Corrida
Title: Corrida
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Matsumoto Jun/Sakurai Sho
Summary: The matador is swift and precise, dodging the charging horns. Even from across the ring, Sho can see the determination on the young man’s face.
Notes/Warnings: An AU request from miquilis who asked for Jun as a matador. Set in Madrid, late 1936 (beginning days of the Spanish Civil War) because that's how I roll. As AU as AU can get, I'm afraid. Violence warning because of Jun's profession and what that entails obviously.
He thinks there’s enough blood running in the streets. General Franco is at the gates and rumors are flying fast. Rumors that the Germans will fly over Madrid and drop bombs. Bombing civilians, Sho thinks bitterly. Has it come to that?
There’s enough blood and yet there’s a corrida today. The last for the season. He’s not sure how many people will show up. Most who aren’t fighting are locked up in their homes, spending each night in bed wondering if the next person shot in the streets will be a friend or a family member.
There’s little work for Sho to do. It’s hard to teach when nobody sends their children to school. The ring is just down the street, and they’re practically giving away tickets.
“Viva España!” the ticket tout is shouting as Sho walks back home. Viva España, indeed. He takes the ticket, hearing a machine gun cracking in the distance as he finds a seat as far from the ring as he (and his stomach can manage).
It’s been ages since he’s been to a corrida. He hasn’t missed it. There’s the usual ceremony as the matadores enter in their colorful outfits. It’s overcast today, and there’s less sparkle from their shiny jackets than usual. It seems to fit Sho’s mood just fine. The bull is paraded in as well.
The cheers are less raucous, the crowd less enthusiastic as the bull is teased by the picadores on their horses. Spain is falling apart all around them and still the picadores charge with their lances and still the banderilleros race to stick their colorful flags into the ferocious animal. The final stage begins, and Sho watches the matador enter with his cape and his sword.
It will hopefully be a swift, merciful exit for the bull. The crowd is only cheering to be polite as the matador starts his precarious dance. Priests are being murdered by one side, and the other side has started to retaliate. It’s getting worse by the day, but here is a man in his shining jacket and form-fitting slacks. He holds the cape reverently, still attempting to put on a respectful performance. He is beautiful and terrible. He is Spain unchanging.
Sho doesn’t know why the man bothers. Some people start leaving at the first loss of blood. Others go once the picadores enter with their lances. Sho remains, and he doesn’t know why. The matador is swift and precise, dodging the charging horns. Even from across the ring, Sho can see the determination on the young man’s face.
“Ole,” he mumbles after a particularly skilled pass, drowned out by the few faithful remaining in the arena who cheer the matador on. The matador lifts the sword, and Sho looks away.
--
A matador, especially one here in Madrid, usually has an entourage and adoring fans begging for his attention. Sho watches the young man slip out of the arena alone, cap over his dark hair.
He doesn’t know why, but he follows him, watching the matador light a cigarette and head off down the street. Everyone’s already gone home. Nobody stayed to congratulate him on a successful performance. There’s a small bar at the end of the block, one that Sho’s been to half a dozen times after grading essays.
He finds the matador at the bar, sees the disappointment in the way he’s slouching, elbows on the bar counter. Sho sets down some money. “Let me pay for whatever you’re having.”
The young man’s eyes are big and bright. “I’m sorry...do I know you?”
“I was at the corrida. I saw you,” Sho tells him, feeling suddenly very embarrassed for having trailed the man all this way. He gets onto the stool beside him, and his mouth is dry. “Why do you bother?”
“Why do I bother?”
Sho accepts the mug of beer gratefully and takes a sip. “I meant, why would they bother with a corrida today? This city is under siege. Why add danger on top of danger?”
The matador - no, Sho remembers, the poster on the wall outside the ring said his name was Jun - takes a long sip from his own mug. “It’s my job.”
“I’m a schoolteacher,” Sho says, an introduction a few minutes late. “I guess the biggest hazard in my job is a student leaving a poisoned apple on my desk.”
Jun actually chuckles at that, and it’s not a sound Sho expects to like as much as he does. Matadores have cults of personality around them, an air of mystery, but Jun isn’t in his fancy clothes here or holding up a red cape. He’s any other person in the local bar. His smile warms Sho as much as the third and fourth mugs of beer do.
They don’t talk politics. He doesn’t want to know where Jun’s loyalties might lie. The rest of the bar is chattering away about Franco and Mola and where they might try to break through to enter Madrid. Instead, Jun tells him about watching Juan Belmonte stand nearly still in the middle of the ring, daring the bull to charge him.
“I wanted an ounce of the courage he had,” Jun says. “And my father always said I was dumb enough to be a matador. That was really all it took.”
“And putting your life in danger every time you’re in the ring is fulfilling?”
Jun shrugs. “Not if there’s nobody around to watch.”
--
It’s late when Sho pays, and no amount of beer is enough to ignore the gunfire they can hear when they exit or the screams far off in the distance. Which side is killing tonight?
