Я умер *О*

[kartezian]

Нашла на тумблере отчёт с недавнего совместного выступления Атсуши Сакураи с Иссеем... Это надо было видеть моё лицо, когда я читала столь чувственный отзыв... обожежмой, да я до сих пор вся на эмоциях. а чтобы со мной было, если бы я увидела это своими глазами? Я даже представить не могу *_* Аааааааах, хочу это видео.
Ну вот, собссно, и сам отчёт. Правда, на аглицком, да не беда. всё ж понятно

Пост взят отсюда:
www.tumblr.com/tagged/atsushi-sakurai
At last, as the tension mounted, Sakurai slithered out of the darkness of the wings, into the hot glare of the lights. Attired in an expertly tailored knee-length black coat, his rough black hair slicked back to emphasize the strong bones of his face and his hooded eyelids shadowed in silver, he stole quietly across the stage, paying no heed to the cheers of the crowd pounding in his ears, his body swaying slightly with the music, more graceful and sensual than a male ballerina. As their vocal cue approached, so Sakurai approached Issay, greeting him with a kiss on the hand. It was a mere feather brush of the lips, yet in the eyes of the crowd, the momentous meeting between the two men seemed to sparkle with electricity. Back-to-back, they stood pressed against one another, Sakurai facing shyly away from the audience, cradling the microphone protectively in his lily-white hands, soft and narrow and almost feminine. As he listened to Issay sing, he shivered with a frisson of anticipation that he was powerless to suppress. He continued to sway with the beat as Issay sang the first verse to the song, listening carefully, allowing the older man’s voice to fill him as with a river of molten chocolate, sweet yet bitter, thick and overpowering. This was only the beginning.

Soon it was time for the second verse, and now it was Sakurai’s turn to sing, to raise his voice, to confess himself. Switching positions, they circled each other, hardly daring to blink as they stared raptly at one another, each startled by the chemistry that still simmered just beneath the surface of the other’s steady black gaze, even after all these years. They weren’t getting any younger, yet the dynamic between them had not aged a day. Now Sakurai was in the front, facing outward, singing to this hall full of fans who hung on his every word with bated breath, while Issay stood behind him, facing the back wall, waiting, waiting, waiting for his moment. As the verse ended, they broke apart, only to come back together again side by side, harmonizing on the chorus, their voices so alike, blending into a seamless tapestry of musical ecstasy, an anthem of passion and ennui. This was their hymn to the hollowed husks of the fallen angels they felt they had become—once young, now slowly crumbling, yet still beautiful in their delicate submission to the rough caresses of passing time. It had been twenty years since they had last done this, last performed this song together like this, and the sharpness of the nostalgia tore away their masks and disguises, cut them like shards of broken glass, like the scraping of long fingernails against smooth brown skin. Issay had sung this song so many times by himself over the years, but only when filled with the breath of Sakurai’s rich baritone harmonies could it ever truly reach the full pinnacle of its fulfillment. This, this was how it was meant to be.

As the first chorus ended, they circled again—still dancing their courtship dance, that which presaged their transgression. During the break, they approached each other only slowly, circling, circling, until Sakurai’s arms encircled Issay from behind, his hand reaching beneath the rich red velvet of Issay’s coat to caress the warm body beneath from navel to thighs, keeping the coat closed, so the caresses would be hidden from the rabid, hungry eyes of the women in the audience, yet the twitching movements of the coat betrayed all. Issay leaned his head back on Sakurai’s shoulder, pushing in closer to his caresses, moving closer still as Sakurai wrapped him in both his arms, still hiding beneath the modesty of the coat, velvet soft as fur and red as the pomegranate of temptation. Issay was the elder of the two, but Sakurai was the taller, and with Issay standing in front of Sakurai, they made a consummate tableau, standing there with half-closed eyes. The pale white spotlights glowed on Sakurai’s devilish grin as he rubbed his hips against Issay’s slim body from behind in a lustful rhythm, Hikaru’s luminous guitar solo going all but ignored as the eyes of the girls stayed transfixed on the entwined pair in the center of the stage.

They broke apart to sing the second verse, then drew back together for the final chorus, arms around one another’s shoulders. And then at last, the vocals were finished with, and all that remained was for them to continue this public pantomime of their love, drawing together, then away, then together again for swift kisses on cheeks and lips, sharp yet gentle—were they simulated or were they real? And then Issay let himself go, falling backwards onto the support of Sakurai’s right arm, swooning as Sakurai held him in a diagonal embrace, right hand cupping the back of Issay’s neck protectively, possessively, tipping Issay’s head back to expose his narrow throat, left hand smoothing back stray black ringlets from Issay’s sweat-soaked face, the better to admire the beauty of his dark, seductive gaze, as he stared upward at Sakurai with an expression of wanton longing. As Sakurai bent his head towards Issay’s neck, the naturalness of the gesture only further betrayed the realness of their animal alchemy. But this could not be all. As Sakurai lifted Issay to his feet once more, Issay put his hands on Sakurai’s shoulders in a wordless signal. Sakurai knew instantly what was expected of him. He knelt down at Issay’s feet, in reverent submission to the older man who had mentored and inspired him, and now sought to possess him. An expression of solemn worship bloomed across Sakurai’s face, and he clasped his hands behind his back as Issay drew him close against his body, hiding him once more within the soft, shifting folds of his crimson coat, gyrating his hips against Sakurai’s face, hands in Sakurai’s shining hair, now exquisitely disheveled. “Worship me,” he seemed to say. “You are my child and my disciple.”
But alas, the song was almost finished, the music almost spent, and so, too, the climax of their breathless, sultry dream had rushed over them and past them, leaving nothing behind but this slow, lingering end. Gently, Issay drew Sakurai to his feet once more, drawing his head forward, offering a light farewell kiss to Sakurai’s soft, full lips. They kissed twice more, and then they parted, pulling apart slowly, in agony with the separation, Sakurai’s hand extended toward Issay in one last appeal, one last sighing adieu. One step after another, Sakurai drew backward, back offstage the way he had come. As the last notes of the song died, Issay was left abandoned in the middle of the stage, victim of his own love, bathed in the frigid cascades of the spotlight overhead. And as Sakurai’s outstretched hand vanished into the blackness behind the curtain, Issay’s hand dropped, marionette strings cut, to hang limply where it had fallen, a clown betrayed in a Masquerade that had now come to its sweet sorrowful close, sundering them even until the ending of the show. THE END