Gift Fic For mynamelessname (1/4)
Title: It Makes The World Go Round
Pairing/Group: Arashi - Sakurai Sho/Matsumoto Jun; Nino
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Violence (implied and actual), sex, language, angst, suspense (I hope!)
Notes: Hello mynamelessname, you made the mistake of asking for either crack or something dark and dirty. And boy have I given you dark and dirty (I hope not so dark that you get mad at me). It’s partially inspired by the (awesome) movie “Shallow Grave,” and you will be quite happy to know I haven’t followed it to the letter. Probably shouldn’t Google it before you read though LOL. The title is from the song Money from the musical Cabaret, which proved very inspirational when writing.
Summary: Down on his luck, Sakurai Sho moves into some new digs after a chance encounter with a man he can’t resist. But perhaps he should have been a bit more curious about the people he’s now living with.
Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4
The music is just as terrible as he remembers it being in this bar. The sound system’s ancient, can’t handle the bass. He used to save this place for last on the nights when he was desperate enough to try going out. Tonight he came through the door at 8:00 when only the bartender and a sad middle-aged crew, a few of them in half-assed drag, were inside.
It’s a bit more lively now, the trains will stop soon enough, and Sho’s been going through Scotch and sodas like a madman. The bartender has a sixth sense, and Sho knows he’s been watering them down simply so Sho doesn’t fall off his stool and crack his head open. Nice guy.
Today marks one full year, and Sho’s decided to give up. The problem, of course, is figuring out what his next steps are. But that’s for another time, another day, and he shakes his glass to get the bartender’s attention. He looks around, the bass throbbing painfully, and he makes a mental note to read some online reviews for moving companies that he’ll probably forget come morning.
The drag crew is long gone, replaced with people who’ve done more of a crawl through the neighborhood that night, not giving a shit about the bad music or the watered down drinks because this is their final stop, the make or break. Finding someone to go back with or slinking off alone in embarrassment. Sho remembers nights like those so vividly. But he’s been alone so long it may as well have been someone else.
Scanning the dance floor, some people are already half into each other’s pants, and Sho’s too drunk to be embarrassed on their behalf. Good for you, Sho thinks. Good for you. He takes in colorful clothes, too much jewelry, too much hair gel. The music changes up, one trashy dance hit blending into another, but then he’s there, someone who looks too good for a place like this. Too good to still be out and about, unattached for the evening.
Average height and lean, big eyes, big smile. Model face except for some acne scarring on his cheeks he hasn’t bothered to hide. The crowd parts for him, and it’s like his hips are leading the way. Sho can’t help but watch him move, sliding around in a pair of sinfully tight jeans. Every movement smooth, intentional. He owns the room, easily.
Some awkward fellow with glasses tries to grind up against the hot guy’s ass. Something he probably saw in a movie once and thought “go for it.” The ease with which the hot guy manages to move away from Glasses and his friendly pelvis impresses Sho deeply, although his amusement fades when the guy catches his eye and heads on over to the bar.
Sho turns back around. He came here for a reason - to get shit-faced in lieu of spending yet another night at home. It’s better to feel sorry for himself here than in his apartment. But it’s too late, and the stool beside him scrapes along the floor. He’s got cologne on, this guy, a woodsy smell, and Sho focuses on the bar top when the guy’s tapping his hand against it, trying to get the bartender’s attention. He’s got a thick silver ring on his finger, a chunky metal cuff on his wrist, and Sho wishes they hadn’t made eye contact. Fancy, confident, just Sho’s type unfortunately.
He asks the bartender for Jack and Coke and gives Sho a too-friendly poke in the arm. “Hey.”
Sho stares at the ice cubes, the liquid in his glass. “Hey.”
The bartender returns with the guy’s drink, but he doesn’t go anywhere. Instead he seems to lean closer. Maybe he’s trying to make it look like he’s here with Sho, just in case Glasses tries to press his luck again.
“Hey, you okay?”
Sho’s not, but he nods that he is anyhow. The hell was he thinking, coming here instead of getting trashed at the little bar around the corner from his apartment building?
“Don’t look okay,” the guy says, seeing right through him. He swivels on the stool, sitting sideways in hopes that Sho will do the same and chat with him.
Sho shrugs, knowing that his body language has to be screaming for this guy to piss off, but Sho’s also been known to be attracted to the obnoxiously persistent.
“You dance?”
“Not if I can help it,” Sho replies, sliding his glass along the bar top, listening to the ice cubes jostle.
“You were watching me.”
“I was watching everybody.”
He can sense rather than see the guy’s grin. “You’re a little old for this crowd.”
This does get Sho to turn, taking the guy in up close. His big smile’s bigger than he’d even realized. His face is a combination of big - thick brows, wide-set features, the bright eyes. Put together though, these disparate big parts, he’s handsome. Too handsome for Sho. “How old do you think I am?”
His new friend takes a long sip of his drink. “Thirty-seven.”
Sho groans, more exaggerated than he realizes. “I’m not thirty-seven.”
“Thirty-six,” the guy says, the big white teeth of his tugging briefly, enticingly on his lower lip. This reveals a small spot, a small mole, just underneath. “And a half.”
“Try again,” Sho complains this time, eyes starting to cross as he tries to connect the dots. The mole under the guy’s lip, its matching partner just above. There’s even one right on his lip. Where else might he have some? “Try thirty-two. At least for another month or two.”
The guy nods. “Happy birthday.”
They finish their drinks in a few minutes, and the guy pulls a credit card from his back pocket. “I got you.”
Sho protests, swaying on his stool a little. He’s not getting coaxed into blowing this guy in the alley, no matter how hot he is. “No, don’t…”
The guy’s hand wraps around his wrist. “You look miserable. Let me get this, and I’ll put you in a taxi.” His voice is serious, demanding. And just as hot as the rest of him.
Sho gives in, and the guy’s surprisingly gentle with him as they leave the bar, head toward a taxi stand. Sho’s had much more than he should have, and he finds himself awkwardly leaning against a newspaper box, staring at this stranger.
“Didn’t have to buy my drinks, I’m sorry…”
“Seriously, are you going to be alright?” The guy’s tapping a pack of cigarettes absent-mindedly against his hip. “What’s wrong?”
“Why do you care?” Sho blurts out, grasping onto the stupid metal box.
The guy holds his hands up innocently, clutching his cigarettes. “I was just fucking with you. About looking thirty-seven. You don’t look thirty-seven. Look, just…” He rolls his eyes. “Most people don’t go to a bar like that for the drinking atmosphere.”
“What do they go there for?” Sho asks. “To pick up other people’s tabs out of the goodness of their hearts?”
A taxi rolls up, the driver popping the back door open for them. They don’t say anything to each other as they both get in, and his companion calls out an address. Sho doesn’t think to offer his own because as soon as his back hits the seat, he’s somewhere else, tilting his head to look up at the man helping him out. He’s staring out the window, tapping his fingers against the glass.
As the taxi moves along, Sho realizes that he’s crying and doesn’t actually know how long he’s been doing so. Was he crying in that bar like an idiot? He’s not sure if the guy’s a Good Samaritan or planning to steal Sho’s wallet and leave him somewhere. He wants to believe, though, that this guy’s just looking out for him. Maybe they’ve both been burned one too many times.
It’s so quiet now, away from the club, that he all too easily fades out for the night.
-
Sho wakes up on an unfamiliar couch, and his head’s killing him. But it doesn’t matter because there’s a person sitting on the floor watching him, corners of his mouth quirking in amusement as soon as Sho’s got his eyes open.
He recoils, back against the couch cushion, clutching a blanket against himself. It smells fresh, a very cheerful laundry detergent.
“Good morning,” the guy says. Sho vaguely remembers the guy in the jeans, the generous man with the dark brows, but this isn’t him. This guy’s small, thin, sitting on the floor with his knees bent and his arms wrapped around them. There’s a look in his eyes that Sho isn’t sure he likes.
“Morning,” Sho says anyway because he can only wait for an explanation.
“Leave him alone.”
