Smoke (Gackt/Hyde, snippet)
Gackt flirts.

He has a way of holding eye contact, not speaking, just looking at you, and you take a long draw from your cigarette and blow it off to the side. You think, son of a bitch. You think it because when you look back up the gaze is still there and he just made you look down and away like a girl.

He doesn't just flirt with you. He flirts with his guitarist, although not quite in the same way--you can't put your finger on it. He flirted with your guitarist the one time he met him (it set your hackles rising, which you dealt with like you always have, by leaning a shoulder against the wall and not giving a fuck). He flirts with twenty one year old Tsuyoshi Domoto until the Johnny's star is all turned round about and tryin' to hide it behind a comedy routine. He flirts back ever-so-subtly when Shingo comes at him all guns blazing. He flirts with that cameraman with the Takizawa good looks. He flirts with men.

He doesn't flirt with women. He fucks women.

You get it, you think. You've been in the industry a long time. You flirt. You flirt with everyone but, son of a bitch, come on, only to a certain point. You're married.

"You're my type," Gackt says, from behind his expensive sunglasses. It's too hot on set.

"Oh yeah? What's your type?"

You're wearing sunglasses too; they don't give away anything.

His lips quirk at the corners--that's his answer, that he doesn't have to answer--and when someone hands him a bottled water, he glances at you then tips his head back and takes a long drink.

He talks about kissing you without ever doing it. He loves the skin tight Gaultier on you, at least that's what he's saying as he traces the pattern of it down over your belly.

You remember putting a hand against Sakura's chest and telling him to get real. That's the problem: Gackt isn't real to begin with; the blue eyes that make you look away aren't real, nothing on the surface of him is real. You're not sure what to do about that. He makes you want to play the game, and you've been around longer than he has, and your voice is softer, and huskier with smoke.

You never really played back when it was Sakura; maybe at first, fuck, but you changed. You stared him down and let everyone know it. You stared him down then you watched him walk away.

"I love working with him," you tell the press.

"I wish he was a girl," he tells the press. "He's my type."

Gackt flirts when you're alone, and you spend way too much time at his house letting it happen. You sprawl out on the floor with your back against the wall because he just does not have that much furniture. You smoke and you flick the ash onto the crumpled cover of a magazine. He watches you with a steady gaze and you don't look away this time.

"You're fucking with me," you tell him after a long exhale of smoke. "You wanna cut it out?"

He calls you Haido with a voice like a private murmur in your ear. You call him Ga-chan. He doesn't exactly cut it out.

He's sprawled opposite you, one knee drawn up. He's wearing the dark red snakeskin pants that he had on during the day with a mismatched grey hooded sweater. He looks like half rock star, half kid. The words almost roll over your tongue, You sure are pretty.

Pretty, pretty, careful, careful, it's late and your tongue's loose, close your eyes and you'll say anything.

This is as close as you get.

You're not stupid; you bail around the same time every night. He pads to the door in bare feet and watches you go. You flick away your cigarette butt before you reach the car and you think you get why you like him, and why it's dangerous, even though you don't get why you can't turn it off like you need to. Like you have before.