It's the setting of the sun and I think of him, because it is then, when our time begins, the space of the night. We spend it apart more often than together, though.
It's been a few months now, since that first night in the studio, where we crossed the border between day and night, friendship and addictive passion. I remember it like it is burned on my skin, memorized in my cells and painted on my memories in screaming colors.
Alive we were, alive and sweating, covered by semen, saliva and clothed with the secrecy of the night.
It is our secret after all and there are duties to follow, our relationships to entertain, dates to keep... and we are celebrities.
The eyes of the public stare at us, tear us apart and put us back together in a way that pleases their needs, even though we try to keep a low profile nowadays. Besides our infrequent intimate encounters we are drifting away from each other. Not only him and me, but the band as a whole.
Hell, I can't even remember exactly when I've seen Ken the last time.
He was fine then and is now, but there was no music involved in our meeting ,just old friends, talking and him describing Spain to me.
Yukki? Is busy, as I sometimes talk to him on the phone. He's always had a life outside of this band, outside this small circle of creativity and he just carries on now, like he always had, just a little richer than before.
Me?
I'm a little stuck between me and the thing I call a life. Music doesn't speak to me like it used to. My body talks to my girlfriend more than I do.
Well he is busy moreover, being the first with a full Solo Album. Now he even plans to tour on his own, alive as ever.
As lively as he was that night under me, hot, melting me into the skeleton of the lie I've made myself believe so many years. There has been no moment in my memory that has been as throughoutly shameful and revealing that this one. I couldn't believe that I'd entered his small body and that it would ever feel so indescribably warm and obscene. Moving in rhythm, bodies and tongue, worlds overlapping into one, also setting us apart at the same time.
This instant was the very atavism of our first personal meeting.

I remember that day also very precisely.
Him, a long haired boyish young man, his nose a little red and running while he fought his allergies. His nasally voice made my former band-mates ask him very politely, since they didn't want to reject him with a painful blow.
After all I, their leader, had asked him to rehearse for us, after I heard him sing He wanted to be on guitar.
"Are you sure you are really up to be a singer?"
"Yeah, just wait till the antagonists kick in."
And when he'd sung there had been no more questions.
We were shy then, our wishes were the same, our worlds very much alike, we drifted together, while in our minds we were still distant.
I fell in love with him and his runny nose, his fidgeting and tendencies to make little mean jokes, after which he was incredibly shy suddenly. And his face was beautiful enough, if that counts too, but after ten years it still is.
I fell in love that day and the following days but never paid much attention to that feeling. It was brilliant to have him around, with me and the others, kidding around, struggling. Sometimes winning, often losing.
I didn't recognize it as love.

After a while I fell out of love, I guess.
We were doing great, like him and me had always struggled to.
And when we fell, when the rainbow crumbled and fell from the sky, it came as much as a shock as my comprehension, that I had loved him and I realized I could lose him just like that.

I looked at him then with changed eyes and keen senses and found the charming treats gone, except the runny nose, maybe.
But there were others.
Sad eyes, loneliness, dark circles around his eyes, making him fragile as china. Bravery underneath all of that.
Buried feelings flared again when I was about to be forced to leave him, them.
I fell in love again, even before I noticed.
But I also tumbled head over into depression and suicidal tendencies.

We had to strive even harder for recovery as a band, and my therapist told me, I shouldn't pay much attention to stress induced feelings, neither sadness nor love.
I listened to my therapist then.
Love was ignored.

I feel small, slender hands slide around my neck, down to my abdomen, drawing little ticklish circles there. She is also one of the reasons why it is dark outside, yet it's not really night.
"Hey there...", she says, voice husky, asking for sex.
I will give it to her, no doubt, I always do. I like sex.
We enter the bed-room, properly like a pair of lovers should.
No floors, doors, elevators, restaurant-toilets.

The kisses, long drawn-out, no desperation in them, just a mutual drive of passion.

Hands on my body, not edgy and brisk, fingertips callused and rough, they are small hands, fine. She takes good care of them.

Her mouth on my penis, less aggressive and less knowing what it does to me. He knows it exactly, he experiences it from me. Finally she rides me, head dipping down to kiss me and me hips are pushing up from the sheets into her.
She doesn't know, I realize in the middle of hazy thoughts and an orgasm in reach, she doesn't have to know.
His wife also is ignorant.
So are Ken and Yukki.
Her hand brings mine to her clitoris to stimulate her and with a start I feel that it isn't a cock I'm guided to.
She calls my name, but in my ears they change to angry, forlorn pants out his throat.
I feel doubly relieved when orgasm rushes away illusions and gives me release. I really like sex, the chance to escape into a real good feeling for a second.

I have to see him, is all I can think about when he slides beside me.
She turns out the soft light and it hits me like physical pain.
I must, I must see him.
She drifts off with a soft: "Yasumi...", but I'm wide awake, despite the physical exertion.
My thoughts are only circling around him and the band.
We have to make a... whatever our meetings could be called, date maybe? Maybe rendezvous? Whatever.
I'm afraid of the dark, since the dark means the night and I can't stand the night without him. I slipped into a habit of sleeping with the TV turned on just to prevent the night from coming to close and hurt me by missing him.
I'm a fool for missing him. he's busy with in his world, I'm confined in mine.
At first our nights "seeing each other" were every night, every dark hour we slipped away, pretense of work, just like every good, cheating husband gives.
They grew fewer and the fewer they grew, the more desperate I'm for them.

I have no right for these needs, no.
He's a solo-artist now, he's slipping away into a new shape, new boundaries.

Like so many nights, I lie awake, while she sleeps I think I should make a break. It should be over.
The band is a name only, no life beyond the words any more.
I should release them, him, free them off the superficial shell, we all wear it like it's made of glass any way.
But a break would mean I was about to leave him.

His wide eyes, pleading, hazy, full of lust and pain. His strong grip, holding me down to earth. That naughty powerful tongue, curling around me with teasing licks.
His scent, permeating into me and staining me on the inside, like his semen stains me.
Wonderful, forbidden, needy.

I need him so much.
I'm in love with him all over again.

I curse myself: Damn you, fucking brainless horny git.

But I can't help to fall in love again when we had drifted so far apart already, just one little, thin pathetic string holding us together still.

But it's like this isn't it?

Don't you always fall in love again, just before you leave?