And We Grow (Or Do We Just Haul It Around?)
Title: And We Grow (Or Do We Just Haul It Around?)
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Matsumoto Jun/Sakurai Sho
Summary: Ten years of this strange devotion singing in his veins.
Notes/Warnings: For r_1_ss_a. This is the other part of her help_pakistan gift. I hope she will not return this one to sender. This one's considerably different from the other one in terms of tone and subject matter - it's a "what-if" scenario. I'm slapping about 50 angst warnings on this.
His back hits the wall hard, rattling the frames just beside his head. Pain shoots down from his shoulder blades, but it’s fleeting because now his hair’s being wrenched away from his scalp into Sho’s fist.
“Want you,” Jun hears Sho admit. It’s rare for him to put it into words. He tries to get Sho’s fingers away from the sweaty, matted curls at the base of his skull, but Sho’s too quick, grabbing hold of his forearm. He wonders how long Sho waited outside in the cold for him to get home.
He’s still coming down from the usual Countdown high, gulping in air as his heart pounds. Sho’s got his arms pinned to the wall, thumbnails digging into his wrists. He shouldn’t want this so badly, shouldn’t want to let Sho take and take. But he always lets him. There’s no telling when he’ll come back, after all. Maybe this time, maybe if he lets Sho take everything things will change.
When Jun had gotten to his building minutes earlier, Sho was stomping out a cigarette on the curb, and it’s the first thing he tastes when Sho’s mouth clamps down firmly over his own. He groans, fists clenching as Sho’s grip tightens.
Jun likes to kiss Sho like a slow burn, lazy and sweet at first, letting things build and build. Every kiss Jun gives serves as an affirmation, a promise. Sho’s kiss is always hurried, as though there’s someone coming around the corner to interrupt at any minute. They’re in Jun’s apartment and it’s half past two. Nobody’s coming, but Sho’s already teasing Jun’s lips apart with his tongue.
He wants the seconds to slow. The faster he gives in, the faster it’ll be over. His throat’s sore from singing, and his protest comes out low and hoarse. “Not here,” he says, turning his face so Sho’s lips drag to his jaw in confusion.
“Why?” Sho asks, loosening his grip to slide his fingers up to twine with Jun’s. “Got you right where I want you.”
He’d laugh if he wasn’t so damn tired. Where Sho wants him is always the key. Sho’s been dictating terms from the beginning, in fragments and moments stretching back so many years. He needs to miss Sho less when he’s gone. Maybe then he wouldn’t be such a pushover.
“Could take your coat off at least,” Jun points out, and Sho finally seems to realize that there’s an extra layer between them. The wool has to be hot.
Sho relents, and Jun knows that his wrists have to be the slightest bit pink. His arms collapse back to his sides now that Sho’s let him go, and he catches his breath for a moment. He turns on the lamp in the living room and strips out of his own coat, tossing it over the chair. He can almost sense Sho behind him, impatient and predatory.
He sidesteps and turns, finally taking a good look at Sho in the light. His hair’s tousled and sloppy, a far cry from the smooth, clean appearance he always has on television. His tie’s loosened, and his suit’s a little rumpled. He’d come from the NTV New Years’ report - he’d probably skipped the afterparty with his colleagues. The blinking red light on Jun’s video recorder serves as a reminder to watch the coverage in the morning when Sho’s gone again.
It’s a brand new year now, Jun realizes. 2010. Maybe this year will be different. It’s really on him to change things - he knows Sho too well, knows that Sho is wary and nervous about the slightest alteration to the way things are. Even turning the lights on has moved things more into Jun’s favor. They’re both visible. It’s harder to hide. Harder to pretend this isn’t just a primal need to get off.
He undoes the first few buttons of his shirt as a goodwill offering, seeing the fire reignite in Sho’s eyes. He steps aside to pull his shirt from his shoulders, tossing it onto the coffee table and lets Sho have a seat on the couch. There’s the slightest quirk to Sho’s lips as he pats his knee, beckoning Jun to him. Sho doesn’t seem to care about the state of his clothes as Jun straddles him, denim on top of charcoal gray wool.
His fingers reach for Sho’s tie, fumbling with the already loosened knot. He holds his face away so Sho can’t distract him with a kiss. Sho’s hands settle, one on each of Jun’s thighs. When the tie’s undone, he goes for the buttons keeping Sho’s shirt closed. He can feel Sho watching, hesitating. He’s rarely this patient. Maybe tonight Sho’s looking for something different too.
There’s smooth, warm skin under his fingertips then as he slides his fingers under the fabric. Sho closes his eyes, letting his head fall back against the couch cushion. He leans forward, loves the way Sho shivers when he licks from collarbone to jaw.
