One: Concert Night

I beat on my drums, and I watch him. I watch his leather clad hips swaying gently, his white silk shirt clinging to the curves of his back. I'm behind him, so I can only imagine his long, elegant, artist's fingers strumming his chords on his guitar, have to imagine his lashes brushing his cheeks gently, his full blush pink lips moving as he croons out the words to his song. It's a song that was written for him. Everyone knows it. A song written for him, given to him, from Anonymous Fan. He was very interested in it. The song was wonderful, he said. Very flattering. Poor modest Miroki, he didn't understand how anyone could care about him enough to send him such an adoring song, even though he's famous. He made a big fuss about it, brought media attention to it. But no one ever came forward legitimately admitting to writing the song, no matter how Miroki pleaded. So he eventually sent a heartfelt thank you to the fan, and wrote his or her name down as "Anonymous Fan" in the copyright of the song, and put it on our next album. How I wanted to tell him. Tell him who really gave him the song. I thought of this as we played, And Miroki sang.

"I see you but I can't feel you,

I hear you but I can't touch you,

I follow you with hungry eyes,

I'm going crazy from watching, waiting, wanting you.

I stand here in your shadow,

Basking in your light,

All I have is your picture,

Though I want to hold you tight.

You're the hero of my fantasies,

You pluck my heartstrings like guitars,

You fill my ears with melodies,

And fill my eyes with stars.

I stare at you adoringly,

But I shadow my eyes,

And if my love for you is questioned,

I deny it with my lies.

So my love is shadow secret,

And I don't give it a name,

Don't acknowledge the possible pleasure,

Or the certain pain.

You're the hero of my fantasies,

You pluck my heartstrings like guitars,

You fill my ears with melodies,

And fill my eyes with stars.

I sit for now in silence,

I curl my fingers closed.

My love for you is burning,

But I'm the only one who knows.

Don't call me by my name,

I want to stay detached,

So that my fa├žade of normalcy,

Will never be scratched.

So I sit here in my silence,

And I love you from afar,

You remain my only melody,

My only shining star."

A lovely song, Miroki says. One with so much feeling and meaning. But nobody knows who wrote the song, save for the author. Save for me. I was with Miroki the day he got the song. All of us live together in a flat. Miroki Inigiso, me, (Takashi Orimika,) Arturo Miyabi, who plays the bass, and Kenichi Torimosa, the keyboardist. The envelope came with the rest of the mail, with "For Miroki" in neat print on the front. My handwriting is scrawling and staggering, following my mind in its wandering. I worked long and hard to disguise my writing so well.

Back to the present. I force myself to tear my eyes away from Miroki from time to time, though it causes almost physical pain. There are people out there with sharp eyes that cut the relationship between band members like knives across lace. And this is one strip of lace that cannot be allowed to be cut. Miroki must never know. So I force my eyes away, to wander over the crowd, to smile and wink at girls and boys alike. I'm not so good of an actor that I can hide my equal interest for males as well as females. I can only hide which male it is that holds my interest. And that takes all my strength, some days.

"Great concert." Arturo comments as we retreat to the green room. Just to be contrary, this green room was a pale melon pink monstrosity. Arturo is the only person in the world possibly more oblivious than Miroki. I could probably make out with Miroki right in front of him, and he'd be wondering about what we were going to have for lunch. He was just that way.

"Everyone loved that song." Miroki adds. Kenichi nods sagely.

"Whoever wrote that song really had a passion for our Miroki." I catch him staring at me out of the corner of my eye. Sometimes I wonder how much Kenichi really knows about my feelings for Miroki. Whatever he knows, he keeps it to himself, for which I am very thankful.

"What do you think, Takashi? Did we play well?" Arturo asks me. I'm glad it's not Miroki. I always seem to have trouble speaking when it's Miroki speaking to me.

"We all played excellently. The audience was very happy with us." I reply to Arturo. He nods, grinning.

"They sure were! You see all the flowers our anonymously loved boy got?" I bristled very slightly; indeed, Miroki has gotten a few dozen roses. I notice Kenichi's mouth quirk up a bit, and I make a conscious effort to relax. Miroki smiles vaguely.

"It's nice that our fans like me so much. But really, I couldn't do it without you guys." I duck my head to hide a large, sheepish smile. That was just like Miroki, always giving others credit for his successes, his popularity.

"Come on, I don't know about you people, but I'm exhausted." Arturo announces.

"You're exhausted after walking from the couch to the refrigerator." Kenichi retorts. "That's not saying much." Miroki laughs, and for once, I laughed with him.

"We've really come far, haven't we?" Miroki asks, smiling happily. Again, I think to earlier times, about four years ago.