for.’ ”
Wataru frowns. The itching gets stronger.
“ ‘You aren’t disappointed?’ Elena asked, hands curling into the fabric of her apron. ‘I’m not exactly- as advertised.’ The magic from that night months before had changed her, made her unrecognizable. Surely, the prince would have some reservations? ”
His jaw feels as if it’s on fire.
“ But the prince merely stepped forward, taking her stained hands in his. The white of his gloves became printed with black. ‘You are the woman I danced with for hours,’ he said, ‘you made me laugh, made me weep, made me feel as if I could fly. No magic on earth could compare to the magic I felt with you.’ ”
“Wataru?”
“ ‘My prince,’ Elena breathed. Any words she could have said died in her throat. How? How could he- ” Wataru scratches at his neck. “ How could he be so unbothered? He looked at her the same as he had that night- no, that’s not right. He looked even more adoring than he had. How could such a thing be true? ”
“Wataru.”
“ ‘You still want my hand? Even though it will sully yours?’ The prince’s grip on her fingers got tighter, as if it were an embrace. ” His nail catches the seam, and it takes all his self control not to dig into the crevice he knows is there. “ ‘I want all of you, all the time. Just like this. I want- ”
“Wataru, stop.”
His eyes snap up from their place on the page. Eichi’s hand is on his, pulling it away from his face quickly. The seam in his skin burns with the deepest itch.
He clears his throat. “Apologies, my dear,” he says. “Was something not to your liking?”
Eichi frowns. “More like something wasn’t to yours. What’s wrong? You look uncomfortable.”
“Me?” Wataru barks a laugh. “Your majesty, I was simply deep within my role. One gets rather lost in these stories, I’m afraid.”
“I’ve seen you lost in stories, Wataru,” Eichi says. He casts his eyes down at their joined hands- their palms cover the next paragraph Wataru was meant to read. “This was different. Please, tell me?”
His throat, miraculously, goes dry. It must be a learned response- he can’t imagine whoever made him decided it would be beneficial for their robot to be at a loss for words. “...My dear,” he begins hesitantly, “I am sorry to say I wish you had picked a different novel, is all.”
“Was there something wrong with this one?”
“No,” Wataru says. “I suppose you could say I- disagree with its conclusion, perhaps.”
“Conclusion?” Eichi wrinkles his nose. “Of Cinderella? ”
He dog-ears the page of the book and pushes it to the side, folding his hands in his lap. “I’m just not particularly fond of stories where such a thing like lies is rewarded. A rather backwards message, if you ask me.”
At the word lies , Eichi arches a brow. “When did she lie? The whole end of the book is about revealing the step-family’s lies, isn’t it?”
“At the ball,” Wataru says. “When she and the prince meet, she’s practically a different person. Could that not be counted as a lie?”
“But the prince says that she’s exactly the same person he fell for,” Eichi counters. “Besides, wouldn’t the spell be more like a grand makeover than a grand lie?”
Wataru shakes his head, frustration welling up in his chest. “She says herself that the disguise made her nearly unrecognizable. Is that not more extreme than a makeover?”
Eichi hums thoughtfully. He taps his chin a few times- something about the action only makes the frustration more pressing. “Perhaps,” he says, “but the point the ending is making here is that it wasn’t her appearance that mattered then. He fell in love with her, not her face.”
“Faces are part of love,” Wataru insists. His free hand curls into a fist at his side. “There is physical attraction as well as emotional, no? Is it not lying for her to be nearly a different person?” He feels his nails drag and catch on the sheet as his fist clenches and unclenches rhythmically. “How can he be okay with that? How can he be okay with her lying to him? It doesn’t make sense. ”
“Wataru,” Eichi says quietly, reaching for his other hand. He flinches back- Eichi frowns slightly. “He loved her for who she was. How she looked was just another part of her.”
His frustration hits a boiling point.
“What if I showed up tomorrow as a monster?” Wataru finds himself saying. His tone comes out light, but his ears can pick up the undercurrent of nerves in his voice. “What if I tore off my skin right here and revealed myself as a beast? Would you still want me?”
Eichi stares at him. He doesn’t have a heart, but he feels as if he has one pounding fast in his chest regardless.
“Of course I would,” Eichi says. “I think you’re beautiful like this, but I would want you in any form.”
Wataru narrows his eyes. “What if I was a hideous creature,” he spits, “a malformed, rejected project of God’s? What if I went against every law of nature you understand?”
“I would still want you here,” Eichi says. “Though I’d refrain from having you read Cinderella again.”
Wataru shakes his head, feeling suddenly as if he were a wild animal. The ants in his skin are everywhere now- he wants to dig into each and every seam and pull them out. “You don’t get it,” he says, “You don’t understand.”
Eichi shuffles forward, placing his hands on Wataru’s shoulders. “What’s wrong, Wataru?” he asks, and he’s so concerned, the fool that he is. “Tell me. You’re right, I don’t understand. Make me.”