“Jun.”
Hearing his name in that tone of voice, spilling from Sho’s lips unchecked, takes him back ten years. It always does. To debut and to limbs too long for the rest of him, to their hotel room on their first tour. He’d confessed hurriedly in the bathroom while Sho was washing his face and gone to hide under the blanket, confused, ashamed, worried.
Sho had found him and teased him until Jun was near tears. And then he’d kissed him, with a lot more spit and a lot less skill than he did now. Their bodies have changed. Their lives have changed, but there’s something that still brings Sho to his door in the middle of the night three, maybe four times a year. The same something that compels Jun to give everything he has in hopes that Sho will keep appearing.
He finally moves his mouth back to Sho’s, ten years of this strange devotion singing in his veins. Jun knows there’s no real reason why he should let Sho see a side of him he doesn’t show anyone else.
Sho’s hand moves to trail up his spine. Jun surrenders, as he always does. Maybe always will.
There’s no real reason for them to even still be friends.
After all, Arashi’s been over for years now.
--
He doesn’t do it very often, but Nino likes to invite himself over to Jun’s apartment. He’s busy lately, always has a movie or drama to film for. Nino shows up exhausted after a three month location shoot in Kyoto, dropping his bag in Jun’s entryway. “It’s good to be home!”
“You don’t live here,” Jun points out as he picks up the bag and carries it to his spare room.
“I’m never in my own place,” Nino reminds him. “At least here I get food and turn down service.”
“Only when I’m feeling generous,” Jun mutters under his breath, and just as Nino knows to be true, he deposits the bag on the dresser and turns down the bed. When he gets back, Nino’s sprawled across the couch and flipping through channels.
“It’s a Friday night, and you’re at home,” Nino says. “Jun-kun, for shame.”
He wants to snatch the remote away. Maybe Nino will get up and go to bed before his recorder starts. He grabs them both a beer and sits down in the small amount of space Nino’s allowed him. Years earlier, he would never have let Nino get away with this kind of thing, but just having him around lets him believe just for a little while that they’re still friends on equal footing. Lets him believe that Nino’s visit isn’t a charity case.
Nino doesn’t bother to move, and the recorder eventually pops up a tiny message on the screen to remind Jun that the news is being recorded on NTV.
“He’s doing the 10:00 o’clock every night now?” Nino asks.
Jun answers with a simple muttered “yeah,” and there’s probably a dozen questions on the tip of Nino’s tongue. He asks none of them.
It was almost as though Nino and Sho had competed to be the first to leave once the disbanding order came down from on high. Now they seemed to compete in different ways to be the most successful without the agency’s help. To try and prove to the world that they didn’t need to stay in an agency that didn’t care about them.
Jun’s glad that strategy’s worked out for them. When the agency said four years in that Arashi had run its course and that record sales were apparently too lacking, Nino could still act. Sho struck out on his own path. The writing was on the wall. One and two, they’d gone. A year later, the agency had been sad to lose Ohno’s talent, but he’d landed on his feet with his art. And then Aiba had called him that one night, drunk, laughing almost hysterically about taking over the restaurant after all.
And then he’d been alone. Still smiling for Wink Up, still going to the auditions they set up for him, still showing up for Countdown and Sports Day and knowing that he’d be nowhere without it. He’d be nobody without it.
Before he realizes that he’s lost in it again, Nino’s resting his head on his shoulder, squeezing Jun’s fingers in his own. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” he asks, even though he knows exactly why Nino’s sorry.
Nino’s sorry the same way Ohno always says he’s sorry when Jun attends one of his exhibitions. The same way Aiba always says he’s sorry when Jun drives out to Chiba for a meal. The way Sho can never say he’s sorry, slipping out of Jun’s bed in the morning like he was never there.
Nino thumps his head pointedly against Jun’s shoulder, expressing his displeasure. “I’m going to bed.”
The warmth disappears, and Jun barely registers the guest bedroom door closing. He’s too transfixed by the red light, signaling the recording of Sho and the news. He falls asleep on the couch, and in the morning, Nino’s already gone when he wakes.
Sho’s newscasts have all been erased from the recorder. There’s a note by his TV remote with Nino scrawl. “Stop missing us. You’re so much more, and you’re the only one who doesn’t know it.”
When Jun grabs his phone to tell him to mind his own business, the email address he has for Nino is out of date. It seems almost fitting, and he snaps the phone closed with a sobering click.
--
His juniors have a program on NTV, asking their “older brothers” in the entertainment world to teach them various silly things. When Jun gets word that he’s to appear as an older brother guest, he’s confused. He doesn’t have a drama or a film to promote - it’s usually the opposite. People come to his radio show and promote themselves.