It’s the voice from last night, the one Sho fell for so easily, and it’s him. It’s the face and the moles and this time the hips are encased in some gray flannel pants instead of jeans. He’s got glasses on now, his dark hair less controlled. He sits down in a chair opposite the couch that Sho’s on. His friend gets up, patting him on the top of his head like a pet before disappearing. Roommate, Sho wonders, or more?
“Did he wake you?”
“No,” Sho says, “but he was staring at me when I woke up.”
“That’s because he’s a fucking creep.” The guy’s more hesitant now than he was last night. Sho realizes that his shoes and coat are gone, but an awkward feeling under him reveals that his wallet is still in his pants pocket. “You weren’t talking, I couldn’t get an address from you so I figured you could sleep it off here.”
Sho’s ashamed, staring at nothing. He hasn’t done anything like this before. At least not that he can remember.
“You want some coffee?”
Unable to respond verbally, Sho just nods. When the coffee’s arrived and Sho’s slowly working his way back to functioning, the guy gets the ball rolling. He’s Matsumoto Jun, he’s thirty-one, and he’s been between jobs since his company got downsized under new management. “I’ve had a lot of reasons to want to spend my Friday nights drinking like you were, so I guess I just…”
Rock bottom, that must have been the look in Sho’s eyes while he sat at that bar and caught Matsumoto’s eye.
“Sakurai Sho, and I just passed my first full year out of work.” He hugs the blanket in his arms, deciding that strangers don’t need the whole story. “Can’t maintain my apartment much longer, so as you can see, I was in that bar for a reason.”
Matsumoto’s dark eyes widen in surprise. “Well, how’s this for a coincidence? We’re looking for a fourth roommate here.”
Over the course of that Saturday morning, Sho learns that maybe there’s a place for him here. It turns out Matsumoto’s brought him to a house, a four-bedroom share house originally intended for students. Its current occupants, however, are Matsumoto, his rude awakening roommate Ninomiya who works at a net cafe, and someone they call Keito-san, who is rarely home but still chips in on rent so they don’t kick him out.
“A fourth person,” Matsumoto explains. “It’s what we’ve been needing for a while now. To cut costs down.”
“You don’t know me though,” Sho says. “And we met…”
“At a gay bar,” Ninomiya says from the chair where he’s curled himself up comfortably. “I know about Jun-kun, and it’s not a big deal if you are too.”
He sees Matsumoto flush in embarrassment. Don’t say things like that so casually, Matsumoto clearly wants to scold him, instead switching gears to talk about the house, about the rent payment. Ninomiya interrupts, sitting in that chair of his like judge, jury, and executioner. There’s a shrewdness to his demeanor that the calm, cool Matsumoto lacks.
He asks Sho questions rapid-fire. Where did you work? How will you be able to contribute to the rent payment if you’re unemployed? Are you single or attached? Would you bring people over here? Do you have any strange hobbies we should know about? Have you ever been arrested before?
Sho finds himself gripping his coffee mug tighter and tighter, and Matsumoto’s kind enough to rescue him. “We don’t need his fucking life story. We need his rent money,” Matsumoto says bluntly before turning back to look Sho in the eye. “I can understand if you don’t want to live with this guy. He’s watched a lot of detective dramas.”
Ninomiya’s grinning like a cat toying with a mouse. It doesn’t surprise Sho now that they’ve struggled to find a fourth housemate. But Sho’s only plans that day are to go to his parents’ house, that big fancy house, and get on his knees to beg for a chance to stay in his old room until he gets his life sorted out. He’s set to agree to anything, even his mother’s wish to see him married off.
But maybe he can put that off for a little longer. Sho sets the mug down on the scuffed up coffee table, rubs his eyes. “Can I see the room? Get the tour here?”
“You still haven’t answered if you’ve been arrested before,” Ninomiya reminds him.
“I haven’t,” Sho says, and he’s telling the truth. After all, there’s a difference between being arrested and coming very close to it.
-
Where most places make you wait, there’s no limbo surrounding Sho’s move into the share house with Matsumoto, Ninomiya, and the enigmatic Keito-san. Only a week after his drunken display and couch crashing, Matsumoto personally shows up to help Sho move. Sho can see the questions in his eyes when he looks around the apartment Sho’s being forced to give up. It had always been a bit of a reach on a teacher’s salary, but Sho had been counting on a transfer to a different school in a few years, a private school that would pay him what he was worth.
Well, things don’t always go according to plan.
He’s got everything boxed up and labeled, and a moving crew has taken the larger items over to the house already. Sho has a car, a hatchback he’d gotten in college and only just finished paying off a few years prior. Matsumoto and Ninomiya don’t have a vehicle, so Sho’s willingness to share it made him all the more appealing a housemate. There’s a carport just beside the house that’s apparently sat empty ever since they moved in.
Sho lifts a box of clothes, and Matsumoto’s got his arms out to take it. “Thank you,” Sho says. “You don’t even know how much you guys are saving me.”
Matsumoto, so confident that night in the bar when they first met, seems to have cooled off a bit. “I’m sure you’ll find a new position soon.”
Sho has no reply to that, if only because it’s none of Matsumoto’s business. He simply smiles and they go up and down the stairs. Matsumoto’s athletic, taking the stairs two at a time back up to Sho’s apartment, and Sho wonders if he’s been issued some sort of challenge. By the time they’re on the last of Sho’s boxes, when the car is stuffed so full with his shit that Matsumoto will have to sit with a box on his lap, he’s exhausted.
He shuts the door, finds Matsumoto leaning against the hood of the car when he comes trudging down the staircase. Sho’s legs are throbbing from the unnecessary extra exertion, but Matsumoto looks fresh and happy for the exercise. Sho jingles the keys, trying to speak without his breath heaving. “Efficient, you are.”
“Thought you’d appreciate it,” Matsumoto says, like he really does know how happy Sho is to put this place, this unfulfilling and distressing chapter of his life, behind him.
Sho says nothing, getting into the car. It’s across town, so Sho will have new train schedules to memorize, new convenience stores to track down and evaluate, the basic orientation things that he actually enjoys figuring out when it comes to living someplace new.
“You were a teacher you said?” Matsumoto asks, breaking their silence when they get stuck in some midday traffic.
Sho grips the steering wheel a little tighter. “Yeah.”
“That what you plan to keep doing?”
“Been a year,” Sho says. “Thought by now I’d have found something, so I don’t know.”
“I know the feeling.”
He looks over, and Matsumoto’s looking out the window again. “Does Ninomiya-san know of any openings where he is?”
Matsumoto chuckles. “You don’t strike me as a part-timer, Sakurai-san.”
“I don’t strike myself that way either, but here I am, unemployed for a year. I’m at the point where I’ll do anything to have some money coming in.”
“Well, he doesn’t talk about work at home much,” Matsumoto admits. “For all I know, he’s lying and doesn’t even work at a net cafe.”
Sho’s a little puzzled. “How long have you and Ninomiya-san been living together?”
“Since I got laid off. He and I went to high school together. Met up at a class reunion. Of course I’d been attending said reunion to try and do a little networking since I’d just been laid off. Found Nino instead.”
The nickname seems almost affectionate, and Sho wonders how close they’d been in high school. “And he doesn’t tell you anything about work?”
Matsumoto shrugs. “He keeps to himself. He can be in your face one minute, nosing around your business, but then he’ll go retreat in that room of his for ages.”
“Mysterious type, huh?”
“I doubt it,” Matsumoto says with a grin. “I think he’s just playing games or jacking off most nights. No mystery there.”
Sho takes this in, nodding a little uncomfortably. The traffic starts moving again, and it’s a while before Sho keeps the conversation going.
“What about Keito-san then? What does he do?”
Matsumoto clams up in a way that makes Sho nervous. He looks over when they reach another red light, and Matsumoto is fidgeting. The man who came right up to him in that bar, all eyes in the room on him. He’s probably going to bite his thumbnail clean off, and Sho tries to convince himself that maybe the guy just hadn’t heard his question. He tries again.
“Matsumoto-san?”
He blinks a few times, and Sho almost winces at the too-loud cracking sound as Matsumoto bites his nail. “I dunno,” he replies quietly. “Guy’s always gone.”
