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Catch Me When I Fall	By : Tcharlatan Category: > Die/Kyo Views: 959 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of pure fiction. I do not personally know any of the members of Dir en grey, and do not profit from this work.

Chapter List
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A vicious wind strikes from behind, whipping snow and ice into a frenzy.
“Ueeh!”
“Haha, too cold?”
“Goddamn it! I hate this weather!”
“Eeehehe, you look like a li’l bird all hunched up like that!”
“Shut up. Birds have better sense than to be out in this shit…”
It’s a scene that’s played out a thousand times over the past few years. We go out as a group, just the five of us, and Die gets himself absolutely sloshed. Whether in mourning or celebration, it hardly seems to matter; one time in three, he’ll put absolutely no effort into pacing himself and be too far gone to walk straight by the time the bar closes. If we let him off on his own, he’s liable to pass out on a bench somewhere or piss on a lamppost and get himself arrested, so we decided as a group that when he gets that bad, one of us needs to escort him home. No big deal, right? Regardless of how irritating it might be to babysit a drunken band-mate at three in the morning, there are four of us to share the responsibility, and we all love him enough to do it.
That’s what I’d thought in the beginning, anyways, when I agreed to this plan. I should have known that it would always, inevitably fall on me as the only sober enough party left at the end of every gathering. And he’s drunker tonight than I’ve ever seen him; I’m a little surprised he’s still upright, honestly.
“’s not that bad! Don’t be a wuss, you’re s’pposed to be the tough one!”
“You just can’t feel it because you’re trashed. Watch where you’re walking, you’re going to slip.”
“No way! I’m graceful like a… like a tiger!”
“No, you’re drunk, like a frat boy. Watch where you’re walking.”
“Killjoy!”
“Lush.”
“Midget!”
The walk is generally pleasant enough, nothing more complicated than friendly banter passing between us, so beyond some half-hearted bitching about the weather, I’ve never really complained. Hell, I’ve almost come to enjoy the time alone with him – the promise of one of these walks is all that convinces me to go out at all, sometimes. Outside of the group, without the pressure to entertain and make people laugh, I’ve found that Die is actually very good company. On nights when he’s slightly less drunk than he is now, I’m reminded that he’s smarter than he lets on, and can be more sensitive than anyone I’ve ever known, no matter how well he hides it when he’s sober. It’s usually more than enough to make up for the nights like this one, when he’s just plain stupid.
“Really? Short jokes, after all these years? I expect better from you.”
“Wha’s that? Eh? Eh? I can’t hear you s’far down there, you’ll have to speak UP! Hahaha! Get it?!”
“You’re a head taller than me, but that’s a disparity easily corrected. Watch wh-”
“Whoop!”
“Shi- DIE!”
Except that he always winds up tripping over something. And every time – every damn time! – no matter how many times I tell myself to just let the fucker fall and maybe learn for once, I always try to catch him. He’s always been pretty skinny, so I usually manage to keep him from toppling completely; he just giggles and drapes himself over me and we can continue on our way. Other times, like tonight, we get hopelessly tangled and I wind up on my ass for the effort.
“FUCK! GODS-FUCKING-DAMN IT DAISUKE, YOU BLUNDERING, SHIT-FACED SON OF A BITCH, WHY CAN’T YOU LEARN HOW TO WALK?!”
Except it’s early December and the weather has been absolute shit, so this time I’m on my ass in a fucking snowdrift.
Die, that bastard, is laughing overhead, nice and dry because he landed on top of me and I can’t help but squeal as snow and ice are pressed up the back of my jacket. It’s so cold it hurts and I just know it’s all soaking into my clothes, which means I get to finish the walk to his place drenched in ice water. Fan-FUCKING-tastic! I try to arch my back to get away from the biting cold, but with Die resting on me, it only makes matters worse, pressing me deeper into the mess.
I swear, next time I’m just going to let the idiot fall.
“Gaaaaahhhhaaaaahhhh, it’s so cold, Die, move, damn it, move! FUCK, it’s cold, would you MOVE?!”
I squirm and fuss and curse for a minute before it occurs to me that he’s gone quiet, not moving at all to help or hinder. He isn’t even laughing anymore, and that in and of itself is very concerning. The fear that the bastard has passed out on me hits hard, because I know for a fact I can’t carry him all the way back to his apartment as deadweight, and I flail all the harder for it.
“Die?!” I crane my head back and catch a glimpse of his face, and thank the gods that he’s still awake. But then why isn’t he moving? “What’s the matter… with… you…?”
The look on his face… it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before, and I feel myself go very still under the weight of it. He looks so damn conflicted, I can hardly begin to grasp what might be going on in his head, when he’s got the same heart-breakingly sweet smile as always, but his eyes are as sad as a newlywed’s grave. It’s like he’s in heaven, but its light is burning him, and something in my chest aches in response. Die isn’t supposed to look like that… not Die. Die – who, in public, laughs and teases and jokes to keep everyone happy, always a trickster, but never cruel; who, in private, helps me with my English and lets me play with his beloved guitars, and never mocks my lack of skill at either – is never supposed to hurt.
[Isn’t that why you always catch him?]
“Die…?”