He thinks bitterly that he could teach them how to overstay their welcome in an agency that cares only about a financial bottom line, but it’s not the kind of thing that goes over well in a Saturday night timeslot. Instead his manager informs him that he’ll be giving some cooking lessons. He’d been in a cooking drama a few years back and guested often on gourmet programs now. The agency’s way of finding him work in a drama off-season. He supposes it’s better than unemployment.
When filming’s done and he’s promised a junior or two a meal on him in the near future, he goes to the NTV cafeteria. Sho’s at another table with some of his colleagues, and Jun doesn’t want to interrupt. Sho still manages to catch his elbow when he’s throwing out the less than stellar sandwich he’d bought. “Why didn’t you say hello?”
Jun shrugs. He doesn’t want Sho to know how strange it is to see him in the daylight. How odd it feels to not be separated by a television screen. How can Sho just walk up and ask him something like that?
“It’s good to see you,” Sho tells him. It’s April now - a whole season away from January and their last meeting on New Years. If it’s so good to see him, then why does he only drop by to get laid every time the leaves change color or fall away? What if Jun moves? Would he have to send a casual sex forwarding address?
“It’s good to see you, too,” Jun says and means it.
Whatever Sho is to him, whoever Sho is to him is impossible to define. Sakurai Sho is a former idol who leads the evening news broadcast, traveling the world to cover breaking stories. He’s not sure who the person is that shows up at his apartment any more. He’s not the older boy who begged him not to tell anyone what they did together. He’s not the person who said everything would be fine when Arashi disappeared.
They’re still in the cafeteria, and Sho’s co-workers probably think they’ve got it all figured out. Sakurai and a former colleague, catching up on old times.
Jun remembers the invite in his bag and pulls it out, hands it to Sho. “Leader’s got a gallery showing.” Sho doesn’t react to the nickname - Leader will always be Leader to all of them. “Next week, Omotesando Hills.”
“I covered his last exhibition there,” Sho murmurs, but not to brag. Not that Jun can tell.
He closes his bag. “Hope to see you then.”
“Yeah.” Sho’s still reading the invite, and Jun knows it’s time to go.
--
It’s hard to get close to Ohno. He’s the star of the whole thing, after all, even though Jun knows he’s not that fond of all the attention. The exhibition is a success. Paintings on canvases of varying sizes, insanely detailed wax figurines, something that had obviously had a blowtorch taken to it - Leader is ridiculously talented.
Even if he can’t get close to the man of the hour, he’s not miserable. He crosses his arms and frowns as Aiba shoves another one of the can’t-possibly-be-cheap canapés in his mouth.
“Mmfhahmff,” Aiba says blissfully, wiping his hand on the back of his jeans. Jun’s grateful that some things never change, even if they’re kind of gross.
“Nino told me I should take pictures,” Jun says, rolling his eyes. “He could have just come himself.”
Aiba’s licking some fancy cream cheese from his finger. “Isn’t he filming in the Philippines or something? I read it in the paper.”
“Yes,” Jun grits out. A last minute decision, too. Nino hates the beach - why would he go film a movie on one, and so far away when there was an opportunity like tonight? A chance, slight though it might have been, for all five of them to see one another?
He and Aiba park themselves at the edge of the crowd of well-wishers surrounding Leader.
“You told Sho-chan to come, right?” Aiba asks absent-mindedly, up on the tiptoes of his sneakers to peer over the crowd. You’d never know the guy had been in movies, on television, singing and dancing for thousands of people. Aiba is so blissfully normal now.
Everyone had found his own happiness, Jun realizes. Everyone had moved on. They can all see that he hasn’t. It’s why they always say they’re sorry.
“Hmm?” he asks, “Sho-kun? Yeah, I even handed him the invite.”
“Well, he’s very important. Busy,” Aiba says, almost a bit snotty. Rather unlike him. Jun’s been too busy wrapped up in his own things to have noticed that things might have changed. Too worried about his own issues with Sho.
He and Aiba have to wait until the gallery officially closes for the night before Leader can greet them. He’s tanned and smiling when they embrace, when Aiba practically knocks him down to congratulate him on being “so damn good at that whole art thing.”
“Sho-kun’s coming to interview me tomorrow,” Ohno frets, and Aiba grows quiet again.
“Tomorrow?” Jun asks. So that’s why. Sho will come because it’s work.
“An exclusive, I guess,” Ohno replies hesitantly. “I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to say. I didn’t know two years ago, and I don’t know now.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Aiba assures him. “Wear a tie. You always look smart in a tie, Leader.”