He only shakes his head again. “My dear, this is but a debate we will have to leave at a stalemate,” he breathes. “Forgive me. I must step out for a moment- only a moment, nothing more.”
He slides off the bed onto legs that do not shake, and walks out as smoothly as he had walked in. If Eichi protests, he doesn’t hear it- considering his hearing is perfect, the possibility is unlikely. The hallway is expansive and empty, and he tries to convince himself that it’s enough space.
When he finds the bathroom, he takes solace in the fact that it’s a one-person occupancy. No confining stalls or other people. Nobody to witness this shameful loss of control. He shuts the door, only to fall back against it and slide down to the cool tile below. The space is helping- he can feel it helping- but the ants are still there.
He digs.
His nails tear clumsily at his face, finding the crevice where the seams in his skin lay and forcing them as open and wide as he can. The itching is deeper than the synthetic skin, deeper than the malleable mask that the skin lays on- it’s underneath, straight to what he can only call his bones.
It takes no less than thirty seconds of grappling and pulling for the seams to finally come loose and lift. His fingers grasp the edges underneath and he pulls, sharp and hard, and it gives with a sickly pop. He stares down into his hands- the malleable layer is the only thing visible at first. White, smooth, and blank. Would his whole body look like that, if he peeled off his skin? Or would it be the sleek silver of metal? Experimentally, he props up the side of it with his thumb, and he sees the skin of his face in his hands.
His hands do not shake, but he drops the mask anyway. His face- his face- is on the floor. The skin that he should feel- the skin that feels the warmth of light, the chill of cold, the touch of fingers and lips, is on the floor. And he feels nothing.
He stands up and looks at himself in the mirror. At his face. His real face.
It’s silver, sharp and jutting and cold. Where his nose would be is a line at which the metal connects. Only the top half of it is plated in metal. The bottom is empty, save for the metal cut of his jaw and two tendon-like rods extending from his cheekbones to his jaw. The rest is a void, a gaping hole, made to fit his synthetic mouth interior. Within the hole at the very back is a small speaker- most likely where the audio of his voice actually comes from, and the vibration in his throat is merely a mimic. His eyes are massive, round and glassy, and completely unlidded. They bulge out of barely-there sockets- the detailing is far too close to human eyes to be comfortable. Along the edges, where metal meets skin, there are holes, sockets where the malleable mask plugs back in and reconnects to its energy source. Had he only taken off his skin, he’d be looking at a blank white version of the mask which is his face. This- what he’s looking at right now- is his real face.
It’s revolting .
His stomach heaves, and he knows there’s nothing there but he feels the inexplicable urge to vomit. The sound of his elbows hitting the counter is loud and metallic. It echoes in his ears longer than it should, and he turns his gaze to his hands instead of the face. They’re shaking- his hands can’t shake, but they’re shaking. How are they shaking?
He grabs at the counter feebly. His mask- where did he put his mask? He needs to get away from that face, that godawful abomination. He needs- he needs to-
The floor. He left it on the floor.
Dropping to his knees, he clutches at the mask on the floor with barely functional hands. Wild panic rises in his chest- he promised Eichi he’d be back soon- in a moment, nothing more, he’d said. What if he can’t get his mask on? What if Eichi sees him like this ?
With hands so unstable they couldn’t hold a glass, he fumbles the mask until it lines up along his face, then pushes as hard as he can. Some of the sockets make it in- he can feel the connection, can hear the click . But some are still misaligned. He presses again, shifting and maneuvering until he can feel every socket in place, then keeps pressing anyway. He holds it in place for as long as feels right, then longer still.
When he stands, he keeps his hands on his mask. His stomach rolls with fear at the thought of releasing his hands only to watch his mask fall off again- falling because he’d made it permanently too loose to stay on. His back finds the door once more as he pulls his hands away- he’d intended to be slow, but his hands jerk as if he’s ripped off a band-aid.
The mask doesn’t fall off. When he looks in his palms, they’re empty. He chances a look in the mirror- it’s his face again, his fake face, versatile, unique, and lovely. Except- it doesn’t look right. The face is slack. His eyes should be stretched wide, mouth open in short gasps, he can feel all these things as if his face were a phantom limb, but he can’t see it. The mask is unmoving and expressionless.
“No,” he finds himself muttering, “no, no, no, no. ”
Footsteps. He hears footsteps.
“Wataru?” Eichi’s voice calls from the other side of the door. “Wataru, forgive me for intruding, but are you okay? You said only a moment, are you…”
“I’m perfectly fine!” It comes out too high, raw and fake, but he can’t bring himself to care. His lips didn’t move with his words. The synthetic tongue that sits in the malleable mask lays fat and useless in the fake cavern of his mouth. “Please- a moment more, if you will.”
“You don’t sound fine,” Eichi says, and from the way his voice is close and muffled, Wataru would guess he’s pressed himself against the door.
“Sounds can be deceiving.”
“That’s about looks.”
“It rather applies to most things, no?”
