You Are The Quarry
Title: You Are The Quarry
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Sho/Jun
Word count: 1508
Summary: Sho is a gallery curator. Jun is a sculptor. But do they really move in the same world?
Warnings/Notes: Yes, I'm still alive. Anyway, this one is set in the same world as To Me, You Are a Work of Art, and might be off chronologically and thus disjointed, but I feel like taking this world bit by bit. I just want to savor it. Safe to say that I'm quite smitten with this AU, which I'm naming Happenstance, just for organization's sake.
No one ever believes him the first time around when he says that he’s an art gallery curator. Perhaps it is the practical, mundane aura that he emits, like he’d be much better suited to being an investment consultant or a hedge fund manager. He’s been told too many times than he’d like to admit that he looks like someone who is good with numbers, often with a superior, accusatory lilt to their statements.
But Sho is good. He’s good at talking. He is good at recognizing beauty. He sees it now, wearing a bathrobe-like thing over tired-looking jeans.
“Do you think I don’t know?”
They are strolling together, surrounded by rows and rows of marble creations. He sees the challenge in the other man’s eyes, made worse by the unfair, regal light that makes Sho timid. Jun has eyes that betray his sure-footedness about who he is. He is a man who rules his own kingdom, a man governed by an inner spring of quiet confidence. It isn’t enough that with his strong features, he resembles the chiseled statues that he liked to carve-it’s as if it’s his natural right to be the center of attention everywhere he goes-he also has the temerity to appear unaware of his power, unconcerned about the hold he has on people. Or maybe, Sho just so happens to be the one person in the world who is the most susceptible to Jun’s…beingness. He can’t find another word for it, even as he’s been at the mercy of it for weeks now, courting his talent and equanimity.
“Don’t know what?”
“What you expect of me. You hope to place me in the front of your gallery, to prove to collectors and other people in the scene that you’re relevant, that you’re not mediocre. Perhaps you feel that my work is genuine, but you don't see it. You don’t really see my work, you only see its potential to sell.” Could it be possible that his eyes are twinkling? Or perhaps they are just that cold.
“I don’t sell art that I dislike, Matsumoto-san. I see you.”
“I call bullshit on that.” Jun tightens the belt on his robe, and Sho suddenly finds his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth dryly. He shifts on his other foot. "You can't possibly make the amount of money that you do from that."
“I want you, I want your art,” Sho finds himself declaring. “I want it in front of the gallery where it belongs. Of course I want it to sell, that’s my job, I peddle art, that’s it. There’s something in it for me but you can’t possibly not see how much there is in it for you too. You wouldn’t have returned my calls if you didn’t think that I had something to offer, right?”
“Merely a transaction.” They stop in front of a tall sculpture, a woman with glassy eyes who seems to be singing forlorn arias in an unknown world. Jun rubs at a speck of dirt on its arm.
“No, another avenue. A new dimension for your art,” Sho says carefully. Jun seems like the type who is wary of anyone touching, much less owning, his work. Sho knows the type. But Jun has a reason to be, Sho thinks, and that's why he wants to step in and change the way he thinks.
"Why me, then?"
"Because you have something to say."
Jun smirks. “You know what I am, Sakurai? I’m an ordinary person.”
And Sho doubts it, doubts it so strongly that it feels like bile coming up his trachea. Sho knows that artists are usually tough people to deal with, and throughout the years, he has learned to tread carefully around the relationship of an artist and his creations-it is volatile ground that threatens to give way the moment he shows that he doesn’t understand. Artists aren’t ordinary people, that’s for sure, but among the galaxy of stars that burn in their own time and way, Jun’s light is fierce and unavoidable, if a little too garish. His marble sculptures are a world unto themselves, and Sho has never been this invested in any other person’s work. Not like this.
