Uruha’s hand was poised to knock just as he remembered he had a key to the apartment tucked away in the coin compartment of his wallet. He turned the lock and opened the door to a room he’d not seen in eighteen months. But he never forgot the smell of the apartment—disinfectant and nicotine—or the sense of order about it. There were never dishes in the sink, stray magazines strewn across the table or cups put down without a coaster. The layout of the furniture never changed.
                Aoi, dressed all in black, was an indistinguishable figure against the leather lounge. He watched TV and smoked a Marlboro. His feet rested on the coffee table, ankles crossed, as he tapped the ash off his cigarette into an empty beer bottle. Glancing over his shoulder as the door opened, he said nothing.
                Uruha kicked off his shoes and placed the key into the dish beside the door with a chink. Aoi switched off the TV and moved to greet him. The cigarette was still pressed between his lips. Each waited for the other to speak; neither opened their mouth.  
                Aoi plucked the smoke from his lips. He watched Uruha and noted the awkward way he held himself. The younger man never stood up tall, he recalled, and his shoulders always curled self-consciously. His hair was black and asymmetrical, so very different from the soft caramel he remembered.
                Uruha curled his arms around Aoi’s neck and kissed him. He tasted of tobacco and menthol. Lips pressed firmly together, he slipped out of his shoes and stumbled further into the apartment. His hands gasped at clumps of hair as their passion escalated. The fervent kisses were nothing new, nor was the precision used in the removal of clothing; they were just re-runs of the same show.
                Aoi stuffed his unfinished cigarette into the empty bottle of beer and left it on the kitchen counter. Tongues tied and limbs entangled, he led Uruha through the house until they stumbled into the bedroom. Their clothes lay on the floor like breadcrumbs.
                Uruha moaned as Aoi’s hands roamed his body, tracing his limbs all the way from his ankles to his neck. The other man’s hands were rough, calloused and strong. Uruha opened his legs and arched his back slightly as Aoi descended on his navel, and kissing the tender flesh of his lower abdomen. Fingers probed inside his body and his eyes went white.
                Aoi remembered the way Uruha whimpered and how he rolled his hips forward to coerce him deeper. He remembered the way Uruha dug his fingernails into his back and chewed on his lower lip in order to suppress a moan. But mostly Aoi remembered the way Uruha looked at him during the height of passion, when his muscles tingled and pulse spiked. His sweat-soaked hair clung to his forehead, framing his hooded eyes, which were dark and wide. His lips, swollen cherry-red from rough kisses, were parted and waiting to be consumed once more. Aoi always obliged them.
                Uruha always felt safe after . Even with his skin smeared and sticky, he was reluctant to drag himself from within Aoi’s embrace. The older man’s arms were thick, hard and sculptured with full veins forming ridges across the otherwise smooth skin. He didn’t have the arms of a musician, Uruha had always thought, though he could never quite place what profession they belonged to. But behind all this roughness was something delicate, something steady and gentle that only showed itself through the rhythmic beating of Aoi’s chest.
 
 
 
‘I woke up today and realised I haven’t kissed you in eighteen months,’ Uruha mumbled, his face pressed in the expanse of Aoi’s chest.
                The older man was silent.
                ‘I made myself breakfast—coffee and toast—and the television to catch the headlines,’ he continued. ‘On the news was footage of our last live. We were performing ‘Agony’. It wasn’t until I saw you on the screen that I remembered it’s been so long since I’ve touched you.’
                Aoi drew circles on Uruha’s shoulder with his index finger. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling and he reached for a packet of cigarettes with his free hand. He slipped the stick in his mouth and lit up.
                Silence grew between them. The room was still, save for the infrequent movements of Aoi’s arm as he removed the cigarette from his lips to exhale and returned it promptly after. If there were words that needed to be said, neither wanted to voice them. Aoi was content to go on smoking and Uruha just as happy to lie against the other man’s body.
                ‘I don’t remember when we broke up, or even why,’ Aoi said eventually. He dropped the half-smoked cigarette into the tray beside his bed. He slipped his fingers into the mass of Uruha’s hair, massaging his scalp tenderly with the tips.
                 ‘Perhaps we never really did,’ the younger man mused.
                 ‘All I know is I went from seeing you every day to barely seeing you at all,’ Aoi added. ‘Even at work, it was like you didn’t exist. I don’t think my eyes have truly seen you in over a year.’
                Uruha traced his fingers along Aoi’s jawline and turned the man’s head to face him. He brushed his thumb over his lips and devoured them in a kiss. Uruha’s kisses were always elegantly delicate, much like the man himself. He was timid, yet vicious like a wild cat when the need arose. His personality was unpredictable and so were Aoi’s moods; they were a perfect match in every way.
                As he withdrew from the kiss, Uruha whispered, ‘Maybe we got too busy.’
                ‘Maybe we got too bored,’ Aoi retorted coolly.
                Hooking a thigh over the other man’s body, Uruha rolled atop Aoi. He sat back on his own heels, buttocks brushing against the older guitarist’s thighs with a sense of innocence. His lips teased Aoi’s s and his breath made his skin prickle.
                ‘I guess if we’re still doing this after all this time then we never really moved on,’ Uruha breathed. He looked up through his eyelashes and dishevelled fringe falling about his face.
                ‘We probably never will,’ Aoi said and flipped Uruha onto the mattress beneath him.