His face still isn’t moving. Did he break something? He’s never broken something to this extent. Oh, God, and Eichi would find out, because Eichi is stubborn, and he won’t let Wataru leave this room. He’d sooner sleep at the door than leave Wataru alone.
“Wataru, look,” Eichi says, “I’m...sorry. I didn’t realize the book would trigger something here. I didn’t mean for things to end up like this tonight.”
“Everything is fine , my dear,” Wataru grinds out. He watches his eyes dart under half-lidded eyelids- the effect is unnerving. “Nothing triggered, nothing wrong. I’m merely taking a break to freshen up. You’re free to go back-”
“Please don’t lie to me.” Eichi sounds somewhere between nervous and disappointed. “Can you come out? I’d rather not talk with a door between us.”
In a halfhearted attempt to get things working again, he slaps both of his cheeks at once. Predictably, it does nothing- he feels nothing. “I, ah,” Wataru says, trying desperately to think of a way to stall, “I really think-”
Something clicks near the top of his head.
...
Systems online.
Briefly, his vision goes completely black, and his words are cut off.
“- Agh, ” Wataru chokes, very undignified and very suddenly in control of his face.
Eichi knocks on the door. “Wataru?” He sounds, more than anything, highly confused. “What was that?”
Amazing. Of course Eichi would have to hear him make a noise like that .
“My-” He fumbles at the sink, turning the faucet on. “I- was getting a drink! All this talking, and all the reading- strain on the throat, really-”
He does a once over of his face- eyelids working, mouth pulling and pursing, cheeks stretching and squishing- before opening the door to a bewildered Eichi.
“Hello, beloved! Feeling amazing once more,” he sings, stepping delicately around him.
“Wataru-” Eichi twists around to face him, and when Wataru starts walking, he stumbles to catch up. “What are you doing?”
“Going back to your room. What are you doing?”
For a moment, Eichi does nothing, only stares, before shaking his head and keeping pace. “...You must know you are my most favorite enigma,” he sighs, “but sometimes, I wish you’d be less of one.”
“Well, now,” Wataru says, using a strand of his hair to brush gently along Eichi’s cheekbone. “Then who would be your favorite?”
“Still you, of course,” Eichi says easily.
Wataru doesn’t trust himself to respond. He simply smiles wider, hoping that Eichi can’t see through the mask he’s put on.
Later, when he’s home in his own bed, he makes a decision.
His mask is a good one. Someone worked very hard on it, and he’s lucky to have something that Eichi would consider beautiful. He’d said so, hadn’t he? That he finds Wataru beautiful. It would be far more pleasing if his gut wasn’t still curdling with anxiety and regret.
The point being- he has a good mask. One day, Eichi will find out about Wataru’s secret. Whether Wataru will find it in himself to tell him, or he’ll find out on his own, he's unsure, but it will happen someday. He’s made his peace with this (mostly). And if Eichi decides that this lie is the last straw, he will accept it. If Eichi manages to forgive him, well- then he will never let go.
Eichi will someday know that Wataru is not human.
But he will never, ever, see the wretched thing that is Wataru’s real face.
___________________
It happens when he least expects it.
That’s how all things go, of course, but this far in, he truly hadn’t expected his mask to come up for a while yet. Two years- it had been actual years since Eichi had found out, and only a small bit of time longer since they began dating officially (their song and dance had been fun, but one gets tired of only dancing, yes?). Years, and his mask hadn’t come up once .
Apparently, all it takes is an unbalanced prop to make everything go wrong.
It happens like this- he’s in the theater, backstage, cleaning up after practice. He always stays a touch longer to make sure everything is in perfect shape. It’s a good thing he does- oftentimes, things that are unorganized go unnoticed to people who don’t have perfect robotic memory. It helps, sometimes, being inhuman.
He’s putting a box on a shelf when he has the passing thought, that sword looks rather precarious , before it comes falling point-down.
His first thought is not to panic. Wataru is the only one who uses real swords, and this- laid lazily on a shelf where anyone is a shake away from being struck by it- isn’t where he keeps them, so it should have been fine. Except instead of bouncing off his glass eye like a normal plastic sword, the point catched him directly in his lower eyelid- it pulls down with the weight of the blade, clumsily splitting apart. The blade continues slicing, deep and ragged, before unlodging from his synthetic skin and toppling to the floor.
It hadn’t hurt. Wataru cannot feel pain. But he still spends an uncomfortable amount of time staring at the sword before raising unsteady fingers to his face, only to find that it’s gone slack.
He hears a click at the top of his head, eerily reminiscent of that night in the hospital all those years ago.
Critical facial damage. Emergency detachment.
Before he can even question what such a thing means, there’s a pop , a hiss , then something falls from his face and into his hands.
It- it’s his face . His mask.
He presses it back in place quickly, not wanting a moment more with the face he knows is there. It doesn’t work- the sockets are all lined up, but they don’t take. It’s as if they’re blocked.