Jun lives one way and Sho lives the other, but Jun’s fingers linger tentatively on Sho’s wrist. Sho looks down, and Jun releases him.
“I’m sorry,” Jun apologizes. “I misunderstood...”
Sho raises his head, shivering slightly in the autumn air. “You didn’t.”
--
Jun’s apartment is more modest than Sho had expected, but there’s not much money to be made in bullfighting - hasn’t been for a few years, Jun tells him. There are magazine covers and corrida posters in frames of Belmonte and other heroes of Jun’s that Sho doesn’t know.
At the bar, Jun had told him about being gored before. “Just a scratch,” he’d said. “From when I was a real idiot trying to show off.”
Sho wants to see, and Jun lifts his shirt. It’s more than a scratch. He traces the white-violet raised skin from the middle of Jun’s back, follows it around to the front. “Could have been killed,” Sho remarks, feeling Jun’s skin turn to a mass of nervous goose pimples under his fingers.
It seems like Jun is braver facing down a charging animal than another person.
“Well, I wasn’t.” Jun hooks his fingers under Sho’s suspenders and pulls him closer. “Kind of an ever present job hazard though.”
“I don’t usually follow bullfighters around,” Sho admits. “Especially not at a time like this.”
“I’m glad you did something out of the ordinary, then,” Jun says, starting to pull open the buttons keeping Sho’s shirt closed.
Sho just nods, listening to the gunfire that gets noisier every night. Jun faces death constantly - it appears that Sho will have to learn to be brave as well. He wishes for an ounce of Jun’s courage as Jun wished for an ounce of Belmonte’s.
Jun moves behind him to turn the gaslight down low. Their lips touch once darkness descends, and Sho can taste the beer he paid for on the other man’s tongue.
He can feel Jun’s scar under the pads of his fingers. Proof that Jun has stared down death and declared himself victorious. Will Madrid hold out as Franco comes closer? What scars will appear on the city, ribboning through the streets? If death comes, will Sho be able to stare it down?
“Stop thinking,” Jun commands, as though he’s holding the cape and waiting for Sho to charge. He presses Sho down against the mattress. It is a different dance from the ring, but Sho can follow the steps. “Just for tonight. Stop thinking about all of it.”
He does.
--
Sho wakes with an arm tangled around Jun’s waist, hearing the sound of tanks in the street.
Later that day, the air raid starts.
All he needs is an ounce of courage.
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Matsumoto Jun/Sakurai Sho
Summary: The matador is swift and precise, dodging the charging horns. Even from across the ring, Sho can see the determination on the young man’s face.
Notes/Warnings: An AU request from miquilis who asked for Jun as a matador. Set in Madrid, late 1936 (beginning days of the Spanish Civil War) because that's how I roll. As AU as AU can get, I'm afraid. Violence warning because of Jun's profession and what that entails obviously.
He thinks there’s enough blood running in the streets. General Franco is at the gates and rumors are flying fast. Rumors that the Germans will fly over Madrid and drop bombs. Bombing civilians, Sho thinks bitterly. Has it come to that?
There’s enough blood and yet there’s a corrida today. The last for the season. He’s not sure how many people will show up. Most who aren’t fighting are locked up in their homes, spending each night in bed wondering if the next person shot in the streets will be a friend or a family member.
There’s little work for Sho to do. It’s hard to teach when nobody sends their children to school. The ring is just down the street, and they’re practically giving away tickets.
“Viva España!” the ticket tout is shouting as Sho walks back home. Viva España, indeed. He takes the ticket, hearing a machine gun cracking in the distance as he finds a seat as far from the ring as he (and his stomach can manage).
It’s been ages since he’s been to a corrida. He hasn’t missed it. There’s the usual ceremony as the matadores enter in their colorful outfits. It’s overcast today, and there’s less sparkle from their shiny jackets than usual. It seems to fit Sho’s mood just fine. The bull is paraded in as well.
The cheers are less raucous, the crowd less enthusiastic as the bull is teased by the picadores on their horses. Spain is falling apart all around them and still the picadores charge with their lances and still the banderilleros race to stick their colorful flags into the ferocious animal. The final stage begins, and Sho watches the matador enter with his cape and his sword.
It will hopefully be a swift, merciful exit for the bull. The crowd is only cheering to be polite as the matador starts his precarious dance. Priests are being murdered by one side, and the other side has started to retaliate. It’s getting worse by the day, but here is a man in his shining jacket and form-fitting slacks. He holds the cape reverently, still attempting to put on a respectful performance. He is beautiful and terrible. He is Spain unchanging.
Sho doesn’t know why the man bothers. Some people start leaving at the first loss of blood. Others go once the picadores enter with their lances. Sho remains, and he doesn’t know why. The matador is swift and precise, dodging the charging horns. Even from across the ring, Sho can see the determination on the young man’s face.