This is such a lie that Sho’s keen on turning the car around. It’s so unlike him, being this impulsive. Packing up his entire life to move in with strangers. Strangers who are increasingly strange. Sakurai Sho, who used to plan everything in advance, to the minute. He let this smooth talking guy pick him up at his most vulnerable, and here he is a week later, all set to move in with him and he doesn’t know a damn thing about him - or his other housemates.
“Guess I’ll just browse the job boards as usual,” Sho says, trying to sound as oblivious to Matsumoto’s distress as he dares. Ninomiya, who stays in his room. Matsumoto, who was perfectly content to let Sho join them without question. And this Keito-san, the never around Keito-san. What has he gotten himself into?
-
The first few days go so smoothly that Sho manages to forget the awkward, ominous feeling he’d experienced in the car with Matsumoto. Maybe Sho was just reading more into things than necessary. His room is perfectly adequate and clean, and there are two bathrooms in the house. He ends up sharing with Ninomiya, who doesn’t keep more than a toothbrush, a razor, and a cheap bottle of combination shampoo and body wash in there. Matsumoto was correct; Ninomiya keeps strange hours, and he usually emerges from his room only to leave the house, presumably for work, or to heat something up in the microwave.
Matsumoto goes out most nights, dressed in tight slacks and smelling so good Sho almost wants to follow him, like an abandoned puppy desperate for scraps. He never asks Sho or Ninomiya to go with him, instead just grabbing his keys and wallet and saying a casual goodbye while he pulls on his shoes. During the day he’s in and out of the house, most of the time in a suit and probably off to a job center.
Sho spends those first few days in the living room with the TV on low, laptop open on the coffee table as he looks for things to apply for. From the vantage point of the living room, he’s able to get a better sense of how things work around here. He learns that Matsumoto labels his food in the refrigerator and that Ninomiya eats it anyway. He learns that Ninomiya doesn’t care if the others can hear his porn through the door. He learns that Matsumoto’s bathroom is sacred ground, an arrangement of hair care and skin care products, vitamins and supplements, a pharmacy’s worth of allergy meds and ibuprofen and cough suppressants. Sho has used the toilet in there once and hasn’t returned for fear of knocking over some bottle of face cream that an unemployed person probably can’t afford.
Keito-san has been home once, and Sho apparently slept through it. The house is all on one level. The living room, entry hall, and the kitchen in front. Sho and Ninomiya’s bedrooms, their bathroom in back along with Matsumoto’s room, his bathroom, and at the end of the hall, Keito-san’s room. “He got home after 4:00,” Ninomiya says on one of his rare appearances, leaning uncomfortably over Sho’s shoulder to read the job posting he’s considering. “But he was gone again by 7:00. He’s that way.”
The first few days become a week and then two, and Sho feels as though he’s finally a bit established. He’s even managed to get a call back, a small company looking for a bookkeeper. To celebrate this minor victory, an interview set for the following week, he emerges from the house.
He meets Aiba at a family restaurant halfway between their houses. It’s been weeks since he’s socialized, and Aiba’s face today isn’t as full of pity for him as it’s been for the last year. Their desks faced each other for five years, and Aiba Masaki is probably one of the best teachers left in the place. Not the type to coop himself up in a lab, Aiba went into biology teaching to inspire a new generation to get excited about science, and he largely succeeds. He’s popular with students and faculty alike.
He’s also the only person from the school who still talks to Sho.
Right now he’s poking around at a hamburger steak that should have been cooked longer. Knowing Aiba though, he’s too kind to send things back and will plow through them as they are. Aiba’s kindness wasn’t able to save Sho’s job, though, even though he tried his best. Sho will always be grateful for that.
“You’re back to shaving I see. You look better with that round baby face,” Aiba says with a wry smile, his gleaming teeth that have won over a few too many teenage female biology students. Aiba pointed out a student message board to Sho once, proudly noting that he was voted “hottest” teacher in the school. He hasn’t mentioned that in a while though, but Sho can objectively admit that Aiba’s a good looking person. His wife, Sho reminds himself with a glance to Aiba’s wedding band, is a lucky lady.
Sho strokes his chin. “I’ve always shaved.”
Aiba sees through his shit in an instant, always has, and moves on from his hamburger to his green beans. “Right.”
Aiba Masaki knows a Sakurai Sho who went weeks without shaving, months without a haircut after he was dismissed from the school. Aiba Masaki knows a Sakurai Sho who stopped doing laundry, wearing the same rotation of three t-shirts. He tried throwing money at the problem, offering to help Sho pay his rent or to take him out to eat, but Sho’s never allowed it. Only a month earlier, Aiba had been convinced there was room in his tiny ass apartment for Sho to move in and to hell with his wife’s objections. Aiba’s faith in him has never wavered, no matter what he’s known about Sho, and it’s a link he doesn’t dare lose.
“So what’s going on with that other housemate guy?” Aiba asks, switching gears. Sho thinks Aiba might actually be the most excited about Sho’s housing change-up, and he’s asked dozens of questions that Sho can’t necessarily answer yet.
“I’ve never seen him.”
“Maybe he’s invisible,” Aiba teases. “Or like a chameleon. Like, he’s always at home but you don’t know because he’s blended in with the wall or the sofa. You know, there’s this creature called a mimic octopus. It can do so much more than change colors, Sho-chan. It can change the shape of its body and…”
“Aiba-kun, I’m fairly convinced Keito-san is not a camouflaging animal.” Ninomiya cracked the door open for Sho once, just to give Sho proof someone technically lived in there. There wasn’t much more than a single bed, neatly made, and a cheap-looking chest of drawers. Keito-san had no visible personal effects inside there.
“Still don’t know what he does for a living?”
Sho shakes his head. “The others don’t even know.”
That’s not entirely accurate. Sho can see the way Matsumoto visibly relaxes when he wakes in the morning and Ninomiya tells him that Keito-san hasn’t dropped by. But any time Sho’s tried to bring up the topic of Keito-san, Matsumoto and Ninomiya have dodged it with the finesse of shitty actors in a late-night drama.
“Maybe he’s government. A secret agent,” Aiba suggests, stabbing a green bean. “Or maybe something more sinister.”
Sho tries to smile, thinking about Matsumoto’s relief when the man’s absent. “Sinister? Come on, it’s probably just a married man who likes a night or two away from the wife here and there.”
Aiba’s still suspicious, but that’s most likely because he’s very happily married. The world’s longest honeymoon stage, some of the other teachers used to gossip about him. He can’t fathom being away from his wife for much longer than an average workday. “Becky thinks he’s a serial killer.”
Sho would object to Aiba and his wife speculating so freely about his new life and his new housemates, but he supposes it’s harmless. “I think we’d know if he was a serial killer, Masaki…”
“Pfft,” Aiba protests, “I read a book about it once. How they often end up being someone you’d never suspect, just the guy next door.”
“Well if he does any serial killing, he doesn’t do it at the house, and that’s just fine by me.”
Aiba doesn’t meet his eyes, sipping from his water glass. “If you ever change your mind…about living there, I mean, you just have to let me know.”
“Thanks,” he replies, rolling his eyes. Because living with a nosy married couple is preferable to living with three seemingly unattached men who keep to themselves.
“So anyway,” Aiba says awkwardly a few moments later, finally turning the topic away from Sho’s new living situation. “Principal Takahashi has new hair plugs, and he thinks we haven’t noticed yet.”
-
He’s somehow managed to fry himself a couple eggs without burning the kitchen down. It’s after 1:00 in the morning, and he’s alone in the house. Dinner is an afterthought after six solid hours perusing job boards and getting lost in his own paranoia, envisioning employers giving him shit about being so stingy with personal references on his applications.
The kitchen’s an odd space in the house. There’s no sign that Keito-san has so much as a dish sponge in the place, and Ninomiya leans toward bringing home food or making things that don’t require much more than a boiling pot of water or a beeping microwave. Matsumoto largely owns the space with his neatly-labeled leftovers, spice rack, full set of pots and pans. His stuff is a lot nicer than Sho’s, and some nights in the living room while he’s job hunting he can smell Matsumoto making the most elaborate dinners for one in human history.