He keeps pressing even as his hands get more and more unsteady. This can’t be happening. Not here, not now . He’s not even at home- he’s not in his room, he’s not somewhere he can hide, or repair himself-
His chest tightens into knots as his knees hit the floor. A very human panic response- he’s never been able to explain it. He doesn’t particularly feel like explaining anything right now. Whatever wires and cards make up his brain seem to be short-circuiting, and he can’t stop staring at his mask in his lap.
The wires in his head finally manage to come up with one coherent idea- he digs through his pocket with still shaking fingers, and manages to grab his phone and dial a number.
Eichi picks up after two rings. “ Wataru? ” His voice is tinny and distant- bad connection. “ Hello. Are you alright? You don’t usually call at this hour. ”
He tries his best to breathe- the action is unnecessary, but the repetition helps. “Ah,” he starts, breathes, tries again. “Eichi,” he says, “Hello. I need your help. Please.”
“ Where are you? ” His tone is immediately more urgent. “ I’ll send as many police cars as you need- unless it’s the fire department, I’m not sure- I’ll have everyone sent over, it will be no less than ten minutes- ”
“No- no. Don’t do that,” Wataru says quickly. “Just- a car. Could you send me a car? I need to get home.”
“ Home? ” He still sounds urgent, but there’s a smudge of confusion. “ I'm happy to, but what about the bus, or a train? Your blimp? ”
“Didn’t bring the blimp, my dear,” Wataru says. He tries for a laugh, and it works- that is, if it’s normal to laugh in the voice of a twelve year-old he met three weeks ago doing a fundraiser. “I can’t go outside.”
“ You can’t… ” The line quiets. “ Is this an android-related event, perhaps? ”
“My scholarly majesty.” If he just keeps talking, maybe his hands will stop shaking.
He hears the ring of keys from Eichi’s side of the phone. “ Understood. Tell me where you are, and I’ll meet you there in under ten minutes. ”
“Theater,” Wataru replies. It’s getting harder and harder to say anything. Then his brain catches up to what Eichi had actually said, and he stutters, “Eichi- wait. You don't need to come, just- a car will do.”
" Despite what you may believe, I don't have self-driving cars, love, " Eichi says. " And I think you'll much prefer my company to an employee, yes? "
"Well-" He hadn't thought about that. "I suppose you're right. But- my dear?"
“ Yes? ”
“When you get here- you can't look at me.”
“ What? ” The confusion from earlier returns. “ Why not? What happened? ” There's the sound of a car door shutting on the other side. “ This isn't some sort of 'kill everyone in sight' program, is it? I'm afraid I'm rather unequipped for such a thing. ”
Wataru lets out a shaky laugh- it's his voice, this time. “No, my love, nothing of the sort.”
“ Then what happened? ”
He pulls his knees up to his chin, then tucks his head down so his forehead rests on them. His mask presses against his chest- better it be there than on the floor. "Merely a certain malfunction, my dear," he says. "I only ask you not to look because I fear it's rather unpleasant to look at."
“ A malfunction? ” Eichi repeats. “ What kind of malfunction? Are you hurt? ”
“No, I'm quite fine,” Wataru says, deciding to skip over yet another explanation to Eichi that he doesn't feel pain. “It's more cosmetic than anything, though I do believe I'll need some repairs done. It's just left me a touch...exposed.”
There's nothing on Eichi's side for a few moments. Then, he says softly, “ You worry what I’ll think. ”
If Wataru had lips at the moment, he would be biting them nervously. “I can't imagine being excited at a malfunction, no? I'm certainly not.”
“ That's not what I meant. ”
He knows that. His gut churns in a way that makes him feel sick. “Please understand, my love, this isn't something unfounded. I have reason to believe my unsightly state would put you off, and as you are doing me a favor, it's in my best interest not to make you uncomfortable.”
The audio has changed- Eichi must have put him on speaker in the car. “ There's no state I would find you unsightly in, Wataru, ” he says.
“I highly doubt that.”
“ Do you really? ” Eichi laughs- it should make the tension in his chest go away, but the knots only twist deeper. “ I thought I'd made it clear how thoroughly I adore you. ”
He has. Wataru knows how much Eichi loves him, idolizes him, to this day. It's one of the many things he never seems to run out of words for. And Wataru, the performer that he is, never tires of heaping the praise. Eichi's words could fill the night sky, and Wataru would still ask for more.
But the person that Eichi adores is versatile, unique, and lovely. He is beautiful. He is fake.
“Please don't look,” he finds himself saying.
“ Wataru- ”
Beautiful, fake, and a coward. He hangs up the phone.
The silence of the backstage is deafening without Eichi’s voice to fill it. He’s accustomed to the lonely emptiness of the space, but it’s made exponentially worse by the dawning reality of his situation. This isn’t a dream. He still sits on the ground, his mask still lays in his lap, his face is still cold and sharp and metal and wretched, and Eichi is on his way.
Eichi is going to see. He won’t be able to resist looking, he’ll try but he’ll fail, and he’ll see. The years of being together, of fighting, of singing, of loving, it’s all crumbling before his very eyes. Eichi will see him for what he is, and he will leave him.
