Trompe L’Oeil, 1/3
Title: Trompe L’Oeil
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Matsumoto Jun/Sakurai Sho
Summary: If I didn’t like complicated, I’d have never fallen in love with you
Notes/Warnings: !!! Character death !!! Also includes explicit sex, angst, grief, depression, a few implications of violence. I’m also lacking in science/technical expertise. Considerable inspiration, including the story’s title, comes from the TV series Westworld, which I binge watched and knew had to somehow translate into a dark Sakumoto story. Because I’m a masochist (and I suspect a lot of other Sakumoto fans are too). Speaking of masochism, I would probably not recommend writing 15,000+ words in 36 hours but sometimes the words keep spilling out. Farewell, 2016. And thank you all for sticking around.
A rumble of thunder signals his arrival at the bar. The door shuts behind him, and he dumps his umbrella beside the other one already in the stand. It’s just after midnight, and the bartender has shut off the music already. He’s only staying open because they asked him to. Well. Paid him to.
He shrugs off his dripping raincoat, hanging it on the rack. It’s dim inside, and his shoes squeak along the floor as he rakes his fingers through his damp hair. When he left the office, it was barely a drizzle. The skies opened up fully while he was in the taxi. There’s only one other person sitting at the dark bar counter, looking considerably more dry as he nurses his fancy ass Scotch. The bartender stores it for him here, and each year that goes by the type of Scotch has gotten more exclusive, expensive. Symbolic of their growing success.
Jun has a seat beside him, rudely leaning his elbow on the counter, resting his chin on his palm as he takes in the sight of the man beside him. Round face, the barest hint of a smile. A thumb running around the rim of his glass absent-mindedly. There’s warmth in those large eyes of his tonight, a youthful sort of amusement.
“You started without me,” Jun pouts.
Sho holds up two fingers. “I’m not that far ahead. I know you’ll catch up.”
Jun grins, sitting up more properly. He nods to the bartender. “Master, please pour me a double from Sho-san’s special bottle so I can meet his expectations. Thank you.”
Sho crinkles his nose in irritation, annoyed at having to share. Jun wonders if Sho even knows he does it. Jun still wonders a lot of things about him.
When his drink is served, he holds his glass up. Sho, a little giddy already, knocks their glasses together with more force than he needs to. “Congratulations,” he says.
“Congratulations,” Jun replies, having a sip. It’s good stuff. Sho’s always bought the best, at least the best he could afford. Jun suspects the next bottle Sho buys and stores at this bar will be even more exclusive.
“To our future,” Sho says, sounding a little more arrogant.
Jun says nothing, clinking their glasses again. They sit quietly, side by side, sipping the Scotch as the rain pummels the bar windows. The bartender’s all but ignoring them, making noise back in his stock room, leaving the bar to them.
Ten years. It’s been ten years since Matsumoto Jun and Sakurai Sho opened their first office above that creepy podiatrist’s office, nothing more than a few computers and cables, the two of them fueled entirely by delivery soba. And today after a decade of hard work, of sleepless nights and thousands of arguments, after trial and error and growth, they can safely say that they’ve “made it.”
The paperwork was signed just that morning. Sakuramoto Technologies has been acquired by a large public company. And he and Sho have just moved from “doing pretty good” to becoming filthy rich. They’ll have stock in their new parent company, and Sakuramoto will receive generous funding for product development. Sure, they’ll have to report in to someone now, but they’ll still be in charge of day-to-day operations.
They’ve come a long way in ten years.
“Do you remember when you broke our toaster oven?” Jun asks.
Sho laughs, and it echoes through the empty bar. Sho has always laughed with his whole heart. The toaster oven incident resulted in a visit from the fire department, and Sho had been banned from using any appliance besides the microwave.
“I’m still amazed we didn’t kill each other back then.”
Jun looks down at his drink, smiling softly. “Me too.”
Jun still lives upstairs from the bar. Ten years ago, he and Sho shared the smallest apartment on the second floor. Eventually all the hours they spent working together took a toll, and Sho moved out. But as Sakuramoto prospered, Jun was able to expand his footprint in the building. He bought out all his neighbors a few years back, and now the entire second floor is his. He’s knocked out walls, upgraded all the appliances. He’s got a top of the line toaster oven now.