“Maybe Sho-kun will lend me one,” Ohno considers, and the smile never really leaves his face. Nino’s not here, Sho’s not here, and unlike Jun and Aiba, it seems that Ohno isn’t bothered by it.
Aiba has to leave now. He gets up early to help his father, at an hour Jun only acknowledges when he’s got a drama filming schedule that requires him to be up that early. Jun stays behind, follows Leader around the gallery and gets a private tour. He gets to hear things that Sho won’t get to hear in the “exclusive” interview.
When they get to the last painting at the end, a mishmash of stark colors in a pattern that he doesn’t really understand but inherently likes, Ohno wraps an arm around him. It would probably look funny to other people on account of their height difference, but Jun relaxes and is comforted by it.
“You’re still so unhappy,” Ohno says, and it’s not a question.
“I’m working a lot,” Jun points out. “I’m headlining a drama this summer. Getsu 9.” Well, as soon as they officially announce it, at least.
“That isn’t what I mean at all.”
He doesn’t bother to wipe his eyes. He’s been crying since they started walking around the gallery. “You left,” he says as Ohno’s arm around him tugs him closer. “I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t.”
“Left the agency, but not you. Jun-kun, it’s been over six years.”
“I know that. You think I don’t know that?” He stares at the colors on the canvas until they blur, and he shuts his eyes. Six years, and he never actually said anything. He never complained. He never hated or resented them, any of them. He’s happy for them.
He just loves Arashi too much to let it go. And if he lets go of Arashi...
“Sho-kun gave me his address, you know. Ages ago. How come you’ve never asked for it?” Ohno wonders.
It’s like they all know - Nino, Aiba, Leader. They all know to varying degrees. “If he wanted me to have it, he’d give it to me himself.”
“Maybe.”
He takes a deep breath, blinks and focuses. This is Leader’s night, his exhibition, even if the doors are closed now. “Can you tell me about this painting?”
Ohno shakes his head. “Not really.”
“Why?” The colors are vivid, almost angry, demanding the viewer’s attention.
“Because everyone sees something different. I just spilled paint here and there and thought it looked cool, but other people call it art.”
Leader smiles, and Jun realizes that the man is right. They’d left the agency, the other four, but they hadn’t left him. Not unless Jun believed it to be true. They’re all still here when he needs them - Aiba in his way, Nino in his, and Leader too.
He’s always waited for Sho to come to him first, lamenting the long months between his visits. He’s given Sho what he thought he wanted. Maybe he’s been going about it the wrong way.
“Good luck with your interview,” Jun says. “You can probably skip the tie.”
Ohno pats him on the shoulder. “I think so too.”
When he gets home, his phone buzzes. Ohno’s thanked him for coming and forwarded on Sho’s address.
--
He waits for a Saturday in May. Saturday because Sho won’t be doing the news. May because even if he’s had this strange sort of Leader-induced epiphany, he’s a little too nervous and mindful to just jump right in and demand from Sho what Sho’s been demanding from him all these years.
Sho’s startled when he arrives home to find Jun sitting on a bench just outside his building’s lobby, waiting. “Matsujun, what are you doing here? How did you...?”
“Can we go inside?”
They get through Sho’s apartment door, and he turns them so Sho’s backed against the wood. Jun knows the Sho who does the news and fondly remembers the Sho who kissed him ten years ago. These are the two he holds onto, the one he can’t touch and the one he’ll never get back. And it’s not fair, never has been fair. To Sho or to himself.
The only way he’ll get to know the Sho in front of him is if he actually tries.
“I’m tired of waiting for you,” he says matter-of-factly, running his hands down Sho’s sides, under his suit jacket.
“Oh?”
Now that Jun knows exactly what and who he wants, it’s all too easy to pull Sho through this unfamiliar apartment. Kissing and touching rather than being kissed and being touched. Taking Sho’s clothes off piece by piece and seeing him through changed eyes. Sho’s a whole person and now Jun is again, too.
They come together, hard and fast and wanting, but when it’s over, it doesn’t feel like he’s surrendered or given in just to make Sho happy. He’s not that awkward, gangly boy confessing, nor is he the slightly less awkward young man learning that Arashi is over. His life now may not be perfect, but it’s a whole life. A full one that he intends to live from now and going forward.
Arashi doesn’t have to sing and dance and record music together to be Arashi. Leader had said that he’d spilled paint and some people called it art. Arashi can be whatever Jun wants it to be. And what he has with Sho can be whatever he wants it to be too.
“Something’s different,” Sho mumbles, running a hand through Jun’s hair. Affectionately, not possessively. The way Jun wants. “Something’s changed.”