When Wataru had taken a knee for him, had gifted him his mask- had gifted him himself, he hadn’t thought that he’d ever see the day Eichi would give it back. They were supposed to be forever- he was supposed to stand with Eichi forever- but now that’s all lost. It’s over.
...The proposal. The knee. The mask.
As painful as the memory is, it makes Wataru stand swiftly from his spot on the floor, gripping his damaged mask as he makes his way to his collection. It’s a massive collection, of course- masks for every purpose, any occasion. All versatile, unique, and lovely- and none have an emergency detachment function.
He stares at the mask in his hands, then back to the wall. The faces stare back at him- he catches his reflection in one of them.
Well then. Perhaps he’ll exchange one mask for another.
He only knows that Eichi’s arrived once light pours into the room. It’s silly, but he hadn’t realized it was dark before. His eyes were built to see in every sort of light, adjusting automatically. Sight for him is as easy as breathing.
“Wataru?” he hears Eichi call, and the knots in his stomach increase tenfold. “Are you here backstage? I checked the front, but you weren’t there…”
He tries to respond, but his voice fails him just in time for Eichi to discover him himself.
“There you are,” he sighs, “sitting on the ground, as if there aren’t plenty of seats. Come on, let’s-” His voice falters as he takes in what exactly he’s looking at. “Wataru, forgive me, but what exactly are you wearing?”
“Hello,” he replies belatedly. “It’s- a mask.”
“And you’re wearing a mask...why?”
He tucks his knees closer to his chest. "I can't exactly walk out of the theater unprepared, can I?"
The mask he'd picked is full coverage. It's long, white, and plain, with thin crescent holes for eyes and a cut of a smile. Unassuming and boring- it's one of his least preferred. Right now, though, it's exactly what he needs.
Eichi frowns down at him. "The malfunction," he says slowly, "it was on your face?"
"Unfortunately."
"I suppose it's no wonder you were worried," he says, and hot shame burns in Wataru's chest.
"As I said before." Wataru gestures feebly at the mask he wears. "It's unsightly."
"Hm?" Eichi kneels down in front of him, eyebrows a touch raised. "Oh, Wataru- that's not what I meant. I only meant your concern of civilians noticing, nothing more." He pushes himself forward when Wataru doesn't respond. "I told you, there's no state I would ever find you unsightly in. Wataru- look at me?"
He looks. Eichi is thin-lipped and tense, hand reaching for Wataru's knee. At the lack of rejection, he places it- the weight is warm and firm against the ever-present chill of Wataru's body.
Mercifully, Eichi shifts his attention to assessing what little he can see of Wataru’s face.“How bad is the damage?” Eichi asks. “Your eyes seem alright, and the mask is laying on smoothly...you said it was mostly cosmetic?”
“Indeed,” Wataru says. “Though I’m afraid if you’re looking for the damage, you won’t find anything up here.”
“What? But-” His eyebrows furrow quizzically, and it’s so endearingly childlike that it makes Wataru want to laugh. “But you said it was your face.”
Hesitation is a performer’s worst enemy, he knows, but he finds that he still has to take a few seconds before lowering his knees a fraction and pushing the mask in his lap towards Eichi’s hands.
Eichi frowns down at it, malleable underlayer face-up. “Another mask?” He picks it up, and Wataru turns away so as to not see the face that accompanies his soft gasp.
“That,” he says, “ is where the damage is, my dear.” It comes out dull.
He is silent for a long time. Wataru can hear him shifting the mask in his hands, almost as if he were inspecting it. A moment more, then Eichi clears his throat. “I...can’t say this was what I expected,” he says slowly, as if talking to a wounded animal. “But looking it over, it does seem mendable. Though I certainly can’t claim to be a mechanic, nor an expert on your manual repairs.” His voice sounds slightly closer- Wataru can hear the fabric of his pants shuffle on the ground. “Did whatever caused….ah, this-”
“Sword.”
“Right, did the sword- sorry, sword? ”
“My swords,” Wataru says. “I prefer to use real ones over props- makes for much more charming action onstage- it was in the wrong place.” It’s not often he feels anger towards his juniors, but saying it out loud does ignite a certain festering irritation. Whichever one of them decided to use his sword as a plaything, then didn’t even bother cleaning up after themselves...no. He needs to remain calm. He’s already ill with nerves, adding anger to the mix sounds like a recipe for disaster.
Eichi clicks his tongue. “We’ll discuss that later,” he says. “What I meant to ask was, did the sword also cause your, um…” Wataru chances a glance at him- he’s rubbing his thumbs in idle circles on the mask’s cheekbones, and the sight of it causes him to miss facial sensation fiercely. “Forgive me, I’m not sure how to put this delicately. Did that incident cause your face to come off?”
Wataru turns to him fully, this time. He’d called it his face.
“Wataru?”
“In a sense.” He draws his knees close to his chest again, letting Eichi keep the mask in his hands. “When the sword made its cut, it was automatically detached.”