Jun has everything he wants. Well. Not everything.
They reminisce for maybe an hour, bullshitting about work and life and everything that’s led up to today, until the bartender says he’s going home. Sho’s Scotch is set back in its hiding spot.
“Wanna come up?” Jun asks, hoping he sounds confident. Not nervous. Not petrified.
Sho surprises him, his alcohol-flush giving him a more carefree look than usual. “Yeah. Yeah, let me come up.”
The bartender unlocks the back door so they can directly walk up to Jun’s place instead of having to go back out into the rain. It’s a nasty storm, no sign of letting up.
It’s been ages since Sho’s been here, and Jun watches with a mixture of anticipation and dread as Sho toes off his shoes, padding into Jun’s place in his dark socks, the cuffs of his suit slacks scuffing quietly across the hardwood floors. When they were living here together, it was almost claustrophobic. Jun’s taken the space and opened it up. It looks more like a loft now, and Sho moves to the windows, watching the rain fall.
Jun watches him from behind his kitchen counter. Sho’s got really angled shoulders, a droop he sometimes overcompensates for by putting shoulder pads in his suit jackets. He’s ditched them tonight, and Jun takes in the sight of him. Everything he’s known, everything he’s memorized. For years and years. The back of his head, his soft black hair just brushing against his collar. His back, his waist…
“Matsujun?” Sho mumbles, turning around to look at him, expression curious.
At work, Jun is always “Matsumoto-san” or “Matsumoto-kun.” He hasn’t been Matsujun since…
Jun stays behind the counter, the last barrier between them. He looks down, feeling his ears grow hot. He shouldn’t have stared at him like that. “You want a beer or something?”
Sho steps away from the window. Sho walks toward him. His suit jacket’s unbuttoned, his lucky blue tie is loosened. Jun’s resolve is crumbling with each step Sho takes. “Matsujun,” Sho says again, coming to stand on the other side of the counter.
Their eyes meet.
But before Jun can speak, Sho speaks first. “Why now?”
Jun hates that he’s tearing up, but too much Scotch does that to him sometimes. He shrugs uselessly. “Because…because we’ve finally made it.”
Sho’s smile doesn’t quite reach his dark brown eyes. He looks just as nervous as Jun feels. “You said…you were the one who said we can’t.”
“I was wrong,” Jun admits, and they’re right back where they were six years ago.
The company comes first, Jun had argued. And Sho hadn’t put up a fight.
Sho hadn’t called his bluff.
Jun looks up, cursing his tear ducts for making a mess of this. It should have been more romantic than pathetic. “I can’t live fully without you.”
Sho’s laugh isn’t as teasing as it could be. He’s used to the dramatic, too serious things Jun will sometimes stutter out. “We just sold our company to the highest bidder. I’m not going anywhere without you, Matsujun.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” He holds onto the counter, the sink, for support. “You know it.”
Sho isn’t crying, but Jun can see real fear in his eyes. “You can’t change your mind this time.” He leans forward, refuses to let Jun look away. “Starting tomorrow, everything gets harder. We answer to them now. Do you understand that?”
Jun nods.
“And you don’t care about how much this will complicate things?”
“If I didn’t like complicated, I’d have never fallen in love with you.”
Sho’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t run away. It’s still Jun who has to move, has to come around the counter. It’s been so long since they’ve touched. Too, too long.
He reaches out, cups Sho’s cheek in his palm. Sho lifts his hand, wraps his fingers around Jun’s wrist. They hold like that for what seems like ages. Eyes searching, curious. Is it a mistake? A drunken mistake? It’s real, Jun pleads without words, stroking Sho’s skin with his thumb. It’s always been real.
He leans in, closes the distance, and even a flash of lightning outside doesn’t make them change their minds. Soft, tentative. But familiar. Home.
Without all the walls, the pathway to Jun’s bed is rather direct. They shed clothes all the way. The lucky blue tie. Sho wouldn’t sign any of the paperwork without wearing that ugly tie. Their suit jackets. Belts. He untucks Sho’s shirt from his slacks, kissing him, fumbling blindly at his buttons. Sho’s warm breath is against his face, his neck. How have they convinced themselves for so long that this isn’t necessary?