“I doubt that,” he says honestly. “Look Matsumoto-san, if you aren’t ready, you can just always call me, I’ll-”
In an instant, there's a strong grip on his wrist, a warm mouth on his, slow, overwhelming undulation, a moment when a sense of lingering clutched his heart for what would seem like a lifetime, his breath taken away by such an infinitesimal chunk of time that he can’t buy back. In an instant, just like that, because he is the one who pulls away violently. Jun's hand on his wrist doesn't ease up on its hold.
Jun's gaze is sharp and unyielding. “Tell me you didn’t like that,” he says, his face only a mere inch away, the injustice of it all only beginning to dawn on Sho.
“I don’t-,” he sputters, “I don’t want you to think-”
“I don’t want you to think either,” Jun interjects. "What are you really coming here for?"
His heart is still pounding in confusion. "Matsumoto-san-"
"I can hear you thinking a mile away. I dare you not to think about this: I want you. I wanted you the first time I saw you in that stupid polka-dotted suit that I think has lost you a fair amount of clientele. Burn it, and you can have me." Jun says it as if it’s the most mundane thing in the world. Maybe it is, but the grip on his wrist is both rude and shocking.
Sho doesn’t know if he feels insulted or turned on. It’s probably both, but he feels his temper and pride winning over just a tiny bit. He shakes off Jun’s hand, his voice firm as he says, “You can command any price in the world, I don’t know why you’re doing this. I hope I don’t misunderstand your intentions-,” and he really doesn’t, even with how ruthless the art scene is, he likes things to be straightforward and clean, perhaps he’s really in the wrong profession-“as I hope you don’t misunderstand mine.”
"I'm being pretty clear here," Jun says, and his eyes dark and suddenly cat-like; how can normal body parts that other people also have exude so much expression when it is his?
"I think I've been pretty straightforward with you, Matsumoto-san. I am simply proposing a business transaction that will greatly benefit your work and give it esteem, because it deserves a wider and a more appreciative audience. I deeply respect you and your art. I know that you can go places, and I want to be the one to take you there."
The smile on his face is bemused. “You're too fucking talkative,” Jun says, and that does it.
In retrospect, Sho will relish the memory of Jun’s minute gasp as his back hits the cemented studio wall. He will remember a time when Jun’s careless charm was a thrill, when he didn't know that Jun felt so much, that he would rather be the moon that silently affects the tides that will then result to storms, rather than the storm itself.
In the far future, Sho will remember a strange, wild, and rash Jun, a Jun that he has yet to get to know, and will remember the exact, precise moment when he felt a part of that exterior cave in. In the future, Jun will say, "because I've always needed someone who believes in what I can be, despite myself", so open and broken, and all the why's stop because skin will always understand better. He will always hold Jun’s vulnerability in fear and adoration; he must keep a balance. He must not be the one to take his art away from him.
But all that is too far ahead in time. They are both breathless for a second when Sho says, “You don't know a fucking thing about suits." He then seems to realize what he has just said and that he has Jun's bathrobe fisted in his hands. He drops it immediately, as if scalded. Jun leans his head on the wall and laughs.
"I just want your art," Sho says lamely, feeling completely played for some reason.
It is the first time in Sho’s life that he feels undone, unmade. He hasn’t seen anything real until Jun’s smile-reckless, intelligent, and soft beyond belief. “I’m yours. If you want me too.”
Sho tries hard not to grin, because what in the hell. Artists. “It’s a deal,” Sho manages.
“Sure is,” Jun says, as Sho notices the specks of light brown in his eyes.
“A business one.” It's desperation. Confusion. One last truce. Breadcrumbs. Larvae that will someday be butterflies.
“What else could it be.”
Sho steps away from Jun, straightens out his crinkled suit, and walks away. When he goes out the door, he has no idea that he has begun walking towards something that will shape the very color and tone of his days. Just as the artist chisels away on a piece of hardened history to find a truth, Sho will find his truth in him. They will make, break, and make each other again and again, simply because there’s no other way for the two of them.
He has no idea. He’s just an art gallery curator, who doesn’t even seem like one, and he just wants to win over a bastard of a sculptor whose lips taste a lot like promise.