“Oh,” Eichi says. He lifts the mask thoughtfully, nearly eye-to-eye with it. “Could you not put it back on? Or is something like that rather difficult?”
A memory runs through him, then- the night at the hospital, the first time he’d seen his abominable face. How he’d snapped it back into place, and it took several minutes to fully reconnect the controls. He represses the instinctive shudder at the recollection. “It shouldn’t be difficult,” he sighs. “But apparently it has some sort of emergency override. I imagine I won’t be able to wear it again until-” He falters, going quiet.
“...Until it’s repaired,” Eichi finishes for him. He lowers the mask, studying it a bit more, before saying, “Did you know you could...do this?”
“Which part?”
“The whole, ah, disconnecting your face ordeal.” His eyes have turned almost bashful at his lack of subtlety. “I’m assuming you knew something about it, but- I suppose I’m just trying to gauge how much of a shock to your system this is.”
Wataru huffs a laugh. “My dear, a shock to my system could induce something of a short-circuit.”
Eichi’s cheeks color red, and he averts his gaze with a cough. “Poor choice of words,” he murmurs. “I just- I mean, what I really want to know is if you’re alright.”
“Alright?” Wataru laughs again, louder this time. “Of course I’m alright. Look, see? I’m smiling quite widely.” He gestures to the mask with a flourish of his hand. “I’m doing just swimmingly.”
Eichi’s lips press into a thin line. His grip on the mask in his hands gets tighter. “Wataru, don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like everything’s fine when you’re clearly not.”
“An actor never truly leaves the stage, do they?”
“Perhaps not,” Eichi says, pushing himself up on his knees so that he looks down at Wataru. “But even an actor must go backstage to rest before performing again. Can you rest, Wataru? Can you leave the stage for a night?”
The phantom smile on his lips is brittle. “You don’t know what you’re asking of me, beloved,” he says in a voice that sounds like static. His gaze slips from Eichi’s face to his knees, to the mask in Eichi’s hands.
“All I’m asking,” Eichi says, cupping one of his hands along Wataru’s jaw, “is for you to be honest with me.” His fingers skim the very edge of the mask, and Wataru can’t decide between leaning away or pressing in closer. “Please, tell me. Are you alright?”
Are you alright. Such an infuriatingly complex question with an equally infuriatingly simple answer.
“My dear-” Wataru starts, then stops, breathing deeply in a way that is wholly unnecessary yet entirely needed. He lets his head fall forward, forehead buried in his knees. “Eichi. I must confess I’m actually rather afraid at the moment.”
He feels Eichi’s hand move from his jaw to his hair, feels him brush through the strands gently. “We’ll get it fixed,” he says. “If you can’t repair it, I promise I can find the best mechanics in the country- no, the world- I’ll find the damn people who made you, if I have to-”
“Your generosity soothes me greatly,” Wataru interrupts, “but no. That’s not quite it.”
Eichi continues to run his fingers through Wataru’s hair. “...Does it have something to do with why you’re wearing this mask?” he asks, tapping his thumb against it where it sits under his bangs. “Other than having to wear it outside, I mean.”
“Such quick deductions,” Wataru says. “Would you consider becoming a detective?”
“Wataru.”
“Apologies.” Some days, he wishes his programming weren’t so susceptible to learned human reactions. Feeling as if his throat is closing, while perhaps useful as a vocal mimic, is really not assisting him in this discussion. “I must confess I’ve feared this for quite some time now. You, seeing me like this.”
Eichi tucks a lock of Wataru’s hair behind his ear. “Vulnerable?”
“Maskless.”
“I’ve seen you maskless before, Wataru,” Eichi says. “You know you can be open with me.”
“For once, I mean this in the literal sense, my dear.” He wraps his hands loosely around his ankles, as if that could make him even smaller.
The hand in his hair stills minutely, then moves down from his hair to his face again- cheekbone this time, thumb brushing just under the eye of the mask. “Then I mean this literally as well,” Eichi says. “I see you maskless more often than not.”
At that, Wataru laughs high and loud, a single syllable vicious thing. “Do you think that thing you hold in your hand is real? It is but another costume of my being, another mask in my collection. It is as fake as the mask I’m wearing right now.”
“If this is fake, then all of you is fake,” Eichi says darkly. “And we both know that is not true.”
“Do we?”
“We do. ” Eichi’s hand turns hard, and he tilts Wataru’s chin up to look at him. “This is not a mask, Wataru. It’s as much of you as everything else is.”
“What if it was?” Wataru rips his chin from Eichi’s hand and looks up at him defiantly. “What if the face you love is only a mask, and you’ve been dancing with a devil all along?” His hands begin to shake- he balls them up against the cool floor.
“Is that what you believe?” Eichi challenges, “Do you think yourself a devil? Some kind of monster?”
“I think myself as I am,” Wataru says evenly.