The storm makes the lights flicker, but they don’t go out. He’s able to see every inch of Sho, every bit of skin that’s been buttoned up, hidden away because Jun had lied for so damn long.
Sho’s on top of him, kissing him. Their hands are twined against the sheets, palm pressed to palm, and Sho calls him by his name. “Jun,” he breathes out, needy and raw after years and years of sticking to foolish principles. “Jun.”
The condom box has a cartoon character on it, and Sho’s laugh rumbles like the thunder. “They were on sale,” Jun whispers weakly.
“We’re billionaires now, you idiot,” Sho teases. “No more god damn sales.”
It’s a bit rough, trying to find the right rhythm after so many years apart. “Slow down, wait…slow down,” Jun complains with each hard stroke of Sho’s cock inside him. He wants it to last. He doesn’t want it to stop.
“Want you.” Sho’s voice, low, driven, teasing along the shell of his ear. “I want you.”
Jun doesn’t know how to tell him. Jun doesn’t want him to say it.
He shuts his eyes, presses his hand to Sho’s back, holds onto him tight.
God, he doesn’t want him to say it.
When it’s over, they lie in Jun’s bed. Jun on his back with an arm under his head, Sho on his stomach. Sho’s watching him, hair a mess, strands in his eyes. His lips swollen from Jun’s demanding kisses.
They stare for a long while at each other. Blinking. Breathing. Taking in the weight of what they’ve done. Everything’s changed. Sho’s smile lights up his whole face. It makes Jun ache.
Don’t say it, Jun thinks, please don’t say it.
“I can’t stay,” Sho says. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?” he asks uselessly.
“Parents are coming over. Taking me out for a celebratory breakfast. Their son, the billionaire,” Sho explains.
Jun inhales, exhales. “You can stay here until you have to go.”
Sho’s still smiling. A good fuck has left him looking twenty-five, not thirty-five. He reaches out his hand, and the brush of his fingertips along the underside of Jun’s arm is a ticklish torture. “My place is a mess. Gotta clean before they come over.”
Sho moves, leaning in for a kiss. Jun rests a hand against the back of Sho’s neck, holding him in place. Stay stay stay stay stay, he pleads without saying it aloud.
“We have a lot to talk about,” Sho says when he moves away, getting off the bed and starting the hunt for his scattered clothes. “After work tomorrow.”
Jun says nothing else, staying in bed, watching Sho put himself back together. Boxers, socks, slacks, shirt, jacket, lucky tie. They kiss for a long time at the door, until Sho finally has to push him away. It’s still pouring outside. His car’s in a lot down the street, and he’s going to try and run for it.
He lifts his umbrella, now dry, from the floor of Jun’s genkan. He smiles and opens the door.
“Well. Until then.”
-
Aiba’s been Jun’s personal assistant for years. He’s a hard worker, and though he was initially quite intimidated by Jun, that has softened in time. Aiba knows how Jun likes to work, knows when Jun needs a break, and most importantly, Aiba knows when his opinion isn’t welcome.
He’s not the kind of guy that’s suited for office work, trapped inside all day under harsh artificial lights, but he’s adapted as Sakuramoto grew and evolved. He enters Jun’s office with a half-assed knock, small green spiral notebook and pen in one hand, Jun’s coffee in another.
He sets the coffee down on Jun’s desk, opens his notebook. Aiba abhors technology, which makes him even less suited for his job. But Jun refuses to let him go. Aiba reads Jun’s schedule for the day aloud, which he’s handwritten in his notebook instead of relying on Jun’s Outlook calendar.
Aiba finishes his reading, pushing Jun’s still untouched coffee closer to his fingers. Aiba tactfully keeps from remarking on the dark circles under Jun’s eyes, though he doesn’t bother to hide his look of concern. In Aiba, Jun has found a kindred spirit. Another person who is unable to hide what he’s feeling, another person whose face gives the whole game away.
“Cancel my 11:00,” Jun says, finally lifting the coffee to his lips. It’s already getting cool. Aiba probably waited in the hall for a while before coming in, not quite ready to face him.
Aiba hesitates. “You’ve rescheduled that three times.”