As Sho borrows the black pepper shaker from Matsumoto’s spice rack and quickly returns it, he wonders if he could somehow convince the guy to make something for two people once in a while. Then again, Sho isn’t quite sure what he could offer in exchange that Matsumoto would want. Crippling dependence, maybe, he thinks with a grin. Sho likes to eat, but he sometimes wishes that fully cooked meals could drop from the sky without him having to expend any effort.
He eats his lame eggs and imagines Matsumoto in the too tight jeans from that first night, standing by the counter chopping vegetables or wielding a wok like a professional. Some people have filthy sexual fantasies about the people they’re attracted to. And here’s Sho envisioning Matsumoto slipping a long noodle from a cook pot between his perfect lips to see if it’s al dente. “Sho-kun,” he’ll say like it’s normal for him to do so, “dinner’s ready.”
Sho’s cell phone rings, and he’s surprised when the caller ID says it’s Matsumoto. They exchanged numbers out of necessity, back when they were coordinating Sho’s move. Maybe he’s psychic and knows Sho was in here using his pepper. He’s called to scold him for it. Sho answers on the second ring because he’d seem too needy and pathetic to answer on the first.
“This is Sakurai.”
There’s quiet for a moment, and then he hears breathing.
“Matsumoto-san?”
“Did I wake you?”
“No. Just having a late dinner.”
Matsumoto pauses again, and Sho senses that he’s had to force himself to make this call. “I’m so sorry to trouble you, but I was hoping…” He exhales, long and shaky, enough to send a shiver down Sho’s spine. “I was hoping you could pick me up and bring me home.”
The guy goes out and comes home almost every night without incident. “Are you okay? Has something happened?”
“If I text you the address, could you please come?”
Because Sho’s curiosity is almost equal to his attraction, he agrees immediately. Matsumoto still offers no explanation, hanging up and sending off an address in seemingly record time. It’s a fairly ritzy neighborhood, though Matsumoto’s directed him to meet him at a park.
The night is cold, and Sho rubs his hands together while the car warms up. His cell phone directs him across town, past high rises and nightlife and holiday lights. He doesn’t even have to get out of the car because Matsumoto’s already getting off a bench and shuffling over as soon as he pulls up. He’s limping, and when he opens the door to sit down, Sho can’t help but switch on the overhead light. Matsumoto recoils, turning away, and Sho switches the light off hurriedly.
“Sorry.” Even in the quick burst of light, Sho was able to see that Matsumoto’s eye is bruising and he’s also taken a punch in the mouth. A split lip that looks painful as hell. And that’s just the visible stuff. “Are you alright?”
“I want to go home. Please.”
Sho pulls back onto the street, heading away from the park. At every stop light he looks over, seeing how Matsumoto’s taken off his shoes, pulled up his legs onto the seat like a little boy. He’s got his arms wrapped around himself. He’s made himself as small as he can. Sho doesn’t ask any further questions, instead putting on the radio and letting some celebrity’s dull late night radio show make conversation for them.
When they pull in at the house, Matsumoto mutters a quiet “thank you, Sho-san” before putting his shoes back on and getting out. Sho can’t help following, seeing how Matsumoto’s struggling to walk without showing weakness. He drops the shoes in the genkan with a noisy thud, feet scuffing the floor as he heads for his bathroom. Before he can get the door closed behind him, Sho’s pushing it back open.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.” Matsumoto’s already opening his medicine cabinet, fumbling with a roll of gauze. He dabs at his lip, wincing in irritation.
“Should ice your eye,” Sho says, hovering in the doorway like a worried parent.
“I know.” Matsumoto pushes past him, heading for the kitchen to do just as Sho’s advised. If he notices that Sho’s left his half-eaten plate of eggs behind, that he dropped everything to come pick him up, he doesn’t say anything. Instead he grabs a kitchen towel and fills it with ice cubes, groaning a bit when he finally presses it to his face.
“Who did this to you?”
“Nobody.”
“Nobody,” Sho repeats, having no appetite for his abandoned dinner. “Nothing” happened and “nobody” beat the shit out of him. “So what then, you walked into a wall or something?”
Matsumoto gives him an angry look, a “don’t be so fucking dense, of course someone hit me” kind of look that just makes Sho more upset. He only knows Matsumoto Jun in bits and pieces after these first few weeks, a strange amalgamation of facts and conjecture. What he eats, when he sleeps, what he wears when he goes out at night. Sho is learning, and quickly, that he still doesn’t know a god damn thing.
He scrapes his eggs into the trash and dumps the plate in the sink, turning the water on just long enough to give the thing an insufficient rinse. Sho shuts off the faucet, leans back against the sink as Matsumoto nearly collapses into a chair, leaning on his elbow and pressing the towel of ice to his face in a stony silence.
“There was a student,” Sho says, “and I was not going to pass her.”
He can tell that Matsumoto’s listening, even though he’s turned away.
“She cut class all the time, never turned in assignments, and still thought I was going to pass her. So then when grades came out, she was surprised. Most students, they probably think ‘Ah Sakurai’s just an asshole’ and move on with their lives, but not this girl. Wealthy, well-connected. Used to getting what she wants.”
Sho somehow isn’t even surprised that he’s telling Matsumoto, unsolicited and for no good reason other than the hope that if he opens up maybe Matsumoto will do the same.
“So she comes up to me after school one day, alone, and tells me if I don’t change her grade she’s going to tell the whole school, the teachers, staff, everyone that I was having sex with her.” He chuckles bitterly, remembering the crazed look in her eyes, the strange victory he’d seen in them. “She says she’s going to tell them all that I made her get an abortion, that I’m the worst piece of shit in the universe.”
He’s nearly shaking with the telling of it, regurgitating everything he’s spent a full year now trying to move on from.
“She’s bluffing, I think, so I tell her no. She’s got no proof anyhow. But I’m so sure of myself in that moment, so sure that she’s just fucking with me, that I tell her something I shouldn’t. I tell her she’s a spoiled little bitch, and that I’m not the last person in her life who’s going to tell her no.”
Matsumoto lets out a quiet snort, and Sho finds himself grinning despite himself.
“Turns out she was recording me, and that’s what she brings to a faculty meeting. Again, there’s no proof that I slept with her, and she was a known problem child at the school. But the words were mine, and no matter how awful she was, there was no going back after I said something like that to her. To a student, any student. I could have told them, you know, could have said there was no possible way I’d have slept with her because…” He shuts his eyes. “Well, of course I didn’t say anything of the sort. I apologized for causing such a problem and before I could resign, leave with an ounce of dignity, they fired me on the spot.”
Sho steps away from the sink, sees that Matsumoto isn’t holding the towel of ice in quite the right place. He finds himself lifting the towel from Matsumoto’s grasp, their fingers brushing as he moves it an inch or so over. Matsumoto’s eyes are dark, hypnotic, and Sho steps back before he lingers too long.
“So I didn’t deny it outright or offer my embarrassingly valid excuse. I’ll probably never teach again. They could have called the cops, had them arrest me first and sort it out later, but given her family connections, it was easier just to get me out of there. And she had no reason to continue her threats if I was out of her way.”
He’s a bit startled when Matsumoto asks a question. “Did they change it?”
“What?”
“Her grade,” Matsumoto says quietly, looking at Sho with seemingly genuine concern. “Did they change her grade?”
Sho laughs, nodding. “Oh yeah. They changed her grade.”
It feels surprisingly good, telling someone, letting someone else share the burden he’s been carrying for a full year. Aiba knows, of course, knows Sho couldn’t have possibly done what the girl had accused him of, but it’s not like Aiba has mystical time travel powers that could have sent him back to keep Sho from opening his trap and speaking the way he did to a sixteen year old girl. But Matsumoto Jun can probably understand it all in a way Aiba simply can’t.
Matsumoto gets to his feet a few moments later, startling Sho a bit when he reaches out a hand and squeezes his arm. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, and Sho doesn’t know if it’s in reaction to Sho’s sad story or for all the secrets he’s still keeping himself. But before Sho can gather the courage to respond, to ask Matsumoto one more time who’s hurt him, he’s already heading out of the kitchen, his bedroom door closing behind him.
Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4
Pairing/Group: Arashi - Sakurai Sho/Matsumoto Jun; Nino
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Violence (implied and actual), sex, language, angst, suspense (I hope!)
Notes: Hello mynamelessname, you made the mistake of asking for either crack or something dark and dirty. And boy have I given you dark and dirty (I hope not so dark that you get mad at me). It’s partially inspired by the (awesome) movie “Shallow Grave,” and you will be quite happy to know I haven’t followed it to the letter. Probably shouldn’t Google it before you read though LOL. The title is from the song Money from the musical Cabaret, which proved very inspirational when writing.
Summary: Down on his luck, Sakurai Sho moves into some new digs after a chance encounter with a man he can’t resist. But perhaps he should have been a bit more curious about the people he’s now living with.
Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4
The music is just as terrible as he remembers it being in this bar. The sound system’s ancient, can’t handle the bass. He used to save this place for last on the nights when he was desperate enough to try going out. Tonight he came through the door at 8:00 when only the bartender and a sad middle-aged crew, a few of them in half-assed drag, were inside.
It’s a bit more lively now, the trains will stop soon enough, and Sho’s been going through Scotch and sodas like a madman. The bartender has a sixth sense, and Sho knows he’s been watering them down simply so Sho doesn’t fall off his stool and crack his head open. Nice guy.
Today marks one full year, and Sho’s decided to give up. The problem, of course, is figuring out what his next steps are. But that’s for another time, another day, and he shakes his glass to get the bartender’s attention. He looks around, the bass throbbing painfully, and he makes a mental note to read some online reviews for moving companies that he’ll probably forget come morning.
The drag crew is long gone, replaced with people who’ve done more of a crawl through the neighborhood that night, not giving a shit about the bad music or the watered down drinks because this is their final stop, the make or break. Finding someone to go back with or slinking off alone in embarrassment. Sho remembers nights like those so vividly. But he’s been alone so long it may as well have been someone else.
Scanning the dance floor, some people are already half into each other’s pants, and Sho’s too drunk to be embarrassed on their behalf. Good for you, Sho thinks. Good for you. He takes in colorful clothes, too much jewelry, too much hair gel. The music changes up, one trashy dance hit blending into another, but then he’s there, someone who looks too good for a place like this. Too good to still be out and about, unattached for the evening.
Average height and lean, big eyes, big smile. Model face except for some acne scarring on his cheeks he hasn’t bothered to hide. The crowd parts for him, and it’s like his hips are leading the way. Sho can’t help but watch him move, sliding around in a pair of sinfully tight jeans. Every movement smooth, intentional. He owns the room, easily.
Some awkward fellow with glasses tries to grind up against the hot guy’s ass. Something he probably saw in a movie once and thought “go for it.” The ease with which the hot guy manages to move away from Glasses and his friendly pelvis impresses Sho deeply, although his amusement fades when the guy catches his eye and heads on over to the bar.
Sho turns back around. He came here for a reason - to get shit-faced in lieu of spending yet another night at home. It’s better to feel sorry for himself here than in his apartment. But it’s too late, and the stool beside him scrapes along the floor. He’s got cologne on, this guy, a woodsy smell, and Sho focuses on the bar top when the guy’s tapping his hand against it, trying to get the bartender’s attention. He’s got a thick silver ring on his finger, a chunky metal cuff on his wrist, and Sho wishes they hadn’t made eye contact. Fancy, confident, just Sho’s type unfortunately.
He asks the bartender for Jack and Coke and gives Sho a too-friendly poke in the arm. “Hey.”
Sho stares at the ice cubes, the liquid in his glass. “Hey.”
The bartender returns with the guy’s drink, but he doesn’t go anywhere. Instead he seems to lean closer. Maybe he’s trying to make it look like he’s here with Sho, just in case Glasses tries to press his luck again.
“Hey, you okay?”
Sho’s not, but he nods that he is anyhow. The hell was he thinking, coming here instead of getting trashed at the little bar around the corner from his apartment building?
“Don’t look okay,” the guy says, seeing right through him. He swivels on the stool, sitting sideways in hopes that Sho will do the same and chat with him.
Sho shrugs, knowing that his body language has to be screaming for this guy to piss off, but Sho’s also been known to be attracted to the obnoxiously persistent.
“You dance?”
“Not if I can help it,” Sho replies, sliding his glass along the bar top, listening to the ice cubes jostle.
“You were watching me.”
“I was watching everybody.”
He can sense rather than see the guy’s grin. “You’re a little old for this crowd.”
This does get Sho to turn, taking the guy in up close. His big smile’s bigger than he’d even realized. His face is a combination of big - thick brows, wide-set features, the bright eyes. Put together though, these disparate big parts, he’s handsome. Too handsome for Sho. “How old do you think I am?”
His new friend takes a long sip of his drink. “Thirty-seven.”
Sho groans, more exaggerated than he realizes. “I’m not thirty-seven.”
“Thirty-six,” the guy says, the big white teeth of his tugging briefly, enticingly on his lower lip. This reveals a small spot, a small mole, just underneath. “And a half.”
“Try again,” Sho complains this time, eyes starting to cross as he tries to connect the dots. The mole under the guy’s lip, its matching partner just above. There’s even one right on his lip. Where else might he have some? “Try thirty-two. At least for another month or two.”
The guy nods. “Happy birthday.”
They finish their drinks in a few minutes, and the guy pulls a credit card from his back pocket. “I got you.”
Sho protests, swaying on his stool a little. He’s not getting coaxed into blowing this guy in the alley, no matter how hot he is. “No, don’t…”
The guy’s hand wraps around his wrist. “You look miserable. Let me get this, and I’ll put you in a taxi.” His voice is serious, demanding. And just as hot as the rest of him.
Sho gives in, and the guy’s surprisingly gentle with him as they leave the bar, head toward a taxi stand. Sho’s had much more than he should have, and he finds himself awkwardly leaning against a newspaper box, staring at this stranger.
“Didn’t have to buy my drinks, I’m sorry…”
“Seriously, are you going to be alright?” The guy’s tapping a pack of cigarettes absent-mindedly against his hip. “What’s wrong?”
“Why do you care?” Sho blurts out, grasping onto the stupid metal box.
The guy holds his hands up innocently, clutching his cigarettes. “I was just fucking with you. About looking thirty-seven. You don’t look thirty-seven. Look, just…” He rolls his eyes. “Most people don’t go to a bar like that for the drinking atmosphere.”
“What do they go there for?” Sho asks. “To pick up other people’s tabs out of the goodness of their hearts?”
A taxi rolls up, the driver popping the back door open for them. They don’t say anything to each other as they both get in, and his companion calls out an address. Sho doesn’t think to offer his own because as soon as his back hits the seat, he’s somewhere else, tilting his head to look up at the man helping him out. He’s staring out the window, tapping his fingers against the glass.
As the taxi moves along, Sho realizes that he’s crying and doesn’t actually know how long he’s been doing so. Was he crying in that bar like an idiot? He’s not sure if the guy’s a Good Samaritan or planning to steal Sho’s wallet and leave him somewhere. He wants to believe, though, that this guy’s just looking out for him. Maybe they’ve both been burned one too many times.
It’s so quiet now, away from the club, that he all too easily fades out for the night.
-
Sho wakes up on an unfamiliar couch, and his head’s killing him. But it doesn’t matter because there’s a person sitting on the floor watching him, corners of his mouth quirking in amusement as soon as Sho’s got his eyes open.
He recoils, back against the couch cushion, clutching a blanket against himself. It smells fresh, a very cheerful laundry detergent.
“Good morning,” the guy says. Sho vaguely remembers the guy in the jeans, the generous man with the dark brows, but this isn’t him. This guy’s small, thin, sitting on the floor with his knees bent and his arms wrapped around them. There’s a look in his eyes that Sho isn’t sure he likes.
“Morning,” Sho says anyway because he can only wait for an explanation.
“Leave him alone.”