They both say nothing after that. Eichi’s furrowed brow is no longer childlike, instead deep and bordering on angry. He’s fallen back on his heels, even height with Wataru once more. It makes him look small- it doesn’t match the terror he inspires in Wataru’s chest. Terror that he’ll leave, terror that he’ll look, terror that he’s already gone. It sits heavy within him, like a rock in a river.
Finally, he hears Eichi draw in a breath. “...You asked me not to look,” he says quietly. “You didn’t even want me here.”
Wataru doesn’t trust himself to respond.
“Do you really think I’d hate what I’d see that much?”
He presses his palms flat to the ground, hoping that the pressure will stop the tremors. “It’s natural to be repulsed by the repulsive,” he says in a hushed breath. “I’d like to be by your side for a while yet before that happens.”
Eichi’s eyes widen. “You think I’d leave you?” His tone is incredulous- easy to judge when you don’t know what you’re judging. “Over this?”
“Over knowing that my true appearance is wretched? Inhuman?” His hands come to the mask, pressing over his cheeks and eyes like he could meld it with his skin. “Is it not expected for one to leave once such a repulsive deception is revealed?”
“There is no such deception,” Eichi says with urgency. “I won’t allow you to believe this for a moment longer.”
Fear lurches in his stomach as Eichi moves closer. He scrambles back as fast as he can, but he’s already against the wall, resulting in a loud crack where his head makes contact. “Eichi- no,” he pleads, “Please don’t look-”
Eichi’s hands come to his head, and the panic renders him immobile for the seconds it takes him to realize the mask isn’t coming off. Instead, his head is being guided towards the crook of Eichi’s neck, cheek against his collarbone. One of Eichi’s hands stays on the back of his head, the other, coming up on his back, splayed between his shoulder blades. His nose is pressed into the crown of Wataru’s head.
Oh. Not an attack- an embrace.
“I don’t care what your ‘real’ face looks like, Wataru,” Eichi murmurs into his hair. “I don’t care if you were scraped down to your wires, I would still be here with you. Always.”
Wataru swallows down his shock. “You don’t know that,” he says, and for once, he very much feels like a nineteen year-old boy. “How can you say that?”
“Because I love you,” Eichi replies. “All of you. Whichever face you have, whatever mask you wear, I love you. You were the one who pledged to stay by my side, right?”
Wataru nods. He had pledged that fully believing nothing would come between their union- forgetting, for a moment, that his very existence threatens their bond.
“You knew, then, that I would never leave,” Eichi says. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have asked, right?”
“I knew you would never leave what you saw of me.”
“What I see is you,” he insists. He clutches Wataru’s head closer. “Would a devil read to me, night after night, giving and giving while getting nothing in return? Would a devil consistently smile, even when his heart is breaking, only to keep others happy? Would a devil stand with a man who hurt him in ways he’ll never be able to express enough regret for, and somehow find it within his soul to love him?”
Wataru clutches at the hem of Eichi’s shirt. “Devils were once angels,” he says. “Perhaps they remember how to play the role.”
“Even if you were a devil, I would stay with you.”
“You don’t know that,” Wataru grinds out. “You can’t possibly know what you’d do. The future is undetermined; we live in a constant state of change and transformation. What you think you know for sure one day becomes unsteady and unfounded the next.” He’s probably grasping hard enough to tear the fabric- Eichi doesn’t seem to notice. “I appreciate the sentiment- truly, I do- but you can’t know.”
Eichi’s hand stills in Wataru’s hair. “Then let me prove it.”
Wataru stiffens in Eichi's embrace, trying very hard not to feel like prey caught in a trap. "Pardon?"
"I won't make you," he says, releasing his hold on Wataru. "I won't make you do anything. But if you show me, I can prove it."
Despite being released, Wataru keeps his head where it is, keeps his hands wound in Eichi's shirt. "I think," he breathes, "that you have spent this night asking of me some very difficult things."
"Maybe so." Eichi leans his cheek into Wataru's temple. "But I fear you may never rest without your answer."
Would he? There's a part of him that denies this- wails to the heavens that he will be fine, he will survive, he will push forward. But there's another, uglier part of him that admits that he's tired. He's so tired. He's so tired of waiting for the day Eichi realizes what he truly is, what sort of beast lies below the surface, and leaves him.
"...You said you would not make me," he says quietly into Eichi's neck.
"I did."
"You are asking me to trust you."
"...I am."
Slowly, Wataru pulls his head away, sits back on his heels and keeps his eyes on the ground. He brings one hand to his mask, the other, to the back of his head where the ribbon tie lays. "...Eichi," he says. His fingertips shake. "I hope you're right."
He pulls the ribbon loose.
The mask falls off in his hand, and instinctively he presses it closer. At Eichi's patient silence, however, he manages to lower it to his chest. Eichi takes it from him gently- Wataru cannot close his eyes, so he stares at Eichi's hands so as not to see his face.