He keeps on walking.
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Sho/Jun
Word count: 1508
Summary: Sho is a gallery curator. Jun is a sculptor. But do they really move in the same world?
Warnings/Notes: Yes, I'm still alive. Anyway, this one is set in the same world as To Me, You Are a Work of Art, and might be off chronologically and thus disjointed, but I feel like taking this world bit by bit. I just want to savor it. Safe to say that I'm quite smitten with this AU, which I'm naming Happenstance, just for organization's sake.
No one ever believes him the first time around when he says that he’s an art gallery curator. Perhaps it is the practical, mundane aura that he emits, like he’d be much better suited to being an investment consultant or a hedge fund manager. He’s been told too many times than he’d like to admit that he looks like someone who is good with numbers, often with a superior, accusatory lilt to their statements.
But Sho is good. He’s good at talking. He is good at recognizing beauty. He sees it now, wearing a bathrobe-like thing over tired-looking jeans.
“Do you think I don’t know?”
They are strolling together, surrounded by rows and rows of marble creations. He sees the challenge in the other man’s eyes, made worse by the unfair, regal light that makes Sho timid. Jun has eyes that betray his sure-footedness about who he is. He is a man who rules his own kingdom, a man governed by an inner spring of quiet confidence. It isn’t enough that with his strong features, he resembles the chiseled statues that he liked to carve-it’s as if it’s his natural right to be the center of attention everywhere he goes-he also has the temerity to appear unaware of his power, unconcerned about the hold he has on people. Or maybe, Sho just so happens to be the one person in the world who is the most susceptible to Jun’s…beingness. He can’t find another word for it, even as he’s been at the mercy of it for weeks now, courting his talent and equanimity.
“Don’t know what?”
“What you expect of me. You hope to place me in the front of your gallery, to prove to collectors and other people in the scene that you’re relevant, that you’re not mediocre. Perhaps you feel that my work is genuine, but you don't see it. You don’t really see my work, you only see its potential to sell.” Could it be possible that his eyes are twinkling? Or perhaps they are just that cold.
“I don’t sell art that I dislike, Matsumoto-san. I see you.”
“I call bullshit on that.” Jun tightens the belt on his robe, and Sho suddenly finds his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth dryly. He shifts on his other foot. "You can't possibly make the amount of money that you do from that."
“I want you, I want your art,” Sho finds himself declaring. “I want it in front of the gallery where it belongs. Of course I want it to sell, that’s my job, I peddle art, that’s it. There’s something in it for me but you can’t possibly not see how much there is in it for you too. You wouldn’t have returned my calls if you didn’t think that I had something to offer, right?”
“Merely a transaction.” They stop in front of a tall sculpture, a woman with glassy eyes who seems to be singing forlorn arias in an unknown world. Jun rubs at a speck of dirt on its arm.
“No, another avenue. A new dimension for your art,” Sho says carefully. Jun seems like the type who is wary of anyone touching, much less owning, his work. Sho knows the type. But Jun has a reason to be, Sho thinks, and that's why he wants to step in and change the way he thinks.
"Why me, then?"
"Because you have something to say."
Jun smirks. “You know what I am, Sakurai? I’m an ordinary person.”
And Sho doubts it, doubts it so strongly that it feels like bile coming up his trachea. Sho knows that artists are usually tough people to deal with, and throughout the years, he has learned to tread carefully around the relationship of an artist and his creations-it is volatile ground that threatens to give way the moment he shows that he doesn’t understand. Artists aren’t ordinary people, that’s for sure, but among the galaxy of stars that burn in their own time and way, Jun’s light is fierce and unavoidable, if a little too garish. His marble sculptures are a world unto themselves, and Sho has never been this invested in any other person’s work. Not like this.