It’s the voice from last night, the one Sho fell for so easily, and it’s him. It’s the face and the moles and this time the hips are encased in some gray flannel pants instead of jeans. He’s got glasses on now, his dark hair less controlled. He sits down in a chair opposite the couch that Sho’s on. His friend gets up, patting him on the top of his head like a pet before disappearing. Roommate, Sho wonders, or more?
“Did he wake you?”
“No,” Sho says, “but he was staring at me when I woke up.”
“That’s because he’s a fucking creep.” The guy’s more hesitant now than he was last night. Sho realizes that his shoes and coat are gone, but an awkward feeling under him reveals that his wallet is still in his pants pocket. “You weren’t talking, I couldn’t get an address from you so I figured you could sleep it off here.”
Sho’s ashamed, staring at nothing. He hasn’t done anything like this before. At least not that he can remember.
“You want some coffee?”
Unable to respond verbally, Sho just nods. When the coffee’s arrived and Sho’s slowly working his way back to functioning, the guy gets the ball rolling. He’s Matsumoto Jun, he’s thirty-one, and he’s been between jobs since his company got downsized under new management. “I’ve had a lot of reasons to want to spend my Friday nights drinking like you were, so I guess I just…”
Rock bottom, that must have been the look in Sho’s eyes while he sat at that bar and caught Matsumoto’s eye.
“Sakurai Sho, and I just passed my first full year out of work.” He hugs the blanket in his arms, deciding that strangers don’t need the whole story. “Can’t maintain my apartment much longer, so as you can see, I was in that bar for a reason.”
Matsumoto’s dark eyes widen in surprise. “Well, how’s this for a coincidence? We’re looking for a fourth roommate here.”
Over the course of that Saturday morning, Sho learns that maybe there’s a place for him here. It turns out Matsumoto’s brought him to a house, a four-bedroom share house originally intended for students. Its current occupants, however, are Matsumoto, his rude awakening roommate Ninomiya who works at a net cafe, and someone they call Keito-san, who is rarely home but still chips in on rent so they don’t kick him out.
“A fourth person,” Matsumoto explains. “It’s what we’ve been needing for a while now. To cut costs down.”
“You don’t know me though,” Sho says. “And we met…”
“At a gay bar,” Ninomiya says from the chair where he’s curled himself up comfortably. “I know about Jun-kun, and it’s not a big deal if you are too.”
He sees Matsumoto flush in embarrassment. Don’t say things like that so casually, Matsumoto clearly wants to scold him, instead switching gears to talk about the house, about the rent payment. Ninomiya interrupts, sitting in that chair of his like judge, jury, and executioner. There’s a shrewdness to his demeanor that the calm, cool Matsumoto lacks.
He asks Sho questions rapid-fire. Where did you work? How will you be able to contribute to the rent payment if you’re unemployed? Are you single or attached? Would you bring people over here? Do you have any strange hobbies we should know about? Have you ever been arrested before?
Sho finds himself gripping his coffee mug tighter and tighter, and Matsumoto’s kind enough to rescue him. “We don’t need his fucking life story. We need his rent money,” Matsumoto says bluntly before turning back to look Sho in the eye. “I can understand if you don’t want to live with this guy. He’s watched a lot of detective dramas.”
Ninomiya’s grinning like a cat toying with a mouse. It doesn’t surprise Sho now that they’ve struggled to find a fourth housemate. But Sho’s only plans that day are to go to his parents’ house, that big fancy house, and get on his knees to beg for a chance to stay in his old room until he gets his life sorted out. He’s set to agree to anything, even his mother’s wish to see him married off.
But maybe he can put that off for a little longer. Sho sets the mug down on the scuffed up coffee table, rubs his eyes. “Can I see the room? Get the tour here?”
“You still haven’t answered if you’ve been arrested before,” Ninomiya reminds him.
“I haven’t,” Sho says, and he’s telling the truth. After all, there’s a difference between being arrested and coming very close to it.
-
Where most places make you wait, there’s no limbo surrounding Sho’s move into the share house with Matsumoto, Ninomiya, and the enigmatic Keito-san. Only a week after his drunken display and couch crashing, Matsumoto personally shows up to help Sho move. Sho can see the questions in his eyes when he looks around the apartment Sho’s being forced to give up. It had always been a bit of a reach on a teacher’s salary, but Sho had been counting on a transfer to a different school in a few years, a private school that would pay him what he was worth.
Well, things don’t always go according to plan.
He’s got everything boxed up and labeled, and a moving crew has taken the larger items over to the house already. Sho has a car, a hatchback he’d gotten in college and only just finished paying off a few years prior. Matsumoto and Ninomiya don’t have a vehicle, so Sho’s willingness to share it made him all the more appealing a housemate. There’s a carport just beside the house that’s apparently sat empty ever since they moved in.
Sho lifts a box of clothes, and Matsumoto’s got his arms out to take it. “Thank you,” Sho says. “You don’t even know how much you guys are saving me.”
Matsumoto, so confident that night in the bar when they first met, seems to have cooled off a bit. “I’m sure you’ll find a new position soon.”
Sho has no reply to that, if only because it’s none of Matsumoto’s business. He simply smiles and they go up and down the stairs. Matsumoto’s athletic, taking the stairs two at a time back up to Sho’s apartment, and Sho wonders if he’s been issued some sort of challenge. By the time they’re on the last of Sho’s boxes, when the car is stuffed so full with his shit that Matsumoto will have to sit with a box on his lap, he’s exhausted.
He shuts the door, finds Matsumoto leaning against the hood of the car when he comes trudging down the staircase. Sho’s legs are throbbing from the unnecessary extra exertion, but Matsumoto looks fresh and happy for the exercise. Sho jingles the keys, trying to speak without his breath heaving. “Efficient, you are.”
“Thought you’d appreciate it,” Matsumoto says, like he really does know how happy Sho is to put this place, this unfulfilling and distressing chapter of his life, behind him.
Sho says nothing, getting into the car. It’s across town, so Sho will have new train schedules to memorize, new convenience stores to track down and evaluate, the basic orientation things that he actually enjoys figuring out when it comes to living someplace new.
“You were a teacher you said?” Matsumoto asks, breaking their silence when they get stuck in some midday traffic.
Sho grips the steering wheel a little tighter. “Yeah.”
“That what you plan to keep doing?”
“Been a year,” Sho says. “Thought by now I’d have found something, so I don’t know.”
“I know the feeling.”
He looks over, and Matsumoto’s looking out the window again. “Does Ninomiya-san know of any openings where he is?”
Matsumoto chuckles. “You don’t strike me as a part-timer, Sakurai-san.”
“I don’t strike myself that way either, but here I am, unemployed for a year. I’m at the point where I’ll do anything to have some money coming in.”
“Well, he doesn’t talk about work at home much,” Matsumoto admits. “For all I know, he’s lying and doesn’t even work at a net cafe.”
Sho’s a little puzzled. “How long have you and Ninomiya-san been living together?”
“Since I got laid off. He and I went to high school together. Met up at a class reunion. Of course I’d been attending said reunion to try and do a little networking since I’d just been laid off. Found Nino instead.”
The nickname seems almost affectionate, and Sho wonders how close they’d been in high school. “And he doesn’t tell you anything about work?”
Matsumoto shrugs. “He keeps to himself. He can be in your face one minute, nosing around your business, but then he’ll go retreat in that room of his for ages.”
“Mysterious type, huh?”
“I doubt it,” Matsumoto says with a grin. “I think he’s just playing games or jacking off most nights. No mystery there.”
Sho takes this in, nodding a little uncomfortably. The traffic starts moving again, and it’s a while before Sho keeps the conversation going.
“What about Keito-san then? What does he do?”
Matsumoto clams up in a way that makes Sho nervous. He looks over when they reach another red light, and Matsumoto is fidgeting. The man who came right up to him in that bar, all eyes in the room on him. He’s probably going to bite his thumbnail clean off, and Sho tries to convince himself that maybe the guy just hadn’t heard his question. He tries again.
“Matsumoto-san?”
He blinks a few times, and Sho almost winces at the too-loud cracking sound as Matsumoto bites his nail. “I dunno,” he replies quietly. “Guy’s always gone.”