“Nothing really,” Jun says.
Just everything, maybe.
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Matsumoto Jun/Sakurai Sho
Summary: Ten years of this strange devotion singing in his veins.
Notes/Warnings: For r_1_ss_a. This is the other part of her help_pakistan gift. I hope she will not return this one to sender. This one's considerably different from the other one in terms of tone and subject matter - it's a "what-if" scenario. I'm slapping about 50 angst warnings on this.
His back hits the wall hard, rattling the frames just beside his head. Pain shoots down from his shoulder blades, but it’s fleeting because now his hair’s being wrenched away from his scalp into Sho’s fist.
“Want you,” Jun hears Sho admit. It’s rare for him to put it into words. He tries to get Sho’s fingers away from the sweaty, matted curls at the base of his skull, but Sho’s too quick, grabbing hold of his forearm. He wonders how long Sho waited outside in the cold for him to get home.
He’s still coming down from the usual Countdown high, gulping in air as his heart pounds. Sho’s got his arms pinned to the wall, thumbnails digging into his wrists. He shouldn’t want this so badly, shouldn’t want to let Sho take and take. But he always lets him. There’s no telling when he’ll come back, after all. Maybe this time, maybe if he lets Sho take everything things will change.
When Jun had gotten to his building minutes earlier, Sho was stomping out a cigarette on the curb, and it’s the first thing he tastes when Sho’s mouth clamps down firmly over his own. He groans, fists clenching as Sho’s grip tightens.
Jun likes to kiss Sho like a slow burn, lazy and sweet at first, letting things build and build. Every kiss Jun gives serves as an affirmation, a promise. Sho’s kiss is always hurried, as though there’s someone coming around the corner to interrupt at any minute. They’re in Jun’s apartment and it’s half past two. Nobody’s coming, but Sho’s already teasing Jun’s lips apart with his tongue.
He wants the seconds to slow. The faster he gives in, the faster it’ll be over. His throat’s sore from singing, and his protest comes out low and hoarse. “Not here,” he says, turning his face so Sho’s lips drag to his jaw in confusion.
“Why?” Sho asks, loosening his grip to slide his fingers up to twine with Jun’s. “Got you right where I want you.”
He’d laugh if he wasn’t so damn tired. Where Sho wants him is always the key. Sho’s been dictating terms from the beginning, in fragments and moments stretching back so many years. He needs to miss Sho less when he’s gone. Maybe then he wouldn’t be such a pushover.
“Could take your coat off at least,” Jun points out, and Sho finally seems to realize that there’s an extra layer between them. The wool has to be hot.
Sho relents, and Jun knows that his wrists have to be the slightest bit pink. His arms collapse back to his sides now that Sho’s let him go, and he catches his breath for a moment. He turns on the lamp in the living room and strips out of his own coat, tossing it over the chair. He can almost sense Sho behind him, impatient and predatory.
He sidesteps and turns, finally taking a good look at Sho in the light. His hair’s tousled and sloppy, a far cry from the smooth, clean appearance he always has on television. His tie’s loosened, and his suit’s a little rumpled. He’d come from the NTV New Years’ report - he’d probably skipped the afterparty with his colleagues. The blinking red light on Jun’s video recorder serves as a reminder to watch the coverage in the morning when Sho’s gone again.
It’s a brand new year now, Jun realizes. 2010. Maybe this year will be different. It’s really on him to change things - he knows Sho too well, knows that Sho is wary and nervous about the slightest alteration to the way things are. Even turning the lights on has moved things more into Jun’s favor. They’re both visible. It’s harder to hide. Harder to pretend this isn’t just a primal need to get off.
He undoes the first few buttons of his shirt as a goodwill offering, seeing the fire reignite in Sho’s eyes. He steps aside to pull his shirt from his shoulders, tossing it onto the coffee table and lets Sho have a seat on the couch. There’s the slightest quirk to Sho’s lips as he pats his knee, beckoning Jun to him. Sho doesn’t seem to care about the state of his clothes as Jun straddles him, denim on top of charcoal gray wool.
His fingers reach for Sho’s tie, fumbling with the already loosened knot. He holds his face away so Sho can’t distract him with a kiss. Sho’s hands settle, one on each of Jun’s thighs. When the tie’s undone, he goes for the buttons keeping Sho’s shirt closed. He can feel Sho watching, hesitating. He’s rarely this patient. Maybe tonight Sho’s looking for something different too.
There’s smooth, warm skin under his fingertips then as he slides his fingers under the fabric. Sho closes his eyes, letting his head fall back against the couch cushion. He leans forward, loves the way Sho shivers when he licks from collarbone to jaw.