“I doubt that,” he says honestly. “Look Matsumoto-san, if you aren’t ready, you can just always call me, I’ll-”
In an instant, there's a strong grip on his wrist, a warm mouth on his, slow, overwhelming undulation, a moment when a sense of lingering clutched his heart for what would seem like a lifetime, his breath taken away by such an infinitesimal chunk of time that he can’t buy back. In an instant, just like that, because he is the one who pulls away violently. Jun's hand on his wrist doesn't ease up on its hold.
Jun's gaze is sharp and unyielding. “Tell me you didn’t like that,” he says, his face only a mere inch away, the injustice of it all only beginning to dawn on Sho.
“I don’t-,” he sputters, “I don’t want you to think-”
“I don’t want you to think either,” Jun interjects. "What are you really coming here for?"
His heart is still pounding in confusion. "Matsumoto-san-"
"I can hear you thinking a mile away. I dare you not to think about this: I want you. I wanted you the first time I saw you in that stupid polka-dotted suit that I think has lost you a fair amount of clientele. Burn it, and you can have me." Jun says it as if it’s the most mundane thing in the world. Maybe it is, but the grip on his wrist is both rude and shocking.
Sho doesn’t know if he feels insulted or turned on. It’s probably both, but he feels his temper and pride winning over just a tiny bit. He shakes off Jun’s hand, his voice firm as he says, “You can command any price in the world, I don’t know why you’re doing this. I hope I don’t misunderstand your intentions-,” and he really doesn’t, even with how ruthless the art scene is, he likes things to be straightforward and clean, perhaps he’s really in the wrong profession-“as I hope you don’t misunderstand mine.”
"I'm being pretty clear here," Jun says, and his eyes dark and suddenly cat-like; how can normal body parts that other people also have exude so much expression when it is his?
"I think I've been pretty straightforward with you, Matsumoto-san. I am simply proposing a business transaction that will greatly benefit your work and give it esteem, because it deserves a wider and a more appreciative audience. I deeply respect you and your art. I know that you can go places, and I want to be the one to take you there."
The smile on his face is bemused. “You're too fucking talkative,” Jun says, and that does it.
In retrospect, Sho will relish the memory of Jun’s minute gasp as his back hits the cemented studio wall. He will remember a time when Jun’s careless charm was a thrill, when he didn't know that Jun felt so much, that he would rather be the moon that silently affects the tides that will then result to storms, rather than the storm itself.
In the far future, Sho will remember a strange, wild, and rash Jun, a Jun that he has yet to get to know, and will remember the exact, precise moment when he felt a part of that exterior cave in. In the future, Jun will say, "because I've always needed someone who believes in what I can be, despite myself", so open and broken, and all the why's stop because skin will always understand better. He will always hold Jun’s vulnerability in fear and adoration; he must keep a balance. He must not be the one to take his art away from him.
But all that is too far ahead in time. They are both breathless for a second when Sho says, “You don't know a fucking thing about suits." He then seems to realize what he has just said and that he has Jun's bathrobe fisted in his hands. He drops it immediately, as if scalded. Jun leans his head on the wall and laughs.
"I just want your art," Sho says lamely, feeling completely played for some reason.
It is the first time in Sho’s life that he feels undone, unmade. He hasn’t seen anything real until Jun’s smile-reckless, intelligent, and soft beyond belief. “I’m yours. If you want me too.”
Sho tries hard not to grin, because what in the hell. Artists. “It’s a deal,” Sho manages.
“Sure is,” Jun says, as Sho notices the specks of light brown in his eyes.
“A business one.” It's desperation. Confusion. One last truce. Breadcrumbs. Larvae that will someday be butterflies.
“What else could it be.”
Sho steps away from Jun, straightens out his crinkled suit, and walks away. When he goes out the door, he has no idea that he has begun walking towards something that will shape the very color and tone of his days. Just as the artist chisels away on a piece of hardened history to find a truth, Sho will find his truth in him. They will make, break, and make each other again and again, simply because there’s no other way for the two of them.
He has no idea. He’s just an art gallery curator, who doesn’t even seem like one, and he just wants to win over a bastard of a sculptor whose lips taste a lot like promise.
He keeps on walking.