“And this will be the fourth time,” Jun says, having another sip and clicking his mouse through to the next email in his inbox. The text on his screen is blurry. He couldn’t be bothered to put in his contacts this morning, and he’s wearing an old pair of glasses. An old prescription.
“I’ll reschedule the 11:00 for next week,” Aiba says.
“And cancel the 2:00.”
Aiba looks up, incredulous. “Jun-san, that meeting is with…”
“Reschedule it.”
“Okay.”
He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, gesturing limply at his monitor. “Says ‘Inbox 320,’ aren’t you taking care of it?”
As his admin, Aiba has access to Jun’s email box. He deletes spam for him with great zeal, trims the fat, only leaves the most important things for Jun to click on himself. “Yeah. Everything that’s left is…essential.”
He squints a little, checking subject lines, the names of the people who’ve sent them. More than three hundred emails that apparently need his attention. He closes out the window, shaking his head.
“I’ll check into it later,” he says.
Aiba nods. “There’s a few contracts that have come through that need your signature.”
“Fine.”
“When shall I bring them in?”
“Surprise me.”
He has another sip of his lukewarm drink. He doesn’t need to be such an asshole all the time, and he knows it.
“Aiba-san?”
“Yes?”
“Is Ninomiya in today?”
Aiba pauses, as though he wants to say something else. Jun looks up, seeing how uncomfortable he’s making his admin. It’s a wonder Aiba’s still here putting up with him.
“Yes, Ninomiya-san is in.”
“Good,” Jun says. “That will be all for now.”
-
He arrives along with a rumble of thunder. The bar door shuts behind him, and he tosses his wet umbrella in the stand with the one that’s already there. It’s just after midnight, and the bartender has shut off the music. But they’re paying him to stay open for a little while longer.
He hangs up his dripping raincoat on the rack. This bar has always been poorly lit, and he rolls his eyes. His wet shoes squelch along the floor, and he runs a hand through his hair. When he left the office, it was barely a drizzle. Things have since changed. There’s only one other person sitting at the bar, sipping his fancy Scotch. The bartender stores the bottle for him here.
Jun has a seat beside him, sitting sideways, swiveling and swaying on the stool, taking him in. From the dry state of his suit, he’s been waiting a while. He’s tracing along the rim of his glass with his thumb, an impish smile on his round face.
“You started without me.”
Sho holds up two fingers. “I’m not that far ahead. I know you’ll catch up.”
“Master, I’ll take a double from Sho-san’s special bottle so I can make some progress quickly. Thank you.”
Sho crinkles his nose in irritation. Jun wonders if Sho even knows he does it.
When his drink is served, he holds his glass up. Sho, a little giddy already, knocks their glasses together with more force than he needs to. “Congratulations.”
“Congratulations.”
“To our future.”
Jun says nothing, clinking their glasses again. They sit quietly, side by side, sipping the Scotch as the rain pours down outside. Like it always does.
The bartender busies himself in the stock room, and they continue to sit without speaking. Sometimes Jun likes to drag out the silences.
But Jun wants to ask. Then again, Jun doesn’t want to ask.
“Do you remember when you broke our toaster oven?”
Sho laughs, and it fills the room. It’s always been a bit too much.
“I’m still amazed we didn’t kill each other back then.”
Jun looks down, shutting his eyes. “Me too.”
After about an hour of drinking and talking, the bartender tells them he wants to close down for the night. Like clockwork, the bartender.
Sho gets down off the stool, heading for his coat. Jun calls out, and Sho stops.
“Wanna come up?”
“Yeah. Yeah, let me come up.”
This time Jun stands with Sho at the long bank of windows that stretch along the wall of his apartment, watching the rain together. He knows Sho doesn’t like it, how open it is. Jun likes the freedom. Big windows, lots of light. Free space and hardwood floors. Sho has commented in the past that the place has no soul now. Sho likes old things, places with character and history. Sho liked it better when it was cramped, crammed full of tenants. The two of them trying to survive in a small space unsuitable for two.
They’re both looking out, but Jun’s watching Sho’s reflection in the glass. And Sho is watching his.
“Matsujun,” Sho eventually says, rain droplets sliding down the glass. “Why now?”
“I’m tired of pretending that I don’t want this. That I don’t need this.”