“Jun.”
Hearing his name in that tone of voice, spilling from Sho’s lips unchecked, takes him back ten years. It always does. To debut and to limbs too long for the rest of him, to their hotel room on their first tour. He’d confessed hurriedly in the bathroom while Sho was washing his face and gone to hide under the blanket, confused, ashamed, worried.
Sho had found him and teased him until Jun was near tears. And then he’d kissed him, with a lot more spit and a lot less skill than he did now. Their bodies have changed. Their lives have changed, but there’s something that still brings Sho to his door in the middle of the night three, maybe four times a year. The same something that compels Jun to give everything he has in hopes that Sho will keep appearing.
He finally moves his mouth back to Sho’s, ten years of this strange devotion singing in his veins. Jun knows there’s no real reason why he should let Sho see a side of him he doesn’t show anyone else.
Sho’s hand moves to trail up his spine. Jun surrenders, as he always does. Maybe always will.
There’s no real reason for them to even still be friends.
After all, Arashi’s been over for years now.
--
He doesn’t do it very often, but Nino likes to invite himself over to Jun’s apartment. He’s busy lately, always has a movie or drama to film for. Nino shows up exhausted after a three month location shoot in Kyoto, dropping his bag in Jun’s entryway. “It’s good to be home!”
“You don’t live here,” Jun points out as he picks up the bag and carries it to his spare room.
“I’m never in my own place,” Nino reminds him. “At least here I get food and turn down service.”
“Only when I’m feeling generous,” Jun mutters under his breath, and just as Nino knows to be true, he deposits the bag on the dresser and turns down the bed. When he gets back, Nino’s sprawled across the couch and flipping through channels.
“It’s a Friday night, and you’re at home,” Nino says. “Jun-kun, for shame.”
He wants to snatch the remote away. Maybe Nino will get up and go to bed before his recorder starts. He grabs them both a beer and sits down in the small amount of space Nino’s allowed him. Years earlier, he would never have let Nino get away with this kind of thing, but just having him around lets him believe just for a little while that they’re still friends on equal footing. Lets him believe that Nino’s visit isn’t a charity case.
Nino doesn’t bother to move, and the recorder eventually pops up a tiny message on the screen to remind Jun that the news is being recorded on NTV.
“He’s doing the 10:00 o’clock every night now?” Nino asks.
Jun answers with a simple muttered “yeah,” and there’s probably a dozen questions on the tip of Nino’s tongue. He asks none of them.
It was almost as though Nino and Sho had competed to be the first to leave once the disbanding order came down from on high. Now they seemed to compete in different ways to be the most successful without the agency’s help. To try and prove to the world that they didn’t need to stay in an agency that didn’t care about them.
Jun’s glad that strategy’s worked out for them. When the agency said four years in that Arashi had run its course and that record sales were apparently too lacking, Nino could still act. Sho struck out on his own path. The writing was on the wall. One and two, they’d gone. A year later, the agency had been sad to lose Ohno’s talent, but he’d landed on his feet with his art. And then Aiba had called him that one night, drunk, laughing almost hysterically about taking over the restaurant after all.
And then he’d been alone. Still smiling for Wink Up, still going to the auditions they set up for him, still showing up for Countdown and Sports Day and knowing that he’d be nowhere without it. He’d be nobody without it.
Before he realizes that he’s lost in it again, Nino’s resting his head on his shoulder, squeezing Jun’s fingers in his own. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” he asks, even though he knows exactly why Nino’s sorry.
Nino’s sorry the same way Ohno always says he’s sorry when Jun attends one of his exhibitions. The same way Aiba always says he’s sorry when Jun drives out to Chiba for a meal. The way Sho can never say he’s sorry, slipping out of Jun’s bed in the morning like he was never there.
Nino thumps his head pointedly against Jun’s shoulder, expressing his displeasure. “I’m going to bed.”
The warmth disappears, and Jun barely registers the guest bedroom door closing. He’s too transfixed by the red light, signaling the recording of Sho and the news. He falls asleep on the couch, and in the morning, Nino’s already gone when he wakes.
Sho’s newscasts have all been erased from the recorder. There’s a note by his TV remote with Nino scrawl. “Stop missing us. You’re so much more, and you’re the only one who doesn’t know it.”
When Jun grabs his phone to tell him to mind his own business, the email address he has for Nino is out of date. It seems almost fitting, and he snaps the phone closed with a sobering click.
--
His juniors have a program on NTV, asking their “older brothers” in the entertainment world to teach them various silly things. When Jun gets word that he’s to appear as an older brother guest, he’s confused. He doesn’t have a drama or a film to promote - it’s usually the opposite. People come to his radio show and promote themselves.