“Ole,” he mumbles after a particularly skilled pass, drowned out by the few faithful remaining in the arena who cheer the matador on. The matador lifts the sword, and Sho looks away.
--
A matador, especially one here in Madrid, usually has an entourage and adoring fans begging for his attention. Sho watches the young man slip out of the arena alone, cap over his dark hair.
He doesn’t know why, but he follows him, watching the matador light a cigarette and head off down the street. Everyone’s already gone home. Nobody stayed to congratulate him on a successful performance. There’s a small bar at the end of the block, one that Sho’s been to half a dozen times after grading essays.
He finds the matador at the bar, sees the disappointment in the way he’s slouching, elbows on the bar counter. Sho sets down some money. “Let me pay for whatever you’re having.”
The young man’s eyes are big and bright. “I’m sorry...do I know you?”
“I was at the corrida. I saw you,” Sho tells him, feeling suddenly very embarrassed for having trailed the man all this way. He gets onto the stool beside him, and his mouth is dry. “Why do you bother?”
“Why do I bother?”
Sho accepts the mug of beer gratefully and takes a sip. “I meant, why would they bother with a corrida today? This city is under siege. Why add danger on top of danger?”
The matador - no, Sho remembers, the poster on the wall outside the ring said his name was Jun - takes a long sip from his own mug. “It’s my job.”
“I’m a schoolteacher,” Sho says, an introduction a few minutes late. “I guess the biggest hazard in my job is a student leaving a poisoned apple on my desk.”
Jun actually chuckles at that, and it’s not a sound Sho expects to like as much as he does. Matadores have cults of personality around them, an air of mystery, but Jun isn’t in his fancy clothes here or holding up a red cape. He’s any other person in the local bar. His smile warms Sho as much as the third and fourth mugs of beer do.
They don’t talk politics. He doesn’t want to know where Jun’s loyalties might lie. The rest of the bar is chattering away about Franco and Mola and where they might try to break through to enter Madrid. Instead, Jun tells him about watching Juan Belmonte stand nearly still in the middle of the ring, daring the bull to charge him.
“I wanted an ounce of the courage he had,” Jun says. “And my father always said I was dumb enough to be a matador. That was really all it took.”
“And putting your life in danger every time you’re in the ring is fulfilling?”
Jun shrugs. “Not if there’s nobody around to watch.”
--
It’s late when Sho pays, and no amount of beer is enough to ignore the gunfire they can hear when they exit or the screams far off in the distance. Which side is killing tonight?
Jun lives one way and Sho lives the other, but Jun’s fingers linger tentatively on Sho’s wrist. Sho looks down, and Jun releases him.
“I’m sorry,” Jun apologizes. “I misunderstood...”
Sho raises his head, shivering slightly in the autumn air. “You didn’t.”
--
Jun’s apartment is more modest than Sho had expected, but there’s not much money to be made in bullfighting - hasn’t been for a few years, Jun tells him. There are magazine covers and corrida posters in frames of Belmonte and other heroes of Jun’s that Sho doesn’t know.
At the bar, Jun had told him about being gored before. “Just a scratch,” he’d said. “From when I was a real idiot trying to show off.”
Sho wants to see, and Jun lifts his shirt. It’s more than a scratch. He traces the white-violet raised skin from the middle of Jun’s back, follows it around to the front. “Could have been killed,” Sho remarks, feeling Jun’s skin turn to a mass of nervous goose pimples under his fingers.
It seems like Jun is braver facing down a charging animal than another person.
“Well, I wasn’t.” Jun hooks his fingers under Sho’s suspenders and pulls him closer. “Kind of an ever present job hazard though.”
“I don’t usually follow bullfighters around,” Sho admits. “Especially not at a time like this.”
“I’m glad you did something out of the ordinary, then,” Jun says, starting to pull open the buttons keeping Sho’s shirt closed.
Sho just nods, listening to the gunfire that gets noisier every night. Jun faces death constantly - it appears that Sho will have to learn to be brave as well. He wishes for an ounce of Jun’s courage as Jun wished for an ounce of Belmonte’s.
Jun moves behind him to turn the gaslight down low. Their lips touch once darkness descends, and Sho can taste the beer he paid for on the other man’s tongue.
He can feel Jun’s scar under the pads of his fingers. Proof that Jun has stared down death and declared himself victorious. Will Madrid hold out as Franco comes closer? What scars will appear on the city, ribboning through the streets? If death comes, will Sho be able to stare it down?
“Stop thinking,” Jun commands, as though he’s holding the cape and waiting for Sho to charge. He presses Sho down against the mattress. It is a different dance from the ring, but Sho can follow the steps. “Just for tonight. Stop thinking about all of it.”
He does.
--
Sho wakes with an arm tangled around Jun’s waist, hearing the sound of tanks in the street.
Later that day, the air raid starts.
All he needs is an ounce of courage.