“You can’t change your mind this time.” Sho turns, looking at him. Jun can’t look, fixated instead on Sho’s rain-covered reflection, the slight distortion of his features. “Starting tomorrow, everything gets harder. We answer to them now. Do you understand that?”
Jun nods.
Sho grows impatient, fingers to his sleeve. Grasping. “And you don’t care about how much this will complicate things?”
Finally he manages to turn, looking into the deep, searching brown eyes he’d know anywhere.
“If I didn’t like complicated, I’d have never fallen in love with you.”
He’s still the one who has to make the first move, turning, backing Sho against the wall. His head thumps a bit comically against the glass, breathing nervously as Jun takes charge. Jun lifts his hand to Sho’s face, stroking his cheek with his thumb. It still amazes him how it feels, how Sho’s skin feels, every single time.
Sho’s hand locks around his wrist. Giving Jun one last chance to change his mind.
Jun leans in, and their lips meet. There’s no hesitation now. Sho opens himself up, giving in, kissing Jun hard, fumbling for his tie, undoing his shirt buttons. It’s not long before Sho has a hand around him, working his cock. “Here, over here,” Sho says once Jun is begging for more. “I want you right here.”
The mood lightens a bit when the only condoms Jun has to offer have a cartoon character on the box. “At least tell me the lube doesn’t have Doraemon or Hello Kitty on it,” Sho teases, brushing kisses along Jun’s shoulder blades, tickling his fingertips down the muscles of Jun’s back.
“Not to my knowledge,” Jun says, shutting his eyes as Sho’s fingers start to drift lower.
Sho fucks him there, right next to the window. Jun’s fingers leave streaks on the glass as he braces himself. The glass is cold from the unrelenting rain. Sho’s hands are on his hips, pulling him back against his hard cock again and again and again until Jun can barely stay upright.
“Slow down, wait,” he says. “Slow down.”
Sho stays inside him when he comes, gasping, tracing his fingernails lightly down Jun’s sweaty back. After a few dozen heartbeats, Jun feels Sho pull away. But he doesn’t leave, staying behind him, pressing a gentle kiss to his shoulder. “I want you to come too,” Sho says.
So Jun jerks off right there, left palm against the glass, erection in his other hand. He doesn’t bother telling himself to slow down, there’s no point. It only takes a few minutes of Sho’s soft kisses along his shoulders, Sho’s fingers pushing into his ass, before he’s coming hard, catching most of it in his hand, the rest dripping to the hardwood at his feet.
“Come here,” Sho says, “come here.”
They clean up together in the bathroom, taking twice as long because Jun can’t stop kissing him. He’s perched with his ass on the countertop, Sho standing between his legs with his hands resting on Jun’s thighs. Sho’s looking sleepy, but he returns every kiss without complaint.
Finally Sho steps back. Don’t say it, Jun thinks, please don’t say it.
“I can’t stay,” Sho says. “I’m sorry.”
Something about breakfast, his parents. Jun follows behind like a loyal dog, watches as Sho retrieves his boxers, his socks, the rest of his clothes. Jun trails him all the way to the genkan, kissing him with tears streaking down his face.
Sho backs away, brushing the tears away with his knuckle. “What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing, nothing.”
Sho lifts his umbrella from the genkan floor. His hand is almost on the door handle.
“Halt program,” Jun says, raising his voice.
The sound of the rain stops. Sho stops, his hand frozen in place. Jun lifts a hand to Sho’s face. Sho’s eyes stay open, but he doesn’t blink. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t do anything. Jun strokes Sho’s cheek with his thumb.
It still amazes him how it feels, how Sho’s skin feels, every single time.
-
Ninomiya Kazunari could have worked for any large company, but eight years ago he chose to work for Sakuramoto. Of all the company’s employees, “Nino” has always been given the most freedom. It’s what he thrives on, being able to work without interruption. To make mistakes and learn from them at his own pace.
It took Jun years to get accustomed to Nino’s methods because Jun is exacting and temperamental while Nino is patient and far more willing to fuck up a few times before he gets it just right. But when Nino does work for Jun, he takes direction without second-guessing, without suggesting how he’d go about it himself. And Jun’s rewarded him for it.