He thinks bitterly that he could teach them how to overstay their welcome in an agency that cares only about a financial bottom line, but it’s not the kind of thing that goes over well in a Saturday night timeslot. Instead his manager informs him that he’ll be giving some cooking lessons. He’d been in a cooking drama a few years back and guested often on gourmet programs now. The agency’s way of finding him work in a drama off-season. He supposes it’s better than unemployment.
When filming’s done and he’s promised a junior or two a meal on him in the near future, he goes to the NTV cafeteria. Sho’s at another table with some of his colleagues, and Jun doesn’t want to interrupt. Sho still manages to catch his elbow when he’s throwing out the less than stellar sandwich he’d bought. “Why didn’t you say hello?”
Jun shrugs. He doesn’t want Sho to know how strange it is to see him in the daylight. How odd it feels to not be separated by a television screen. How can Sho just walk up and ask him something like that?
“It’s good to see you,” Sho tells him. It’s April now - a whole season away from January and their last meeting on New Years. If it’s so good to see him, then why does he only drop by to get laid every time the leaves change color or fall away? What if Jun moves? Would he have to send a casual sex forwarding address?
“It’s good to see you, too,” Jun says and means it.
Whatever Sho is to him, whoever Sho is to him is impossible to define. Sakurai Sho is a former idol who leads the evening news broadcast, traveling the world to cover breaking stories. He’s not sure who the person is that shows up at his apartment any more. He’s not the older boy who begged him not to tell anyone what they did together. He’s not the person who said everything would be fine when Arashi disappeared.
They’re still in the cafeteria, and Sho’s co-workers probably think they’ve got it all figured out. Sakurai and a former colleague, catching up on old times.
Jun remembers the invite in his bag and pulls it out, hands it to Sho. “Leader’s got a gallery showing.” Sho doesn’t react to the nickname - Leader will always be Leader to all of them. “Next week, Omotesando Hills.”
“I covered his last exhibition there,” Sho murmurs, but not to brag. Not that Jun can tell.
He closes his bag. “Hope to see you then.”
“Yeah.” Sho’s still reading the invite, and Jun knows it’s time to go.
--
It’s hard to get close to Ohno. He’s the star of the whole thing, after all, even though Jun knows he’s not that fond of all the attention. The exhibition is a success. Paintings on canvases of varying sizes, insanely detailed wax figurines, something that had obviously had a blowtorch taken to it - Leader is ridiculously talented.
Even if he can’t get close to the man of the hour, he’s not miserable. He crosses his arms and frowns as Aiba shoves another one of the can’t-possibly-be-cheap canapés in his mouth.
“Mmfhahmff,” Aiba says blissfully, wiping his hand on the back of his jeans. Jun’s grateful that some things never change, even if they’re kind of gross.
“Nino told me I should take pictures,” Jun says, rolling his eyes. “He could have just come himself.”
Aiba’s licking some fancy cream cheese from his finger. “Isn’t he filming in the Philippines or something? I read it in the paper.”
“Yes,” Jun grits out. A last minute decision, too. Nino hates the beach - why would he go film a movie on one, and so far away when there was an opportunity like tonight? A chance, slight though it might have been, for all five of them to see one another?
He and Aiba park themselves at the edge of the crowd of well-wishers surrounding Leader.
“You told Sho-chan to come, right?” Aiba asks absent-mindedly, up on the tiptoes of his sneakers to peer over the crowd. You’d never know the guy had been in movies, on television, singing and dancing for thousands of people. Aiba is so blissfully normal now.
Everyone had found his own happiness, Jun realizes. Everyone had moved on. They can all see that he hasn’t. It’s why they always say they’re sorry.
“Hmm?” he asks, “Sho-kun? Yeah, I even handed him the invite.”
“Well, he’s very important. Busy,” Aiba says, almost a bit snotty. Rather unlike him. Jun’s been too busy wrapped up in his own things to have noticed that things might have changed. Too worried about his own issues with Sho.
He and Aiba have to wait until the gallery officially closes for the night before Leader can greet them. He’s tanned and smiling when they embrace, when Aiba practically knocks him down to congratulate him on being “so damn good at that whole art thing.”
“Sho-kun’s coming to interview me tomorrow,” Ohno frets, and Aiba grows quiet again.
“Tomorrow?” Jun asks. So that’s why. Sho will come because it’s work.
“An exclusive, I guess,” Ohno replies hesitantly. “I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to say. I didn’t know two years ago, and I don’t know now.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Aiba assures him. “Wear a tie. You always look smart in a tie, Leader.”