He leans down until his mouth is right next to my ear, and whispers, his voice eerily clear after so much slurring, “Ne, Kyo… you fit so nice under me… like you’re made to be there.”
…What the fuck?
Even if that was what I was expecting him to say, I’d have thought it would come out with more laughter, as a joke. I never could have imagined him saying anything like that with such… yearning. Is it… what is it for? Is he just lonely, or…? One of his hands comes up to touch my cheek, wet and ice cold from resting in the snow, and all I can do is stare at him in confusion. Some of his hair brushes over my face and before I realize it – before I can even finish processing what he just said – his mouth is fixing against mine.
It’s… sweet. Firm – his lips are pressing and sliding against mine, slick, providing just the tiniest bit of suction to keep us sealed together – but undeniably sweet. I don’t think anyone has ever kissed me so gently, and even though it’s entirely chaste, I feel a weird little tingle go up my spine. I really have no idea how to handle this situation. Should I be offended? Flattered? Angry? I can’t decide without knowing his intentions. If he laughs at me, I might punch him in the mouth, since it’s so determined to get him into trouble tonight.
I should push him away. I know I should push him away, but… I can’t help but notice how different he feels. I’ve only ever kissed women before and Die is just so plainly not a woman. His lips are soft enough, but he has end-of-the-day stubble, he tastes like beer and cigarettes, he smells like cologne and man, and his body is all hard, flat planes against mine. Even the hand against my cheek is utterly masculine, wide and long fingered and calloused from years pressing and strumming at steel strings. It’s completely foreign but… in a strangely familiar kind of way, I guess because it’s him?
And it’s not… bad, necessarily…
[Not bad at all.]
He pulls away and settles down against me, nuzzling his face into my neck with a sigh, and I still don’t have any answers. I don’t know if he’s just tanked and looking to score or if this was some kind of joke that he forgot to laugh at, but either way my mind is somewhat blown. We all have known for years that he’s bisexual, but as drunk as he’s prone to getting, he’s never made a move on any of us before, even in jest. My lips tingle, and I let my tongue slip out over the bottom one, tasting him there.
Bizarre.
I stare up at the sky for a while, watching the snow fall on us while my mind flings itself into a frantic spiral. Why did he-? Why didn’t I-? Why did he look so-? Why did it feel so-? Why… why… why… so many whys, answers presenting themselves to me for not a single one, only so much confusion. He’s never done anything like this before! Then I register that little sigh he just gave – how damned contented it sounded, and how many times I’ve heard it in the past – and I realize what he’s doing. I put the whole kiss business on the back burner for now, because there are way more pressing issues to deal with all of a sudden.
“Hey, hey!” I grab him by the shoulders and shake him. “Do not fall asleep on me! Daisuke! Get up! Up, up, UP!”
“Hnn-nnn,” he protests lazily, muffled against my jacket. I’ve gotten all the lucidity out of him that I can hope for this evening, apparently.
“Come on, Die! Please? We’re going to freeze to death out here.”
“Hn-nn. Y’re warm… mmm…”
“No, I’m really not! Get up and let’s get you home before we both get sick.”
“Mmm… home?”
“Yeah, home. C’mon, up! You have to get up, and then we’ll go home. Doesn’t your bed sound nicer than the ground out here? Up, Die, you have to get up!”
He groans and whines for a while as I alternate between wheedling, commanding, and just fucking shoving, but eventually I get us both back on our feet. I’m absolutely soaked, head to toe up my back and sides, the snow is still piling up, and he can’t even pretend to walk straight anymore, so the last leg of our trip is a miserable effort. I’m too tired to even be angry anymore and he’s mostly asleep by the time we make it to his apartment, but I get him into his bedroom and even manage to keep him from cracking his skull on anything when he collapses happily onto his futon.
With the ease that comes with too much practice, I strip him down to his shirt and boxers, roll him onto his side, set a pair of pain pills and a glass of water nearby, and leave him to sleep it off. Having learned this lesson the hard way once before, I also clear a path to the bathroom in case he gets sick, and leave the light on half-dimmed. Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t just let him hurt just a little more for his lack of self-control. Let him sleep on his face in his wet clothes; let him trip on the piles of dirty clothes littering his room and puke all over his floor in the middle of the night; let him stagger around in the morning, blinded by a splitting headache, fumbling for anything that even looks like aspirin. Maybe if I weren’t around to ease his self-induced suffering, he would be more careful with himself.
But I just… can’t.
[For the same reason that you never let him fall.]
[You just hate seeing him unhappy…]
Fucker brings it on himself more often than not with his own notoriously piss-poor choices, in spite of being more than smart enough to avoid most of his pitfalls. Closet masochist, I guess, but who am I to judge?
It’s nearly four in the morning by the time he’s taken care of and I just can’t be bothered to fuss with the guest futon. I borrow a pair of his sweatpants and a tee shirt (actually… is this mine? Weird…) and get dressed, hanging my wet clothes up in the bathroom to dry before crashing on his couch. Sleep starts to creep up on me, and I find myself touching my lips absently as I drift. Jesus, did Die really just…?
Shit. I hope tomorrow makes more sense than today did.
[Don’t be stupid.]
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Catch Me When I Fall