Nino’s salary, department budget, and compensation package was one of the non-negotiables with the acquisition. Despite that, Jun sometimes wonders if Nino would be happier somewhere else. But he knows he’d never get a straight answer.
There are four different security measures keeping Nino’s lab locked down, and Jun’s one of the only ones who can make it through them all. He passes the final iris scan, and the doors slide open, close behind him. In some TV drama, Nino’s lab would be in a grim basement, hidden away. Instead, Nino takes up the building’s 8th floor, chosen because of some baseball manager’s team number. “We don’t have an 88th floor so the 8th is fine,” Nino had decided.
It’s not dark and shadowy and mysterious. Nino’s inner sanctum is brightly lit, filled with the whimsical pings and zings of 1980’s video game music. Nino wears his crisp white lab coat over a faded t-shirt, sweatpants, and sandals. He’s making adjustments on his computer when Jun approaches. He looks over, sees the body on the cold metal table.
It always reminds Jun of going to the morgue, early that morning. He’d been the one that had been called when the parents couldn’t be reached immediately. He hates it.
There’s a light buzzing as one of Nino’s most trusted techs shaves the body’s face. “Getting more growth than you anticipated?” Jun asks, stroking his own face, finding a few days’ stubble of his own.
Nino looks up from his massive array of monitors, smirking. “I’m getting it under control. Just a small recalibration.”
Jun nods, eyes squinting at Nino’s readouts. “See that you do. Completely clean-shaven, you know that was his preference.”
Nino never says anything when Jun makes these kinds of comments. Jun appreciates it.
Jun wanders over to the table, looking down with a critical eye. Nino’s chair has wheels and he simply scoots across the floor after him, lazy as ever. The tech finishes up the shave, making a note of it on the tablet beside him. “His hair’s too long,” Jun says.
Nino leans over, a bit curious. “Where?”
Jun moves his finger across the forehead. “It’s a few centimeters off, right here.”
“How much is a few?”
“Two. Just a slight trim, right across here.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Nino says. “That’s a different system from the facial growth.”
“I know,” Jun says.
“Any other external considerations?” Nino inquires.
Jun knows every single patch of skin. Sometimes it gets too real, sometimes he can’t handle it. He makes Nino tweak something here and there. And then other times the imperfections drive him mad, and he makes Nino change it back.
“No, nothing else external.”
The eyes are closed for now, the soft lashes lightly brushing against his face. They probably spent a week alone getting the eyes right. It’s a miracle Jun didn’t drive Nino away with his specifications then. The color of the irises was the easy part. But the emotional responses, the resulting shifts, were the tricky ones. Windows to the soul, indeed.
“Okay,” Nino says, rolling away back to his monitors. “Internal considerations.”
Jun looks down. There’s no wrinkles in the dress shirt. Lucky tie with the Windsor knot. The suit’s been dry cleaned. He brushes his fingers gently along the collar of his shirt.
“Personality systems,” Jun says, taking his hand back, adjusting his glasses. “I want a bit more stubbornness.”
“A bit?” Nino asks.
“Lower cooperation by two percent. Raise independence by…” He looks down and grins. “Half a percentage point. Let’s not go overboard.”
“Got it.”
A pause and Nino speaks again.
“Wait.”
Jun turns, sees Nino’s eyes swim back and forth as he reads his monitor. “Wait?”
Nino shakes his head. “A two percent drop in cooperation takes him out of established operating parameters by…a full percentage point.”
“So?”
Nino doesn’t let any frustration show on his face. He’s just stating the facts. He waits for instruction.
Jun steps away from the table, moving to stand behind Nino. He’s right, of course. A warning’s flashing on the screen, asking Nino if he wants to confirm the programming changes. A two percent drop in any of the other models is rarely enough to make much difference. Their thresholds are calibrated more simply.
“He always played hard to get,” Jun admits quietly.
Nino’s music shifts to the next track, and Mario’s gone underwater.
“Make the changes.”
“Done.”
-
Aiba had been the one to contact the news stations that covered it, asking for copies of the tapes. He’d edited the clips down into a single video file that still sits on Jun’s hard drive. Jun’s had Aiba order in food for all the staff today, no reason, just a thank you for their hard work. It’s an expense that the corporate overlords will pester him about until Jun pays for it himself.