“Maybe Sho-kun will lend me one,” Ohno considers, and the smile never really leaves his face. Nino’s not here, Sho’s not here, and unlike Jun and Aiba, it seems that Ohno isn’t bothered by it.
Aiba has to leave now. He gets up early to help his father, at an hour Jun only acknowledges when he’s got a drama filming schedule that requires him to be up that early. Jun stays behind, follows Leader around the gallery and gets a private tour. He gets to hear things that Sho won’t get to hear in the “exclusive” interview.
When they get to the last painting at the end, a mishmash of stark colors in a pattern that he doesn’t really understand but inherently likes, Ohno wraps an arm around him. It would probably look funny to other people on account of their height difference, but Jun relaxes and is comforted by it.
“You’re still so unhappy,” Ohno says, and it’s not a question.
“I’m working a lot,” Jun points out. “I’m headlining a drama this summer. Getsu 9.” Well, as soon as they officially announce it, at least.
“That isn’t what I mean at all.”
He doesn’t bother to wipe his eyes. He’s been crying since they started walking around the gallery. “You left,” he says as Ohno’s arm around him tugs him closer. “I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t.”
“Left the agency, but not you. Jun-kun, it’s been over six years.”
“I know that. You think I don’t know that?” He stares at the colors on the canvas until they blur, and he shuts his eyes. Six years, and he never actually said anything. He never complained. He never hated or resented them, any of them. He’s happy for them.
He just loves Arashi too much to let it go. And if he lets go of Arashi...
“Sho-kun gave me his address, you know. Ages ago. How come you’ve never asked for it?” Ohno wonders.
It’s like they all know - Nino, Aiba, Leader. They all know to varying degrees. “If he wanted me to have it, he’d give it to me himself.”
“Maybe.”
He takes a deep breath, blinks and focuses. This is Leader’s night, his exhibition, even if the doors are closed now. “Can you tell me about this painting?”
Ohno shakes his head. “Not really.”
“Why?” The colors are vivid, almost angry, demanding the viewer’s attention.
“Because everyone sees something different. I just spilled paint here and there and thought it looked cool, but other people call it art.”
Leader smiles, and Jun realizes that the man is right. They’d left the agency, the other four, but they hadn’t left him. Not unless Jun believed it to be true. They’re all still here when he needs them - Aiba in his way, Nino in his, and Leader too.
He’s always waited for Sho to come to him first, lamenting the long months between his visits. He’s given Sho what he thought he wanted. Maybe he’s been going about it the wrong way.
“Good luck with your interview,” Jun says. “You can probably skip the tie.”
Ohno pats him on the shoulder. “I think so too.”
When he gets home, his phone buzzes. Ohno’s thanked him for coming and forwarded on Sho’s address.
--
He waits for a Saturday in May. Saturday because Sho won’t be doing the news. May because even if he’s had this strange sort of Leader-induced epiphany, he’s a little too nervous and mindful to just jump right in and demand from Sho what Sho’s been demanding from him all these years.
Sho’s startled when he arrives home to find Jun sitting on a bench just outside his building’s lobby, waiting. “Matsujun, what are you doing here? How did you...?”
“Can we go inside?”
They get through Sho’s apartment door, and he turns them so Sho’s backed against the wood. Jun knows the Sho who does the news and fondly remembers the Sho who kissed him ten years ago. These are the two he holds onto, the one he can’t touch and the one he’ll never get back. And it’s not fair, never has been fair. To Sho or to himself.
The only way he’ll get to know the Sho in front of him is if he actually tries.
“I’m tired of waiting for you,” he says matter-of-factly, running his hands down Sho’s sides, under his suit jacket.
“Oh?”
Now that Jun knows exactly what and who he wants, it’s all too easy to pull Sho through this unfamiliar apartment. Kissing and touching rather than being kissed and being touched. Taking Sho’s clothes off piece by piece and seeing him through changed eyes. Sho’s a whole person and now Jun is again, too.
They come together, hard and fast and wanting, but when it’s over, it doesn’t feel like he’s surrendered or given in just to make Sho happy. He’s not that awkward, gangly boy confessing, nor is he the slightly less awkward young man learning that Arashi is over. His life now may not be perfect, but it’s a whole life. A full one that he intends to live from now and going forward.
Arashi doesn’t have to sing and dance and record music together to be Arashi. Leader had said that he’d spilled paint and some people called it art. Arashi can be whatever Jun wants it to be. And what he has with Sho can be whatever he wants it to be too.
“Something’s different,” Sho mumbles, running a hand through Jun’s hair. Affectionately, not possessively. The way Jun wants. “Something’s changed.”
“Nothing really,” Jun says.
Just everything, maybe.