This is such a lie that Sho’s keen on turning the car around. It’s so unlike him, being this impulsive. Packing up his entire life to move in with strangers. Strangers who are increasingly strange. Sakurai Sho, who used to plan everything in advance, to the minute. He let this smooth talking guy pick him up at his most vulnerable, and here he is a week later, all set to move in with him and he doesn’t know a damn thing about him - or his other housemates.
“Guess I’ll just browse the job boards as usual,” Sho says, trying to sound as oblivious to Matsumoto’s distress as he dares. Ninomiya, who stays in his room. Matsumoto, who was perfectly content to let Sho join them without question. And this Keito-san, the never around Keito-san. What has he gotten himself into?
-
The first few days go so smoothly that Sho manages to forget the awkward, ominous feeling he’d experienced in the car with Matsumoto. Maybe Sho was just reading more into things than necessary. His room is perfectly adequate and clean, and there are two bathrooms in the house. He ends up sharing with Ninomiya, who doesn’t keep more than a toothbrush, a razor, and a cheap bottle of combination shampoo and body wash in there. Matsumoto was correct; Ninomiya keeps strange hours, and he usually emerges from his room only to leave the house, presumably for work, or to heat something up in the microwave.
Matsumoto goes out most nights, dressed in tight slacks and smelling so good Sho almost wants to follow him, like an abandoned puppy desperate for scraps. He never asks Sho or Ninomiya to go with him, instead just grabbing his keys and wallet and saying a casual goodbye while he pulls on his shoes. During the day he’s in and out of the house, most of the time in a suit and probably off to a job center.
Sho spends those first few days in the living room with the TV on low, laptop open on the coffee table as he looks for things to apply for. From the vantage point of the living room, he’s able to get a better sense of how things work around here. He learns that Matsumoto labels his food in the refrigerator and that Ninomiya eats it anyway. He learns that Ninomiya doesn’t care if the others can hear his porn through the door. He learns that Matsumoto’s bathroom is sacred ground, an arrangement of hair care and skin care products, vitamins and supplements, a pharmacy’s worth of allergy meds and ibuprofen and cough suppressants. Sho has used the toilet in there once and hasn’t returned for fear of knocking over some bottle of face cream that an unemployed person probably can’t afford.
Keito-san has been home once, and Sho apparently slept through it. The house is all on one level. The living room, entry hall, and the kitchen in front. Sho and Ninomiya’s bedrooms, their bathroom in back along with Matsumoto’s room, his bathroom, and at the end of the hall, Keito-san’s room. “He got home after 4:00,” Ninomiya says on one of his rare appearances, leaning uncomfortably over Sho’s shoulder to read the job posting he’s considering. “But he was gone again by 7:00. He’s that way.”
The first few days become a week and then two, and Sho feels as though he’s finally a bit established. He’s even managed to get a call back, a small company looking for a bookkeeper. To celebrate this minor victory, an interview set for the following week, he emerges from the house.
He meets Aiba at a family restaurant halfway between their houses. It’s been weeks since he’s socialized, and Aiba’s face today isn’t as full of pity for him as it’s been for the last year. Their desks faced each other for five years, and Aiba Masaki is probably one of the best teachers left in the place. Not the type to coop himself up in a lab, Aiba went into biology teaching to inspire a new generation to get excited about science, and he largely succeeds. He’s popular with students and faculty alike.
He’s also the only person from the school who still talks to Sho.
Right now he’s poking around at a hamburger steak that should have been cooked longer. Knowing Aiba though, he’s too kind to send things back and will plow through them as they are. Aiba’s kindness wasn’t able to save Sho’s job, though, even though he tried his best. Sho will always be grateful for that.
“You’re back to shaving I see. You look better with that round baby face,” Aiba says with a wry smile, his gleaming teeth that have won over a few too many teenage female biology students. Aiba pointed out a student message board to Sho once, proudly noting that he was voted “hottest” teacher in the school. He hasn’t mentioned that in a while though, but Sho can objectively admit that Aiba’s a good looking person. His wife, Sho reminds himself with a glance to Aiba’s wedding band, is a lucky lady.
Sho strokes his chin. “I’ve always shaved.”
Aiba sees through his shit in an instant, always has, and moves on from his hamburger to his green beans. “Right.”
Aiba Masaki knows a Sakurai Sho who went weeks without shaving, months without a haircut after he was dismissed from the school. Aiba Masaki knows a Sakurai Sho who stopped doing laundry, wearing the same rotation of three t-shirts. He tried throwing money at the problem, offering to help Sho pay his rent or to take him out to eat, but Sho’s never allowed it. Only a month earlier, Aiba had been convinced there was room in his tiny ass apartment for Sho to move in and to hell with his wife’s objections. Aiba’s faith in him has never wavered, no matter what he’s known about Sho, and it’s a link he doesn’t dare lose.
“So what’s going on with that other housemate guy?” Aiba asks, switching gears. Sho thinks Aiba might actually be the most excited about Sho’s housing change-up, and he’s asked dozens of questions that Sho can’t necessarily answer yet.
“I’ve never seen him.”
“Maybe he’s invisible,” Aiba teases. “Or like a chameleon. Like, he’s always at home but you don’t know because he’s blended in with the wall or the sofa. You know, there’s this creature called a mimic octopus. It can do so much more than change colors, Sho-chan. It can change the shape of its body and…”
“Aiba-kun, I’m fairly convinced Keito-san is not a camouflaging animal.” Ninomiya cracked the door open for Sho once, just to give Sho proof someone technically lived in there. There wasn’t much more than a single bed, neatly made, and a cheap-looking chest of drawers. Keito-san had no visible personal effects inside there.
“Still don’t know what he does for a living?”
Sho shakes his head. “The others don’t even know.”
That’s not entirely accurate. Sho can see the way Matsumoto visibly relaxes when he wakes in the morning and Ninomiya tells him that Keito-san hasn’t dropped by. But any time Sho’s tried to bring up the topic of Keito-san, Matsumoto and Ninomiya have dodged it with the finesse of shitty actors in a late-night drama.
“Maybe he’s government. A secret agent,” Aiba suggests, stabbing a green bean. “Or maybe something more sinister.”
Sho tries to smile, thinking about Matsumoto’s relief when the man’s absent. “Sinister? Come on, it’s probably just a married man who likes a night or two away from the wife here and there.”
Aiba’s still suspicious, but that’s most likely because he’s very happily married. The world’s longest honeymoon stage, some of the other teachers used to gossip about him. He can’t fathom being away from his wife for much longer than an average workday. “Becky thinks he’s a serial killer.”
Sho would object to Aiba and his wife speculating so freely about his new life and his new housemates, but he supposes it’s harmless. “I think we’d know if he was a serial killer, Masaki…”
“Pfft,” Aiba protests, “I read a book about it once. How they often end up being someone you’d never suspect, just the guy next door.”
“Well if he does any serial killing, he doesn’t do it at the house, and that’s just fine by me.”
Aiba doesn’t meet his eyes, sipping from his water glass. “If you ever change your mind…about living there, I mean, you just have to let me know.”
“Thanks,” he replies, rolling his eyes. Because living with a nosy married couple is preferable to living with three seemingly unattached men who keep to themselves.
“So anyway,” Aiba says awkwardly a few moments later, finally turning the topic away from Sho’s new living situation. “Principal Takahashi has new hair plugs, and he thinks we haven’t noticed yet.”
-
He’s somehow managed to fry himself a couple eggs without burning the kitchen down. It’s after 1:00 in the morning, and he’s alone in the house. Dinner is an afterthought after six solid hours perusing job boards and getting lost in his own paranoia, envisioning employers giving him shit about being so stingy with personal references on his applications.
The kitchen’s an odd space in the house. There’s no sign that Keito-san has so much as a dish sponge in the place, and Ninomiya leans toward bringing home food or making things that don’t require much more than a boiling pot of water or a beeping microwave. Matsumoto largely owns the space with his neatly-labeled leftovers, spice rack, full set of pots and pans. His stuff is a lot nicer than Sho’s, and some nights in the living room while he’s job hunting he can smell Matsumoto making the most elaborate dinners for one in human history.