Just because he refuses to look doesn't mean he can't feel the burn of Eichi's gaze. He feels it everywhere- the cold line of his jaw, the void of his mouth, the plate of his forehead. The longer the silence, the more Wataru thinks that it would be very easy to run. He can't take back what Eichi's seen, but if he runs now, he won't need to look upon Eichi's face of disgust. He could run now. He could-
One of Eichi's hands lifts to Wataru's face- he flinches back harshly. The hand hovers hesitantly, uncertain, and Wataru manages to stay still when it moves for him a second time.
Without his mask, he cannot feel Eichi's touch on his metallic skin. He cannot feel the way his thumb brushes under his eye, his fingers skim the ridges and sockets, his palm cups his cheekbone. He can't feel any of it. Yet he finds that still, he leans into the warmth.
Wataru wishes he could close his eyes. Eichi isn't saying anything- why won't he just get it over with?
Finally, Eichi lets out a soft sigh. "...I imagine this is very hard for you," he says.
"Quite." His voice sounds strangled to his ears.
"You fear I'll leave you," he says, laying the discarded mask on top of the other. "You were prepared for me to hate you once you handed me this mask."
Prepared is a strong word. Utterly fucking terrified, maybe.
"Wataru, look at me."
He looks. It hurts, but he looks.
Eichi's eyes are soft, his lips set in a small smile. He's smiling- how can he be smiling? How can he look at him with anything other than disdain? How can he look at him?
"Eichi." He feels the phantom sting of tears in his eyes- for once, he’s thankful to be maskless. Ironic that such a thing would help him save face. "I'm sorry. To see me in such a state..."
At that, Eichi's hand moves to the back of his head, bringing it down and forward so as to press their foreheads together. "I can't stand to hear you say such a thing," he murmurs. "Please, don't hurt yourself like this."
"My dear-"
"I'm not running," Eichi interrupts. "I'm not running now and I'm not running ever, and I'm certainly never running because of how you look. Do you know how much it hurts, to hear you think this lowly of yourself? Surely it hurts you more than it hurts me- how can you stand it?"
His head weighs heavy against Eichi's- if he minds, he doesn't say. In truth, he had never conceptualized his fear as some form of self-degradation. It was more like a ticking time bomb. Tick tick tick , count down the seconds until Eichi leaves.
He doesn't say any of that. "I would never wish to hurt you," he says instead.
“This isn’t about me.” Eichi’s eyes close, lashes delicate against his skin. “Wataru. Thank you for trusting me. I cannot express to you what that means. I am only sorry that I cannot help you as much as I want to.”
“You don’t need to help me.”
“Yes, I do,” he says. “I’m not running. I’m not leaving. I am staying by your side, and I am going to keep singing with you, and helping you, and loving you, because the only thing that has changed in this moment is that I’ve gotten to see more of who you are.”
Wataru lets out a laugh. “Only the uglier parts, I’m afraid.”
“You’ve seen me far uglier,” Eichi says, “and look where we are.”
There's a moment where all Wataru can do is breathe. He looks down at the masks in Eichi's lap, then back to his face. "You're not leaving," he whispers.
"I'm not."
The knots in his chest finally begin to unwind. His hands, which only minutes before had been shaking like a frostbitten child's, have begun to lay still. Eichi's forehead still presses against his own. Eichi is still here.
"My dear," he breathes, "I think I'd rather like to go home now."
"Oh?"
"Yes." He trails a finger along Eichi's cheek. "You see, I'd really like to have my lips back for the end of this scene."
Eichi huffs a laugh, pulling back to sit on his heels. "Oh, my," he sighs, "I suppose it wouldn't be much of a story without true love's kiss, yes?" He stands up, knees popping, and offers a hand to Wataru, which he takes. After pulling him up, he holds the white mask between them. "As lovely as I think this visage is, you might want this for outside."
"Thank you, my dear," he says, tying the mask on neatly. He takes the other one as well, placing it as gently as he can into his bag. When he looks up, he sees Eichi gazing distantly, arms crossed loosely across his chest. "My dear?"
Eichi blinks. "Ah," he says, smiling again, "sorry. I just had the most charming of thoughts."
"What would that be?" Wataru asks, hefting his bag over his shoulder.
"Well," he says slowly, "little more than two years ago, you entrusted yourself to me. Promised me that you loved me and wanted to be by my side forever."
"Indeed, I remember."
The smile grows, something bordering between mischievous and cloying. "And now here we are, roles reversed, masks exchanged between hands once again. Is this not like a renewal of vows?"
If Wataru still had his face, he's sure it would be flushing red. He coughs into a fist. "...When you put it that way, I suppose you're right, my love."
Eichi takes his hand and interlocks their fingers. "Your hands are warm," he says. "Are you blushing, perhaps?"
"His most attentive majesty. Please, do consider a career in investigation."
"Never," Eichi says. "Not when I have a whole life to look forward to with you. First, though, I should take you home. I'd rather like your lips back as well."
Wataru is missing his lips, but he knows Eichi can see his smile returned regardless. "As you wish, Eichi. Let's go home."
He already is home, he doesn't say. He simply lets Eichi take him outside, where only the gaze of the moon can see them. He lets Eichi take him to the car, and he lets Eichi take him home.