.

Eventually, Hyde realized that he was going to have to accept the fact that he was getting old.

It took a while to penetrate, really, since he was doing his best to ignore it. Or maybe not ignore it, precisely—more like deny it. The fact of it was there, every morning, when he woke up and stumbled to the bathroom mirror and realized that the tired-looking face glaring back at him was really his. So he couldn’t ignore it, really.

He just refused to look.

At photo shoots, there were discussions between the makeup artist and the photographer, hushed but not hushed enough, that he didn’t want to overhear. Can’t you do something about his eyes? He looks so worn, and Any more foundation will just make him look like a pancake, and sometimes We’ll just have to soften the lens focus, and hope for the best.

And Hyde would sit in the makeup chair, staring down at the sheen of his leather pants, humming tunelessly and refusing to look at the illuminated mirror in front of him.

Even shopping was starting to suck, because trying on clothes meant dressing-room mirrors, and driving to stores meant car mirrors, and just walking down the street meant huge expanses of reflective window-glass that seemed to pick out every wrinkle and crease in the wan light of the hazy sun.

Hyde elected to stay in, when he could get away with it. There was nothing much he wanted anyway, he told himself.

Dimly-lit bars became his friends, not that they weren’t already quite passably acquainted. Low lighting meant he didn’t have to look or be looked at too closely, and after enough alcohol it was hard to focus his eyes, anyway.

Inevitably, though, he wound up running into people he knew, and in the back of his head, he was always comparing himself. Do I look younger than him? I can still pass for twenty-five, can’t I? I can still pass. I’m not that old yet.

Worst of all was when he ran into Gackt.

Looking at that face was almost too much to bear, despite the fact that Gackt was slowly beginning to show his age as well. Every time they met, Hyde would find himself staring, trying his hardest to pick out the almost-wrinkles around Gackt’s eyes that showed whenever he smiled, the lines on either side of his mouth. And Gackt would pretend not to notice the scrutiny for as long as he could, until finally he’d pin Hyde with those piercing eyes and say What is it? Is there something on my face? And Hyde would turn away. No, no, it’s nothing, Gackt.

I’m only thinking, that’s all.

He wished he could stop thinking.

There was a night in spring, at the end of the cherry blossom season, when Hyde went out with Gackt, celebrating something-or-other that after six (seven? Ten?) drinks no longer seemed important anyway. Hyde found himself staring blearily down at the reflective countertop, noticing how the overhead lights made the places under his eyes look dark, almost bruised. He had a five o’clock shadow going, which sort of irritated him. Why couldn’t it ever be five o’clock tomorrow?

Gackt was looking at him strangely, making him realize he’d just spoken his nonsense aloud. Nothing, nothing, nevermind. Gackt was drunk, too, but somehow it always looked better on him. In the countertop reflection, Gackt appeared young and slightly unreal.

Without thinking, Hyde found himself blurting Do you think I’m old?, and Gackt was examining him, taking the question seriously as only Gackt could.

Hyde got off the barstool before he could answer, threw a few bills on the bar, muttering Look, forget it, forget I asked, and then he was pushing his way out the door, trying hard not to look at his reflection in the glass panes as he did.

It was dark outside, and he was glad.

.

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