As Sho borrows the black pepper shaker from Matsumoto’s spice rack and quickly returns it, he wonders if he could somehow convince the guy to make something for two people once in a while. Then again, Sho isn’t quite sure what he could offer in exchange that Matsumoto would want. Crippling dependence, maybe, he thinks with a grin. Sho likes to eat, but he sometimes wishes that fully cooked meals could drop from the sky without him having to expend any effort.
He eats his lame eggs and imagines Matsumoto in the too tight jeans from that first night, standing by the counter chopping vegetables or wielding a wok like a professional. Some people have filthy sexual fantasies about the people they’re attracted to. And here’s Sho envisioning Matsumoto slipping a long noodle from a cook pot between his perfect lips to see if it’s al dente. “Sho-kun,” he’ll say like it’s normal for him to do so, “dinner’s ready.”
Sho’s cell phone rings, and he’s surprised when the caller ID says it’s Matsumoto. They exchanged numbers out of necessity, back when they were coordinating Sho’s move. Maybe he’s psychic and knows Sho was in here using his pepper. He’s called to scold him for it. Sho answers on the second ring because he’d seem too needy and pathetic to answer on the first.
“This is Sakurai.”
There’s quiet for a moment, and then he hears breathing.
“Matsumoto-san?”
“Did I wake you?”
“No. Just having a late dinner.”
Matsumoto pauses again, and Sho senses that he’s had to force himself to make this call. “I’m so sorry to trouble you, but I was hoping…” He exhales, long and shaky, enough to send a shiver down Sho’s spine. “I was hoping you could pick me up and bring me home.”
The guy goes out and comes home almost every night without incident. “Are you okay? Has something happened?”
“If I text you the address, could you please come?”
Because Sho’s curiosity is almost equal to his attraction, he agrees immediately. Matsumoto still offers no explanation, hanging up and sending off an address in seemingly record time. It’s a fairly ritzy neighborhood, though Matsumoto’s directed him to meet him at a park.
The night is cold, and Sho rubs his hands together while the car warms up. His cell phone directs him across town, past high rises and nightlife and holiday lights. He doesn’t even have to get out of the car because Matsumoto’s already getting off a bench and shuffling over as soon as he pulls up. He’s limping, and when he opens the door to sit down, Sho can’t help but switch on the overhead light. Matsumoto recoils, turning away, and Sho switches the light off hurriedly.
“Sorry.” Even in the quick burst of light, Sho was able to see that Matsumoto’s eye is bruising and he’s also taken a punch in the mouth. A split lip that looks painful as hell. And that’s just the visible stuff. “Are you alright?”
“I want to go home. Please.”
Sho pulls back onto the street, heading away from the park. At every stop light he looks over, seeing how Matsumoto’s taken off his shoes, pulled up his legs onto the seat like a little boy. He’s got his arms wrapped around himself. He’s made himself as small as he can. Sho doesn’t ask any further questions, instead putting on the radio and letting some celebrity’s dull late night radio show make conversation for them.
When they pull in at the house, Matsumoto mutters a quiet “thank you, Sho-san” before putting his shoes back on and getting out. Sho can’t help following, seeing how Matsumoto’s struggling to walk without showing weakness. He drops the shoes in the genkan with a noisy thud, feet scuffing the floor as he heads for his bathroom. Before he can get the door closed behind him, Sho’s pushing it back open.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.” Matsumoto’s already opening his medicine cabinet, fumbling with a roll of gauze. He dabs at his lip, wincing in irritation.
“Should ice your eye,” Sho says, hovering in the doorway like a worried parent.
“I know.” Matsumoto pushes past him, heading for the kitchen to do just as Sho’s advised. If he notices that Sho’s left his half-eaten plate of eggs behind, that he dropped everything to come pick him up, he doesn’t say anything. Instead he grabs a kitchen towel and fills it with ice cubes, groaning a bit when he finally presses it to his face.
“Who did this to you?”
“Nobody.”
“Nobody,” Sho repeats, having no appetite for his abandoned dinner. “Nothing” happened and “nobody” beat the shit out of him. “So what then, you walked into a wall or something?”
Matsumoto gives him an angry look, a “don’t be so fucking dense, of course someone hit me” kind of look that just makes Sho more upset. He only knows Matsumoto Jun in bits and pieces after these first few weeks, a strange amalgamation of facts and conjecture. What he eats, when he sleeps, what he wears when he goes out at night. Sho is learning, and quickly, that he still doesn’t know a god damn thing.
He scrapes his eggs into the trash and dumps the plate in the sink, turning the water on just long enough to give the thing an insufficient rinse. Sho shuts off the faucet, leans back against the sink as Matsumoto nearly collapses into a chair, leaning on his elbow and pressing the towel of ice to his face in a stony silence.
“There was a student,” Sho says, “and I was not going to pass her.”
He can tell that Matsumoto’s listening, even though he’s turned away.
“She cut class all the time, never turned in assignments, and still thought I was going to pass her. So then when grades came out, she was surprised. Most students, they probably think ‘Ah Sakurai’s just an asshole’ and move on with their lives, but not this girl. Wealthy, well-connected. Used to getting what she wants.”
Sho somehow isn’t even surprised that he’s telling Matsumoto, unsolicited and for no good reason other than the hope that if he opens up maybe Matsumoto will do the same.
“So she comes up to me after school one day, alone, and tells me if I don’t change her grade she’s going to tell the whole school, the teachers, staff, everyone that I was having sex with her.” He chuckles bitterly, remembering the crazed look in her eyes, the strange victory he’d seen in them. “She says she’s going to tell them all that I made her get an abortion, that I’m the worst piece of shit in the universe.”
He’s nearly shaking with the telling of it, regurgitating everything he’s spent a full year now trying to move on from.
“She’s bluffing, I think, so I tell her no. She’s got no proof anyhow. But I’m so sure of myself in that moment, so sure that she’s just fucking with me, that I tell her something I shouldn’t. I tell her she’s a spoiled little bitch, and that I’m not the last person in her life who’s going to tell her no.”
Matsumoto lets out a quiet snort, and Sho finds himself grinning despite himself.
“Turns out she was recording me, and that’s what she brings to a faculty meeting. Again, there’s no proof that I slept with her, and she was a known problem child at the school. But the words were mine, and no matter how awful she was, there was no going back after I said something like that to her. To a student, any student. I could have told them, you know, could have said there was no possible way I’d have slept with her because…” He shuts his eyes. “Well, of course I didn’t say anything of the sort. I apologized for causing such a problem and before I could resign, leave with an ounce of dignity, they fired me on the spot.”
Sho steps away from the sink, sees that Matsumoto isn’t holding the towel of ice in quite the right place. He finds himself lifting the towel from Matsumoto’s grasp, their fingers brushing as he moves it an inch or so over. Matsumoto’s eyes are dark, hypnotic, and Sho steps back before he lingers too long.
“So I didn’t deny it outright or offer my embarrassingly valid excuse. I’ll probably never teach again. They could have called the cops, had them arrest me first and sort it out later, but given her family connections, it was easier just to get me out of there. And she had no reason to continue her threats if I was out of her way.”
He’s a bit startled when Matsumoto asks a question. “Did they change it?”
“What?”
“Her grade,” Matsumoto says quietly, looking at Sho with seemingly genuine concern. “Did they change her grade?”
Sho laughs, nodding. “Oh yeah. They changed her grade.”
It feels surprisingly good, telling someone, letting someone else share the burden he’s been carrying for a full year. Aiba knows, of course, knows Sho couldn’t have possibly done what the girl had accused him of, but it’s not like Aiba has mystical time travel powers that could have sent him back to keep Sho from opening his trap and speaking the way he did to a sixteen year old girl. But Matsumoto Jun can probably understand it all in a way Aiba simply can’t.
Matsumoto gets to his feet a few moments later, startling Sho a bit when he reaches out a hand and squeezes his arm. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, and Sho doesn’t know if it’s in reaction to Sho’s sad story or for all the secrets he’s still keeping himself. But before Sho can gather the courage to respond, to ask Matsumoto one more time who’s hurt him, he’s already heading out of the kitchen, his bedroom door closing behind him.
Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4