I’ve got my mouth going at a steady pace now, and above me, Gackt is gasping.

I listen to him, to the rhythmic in-and-out of his breaths—the quiet inhalation, the little sharp catch, then the softly trembling release—and I think to myself, even if I didn’t enjoy this, I’d do it anyway, just to hear the noises he makes.

Sometimes, when I’m doing an especially good job, or when Gackt is feeling especially uninhibited, he adds a bit of voice to his gasping. It’s gotten to be almost a game I play with myself now—let’s see if I can get some noise out of him...

“Ah...ah...!” There he goes. I figure by the way he’s tugging at my hair that I’m doing everything just right. I don’t even have to look up to know he’s got his eyes closed, his head thrown back, that lush mouth of his open to let every heavy exhalation escape…

I wish he would say my name, just once. Just to let me know that his lust-addled brain connects the pleasure he’s getting with the person who is giving it.

His cries have gone up in pitch if not volume, and his grip tightens on my hair to the point of pain. I know he’s close now. It’ll be only a few moments before he--

When he comes, it’s almost silent; his breath hisses out from between tightly clenched teeth as he shudders. After a long, long moment, he stills (and, mercifully, releases the deathgrip on my hair). The only sound in the bathroom is his panting; not the harsh sound from before, just quick breaths, as if he’s just been jogging briskly.

I sit back on my heels and look up at his face. His eyes are still closed; his expression just now is peaceful, satisfied. He brushes fingers absently through my hair, gently, and when he finally looks down at me, his smile is almost warm. My heart leaps.

There is a knock at the door, shattering the moment. “Gackt-san, five minutes to sound check,” says a staff member.

“Alright,” Gackt calls in reply, and his voice is normal, steady. This irritates me. It’s as if there’s a switch. On: passionate, gasping, close, real. Off: politely blank. Maybe I can turn him on, but if he can switch off whenever he wants, what power do I have, really?

Now he’s tucking himself back in, zipping up his leather pants with precise, controlled movements. He steps around me, heading toward the bathroom’s tiny sink.

“You should probably do something about your hair,” he says, not looking at me as he washes his hands. As if he were the one who’d gotten messy.

I stand up and look at him in the mirror. The harsh fluorescent lights leach the color from his skin, turning him death-pale, but even crummy lighting can’t make him anything less than beautiful. Me, I’m the opposite; the lights give me an almost greenish cast, and the hollows under my eyes gather the shadows like dark bruises. And yeah, my hair is a mess, thanks to him. All in all, I look like shit.

Gackt towels off his hands, and meanwhile I’m standing there, just staring at his reflection like I’ve never seen it before. He turns and reaches for the door, but just before he pulls it open he glances back over his shoulder at me, and I’m struck by the beauty of his not-truly-blue eyes.

“Thanks, Masa,” he says, and then he’s gone, and I’m left alone in the bathroom to stare at my badly-lit mirror-self.

“Well,” I say aloud to my reflection, “at least he said my name.”