He’s sitting back in his chair, legs up on the desk, plate in his lap, letting the video play. Jun knows that Aiba’s been asked about it a lot.
“…police have ruled out foul play in the incident. Last night’s heavy rains…”
Tell the truth, Jun always instructs Aiba. If they want to know, tell them the truth. He has another bite.
“…where he was the chief programmer. The accident, coming less than 24 hours after the company’s acquisition by…”
Jun shuts his eyes. The reporters always sound so indifferent.
“…truck driver did not account for the slickness of the roads when braking…”
“…artificial intelligence, Sakuramoto Technologies, where he was the chief programmer. The accident, coming less…”
“…was wearing a seatbelt, and though the airbag did deploy…”
“…heavy rains led to at least a dozen accidents on roads in the Tokyo Metropolis. This incident was the only fatality…”
He sets the plate down on the desk, appetite vanishing.
“…chief programmer, Sakurai Sho, age thirty-five was…”
-
The storm outside has only gotten worse since he left, and his shoes squeak across the floor of the bar as he ditches his jacket and umbrella. Sho’s already drinking that Scotch he likes, the fancy one that the bartender stores here for him.
Jun sits down next to him, watches him run his thumb around the rim of his glass. He looks younger, carefree. Maybe it’s the haircut.
“You started without me,” Jun complains.
Sho holds up two fingers, grinning wickedly. “I’m not that far ahead. I know you’ll catch up.”
Jun waves over the bartender. “Master, Sho-san will be sharing from his bottle tonight. Thank you.”
Sho crinkles his nose in irritation. Jun wonders if Sho even knows he does it.
It’s an hour, maybe two of bullshitting. The past, the present. Only Sho talks about the future. The bartender says he’s closing up, and Jun waits until Sho’s already putting on his coat before he asks.
“Wanna come up?”
Sho hesitates, glancing out the bar window. “Coming down pretty hard tonight.”
“Stay until it lets up.”
The bartender jangles his keys, encouraging them to make a decision.
“Well, I guess,” Sho says, and Jun can see it in his eyes. He’s not sure what Jun’s got planned, but he’ll play along for now.
They take the back stairs up to Jun’s place. Sho moves to stand by the windows, watching the rain. Jun takes off his suit jacket, drapes it over the sofa. It’s been a long day. He moves over to Sho, stands just a bit too close.
Sho turns, taking a step back. This time his eyes are a bit cynical rather than nervous. “Why now?”
“Because I can’t keep pretending. I can’t keep lying to myself.”
“About what?” Sho asks, even though he knows what Jun means. He’s just making him work for it. They’ve always been at their best when they challenge each other, Jun supposes.
“About me. And you.”
Sho rolls his eyes, chuckling. “You were the one who said we can’t do this.”
“I was wrong,” he admits. His voice trails off. “I was wrong about a lot of things…”
When he leans in to kiss Sho, Sho stops him with a firm hand to his shoulder. “Jun.”
“You want this, too,” he mumbles. “I know that you do.”
“You think you know everything about me?”
There’s a dark undercurrent to Sho’s words, and for the first time, Jun wonders if Sho left his apartment with regrets that night. Jun wonders if he’s gotten it all wrong from the start.
He turns around, walks away, doubt constricting around him. Making it hard to breathe. He should stop this. He should stop.
“You can’t change your mind this time.” He freezes in place at the sound of Sho’s voice. “Starting tomorrow, everything gets harder. We answer to them now. Do you understand that?”
He still can’t move, and it’s Sho who walks forward instead. Jun can hear the cuffs of his slacks sliding along the hardwood floor as he approaches. Jun shuts his eyes, holding back tears when Sho’s arms come around his waist. He’s surrounded, intoxicated by Sho’s scent. It was almost as hard to perfect as his eyes had been…
Sho squeezes, voice catching in his throat. “Do you understand that?”
He can’t open his eyes, resting his hands on top of Sho’s. “Starting tomorrow, everything gets harder,” Jun repeats, knowing how bitter he sounds.
Sho’s voice is a warning, an admonishment. “And you don’t care about how much this will complicate things?”
“If I didn’t like complicated, I’d have never fallen in love with you.”
He allows Sho to press kisses along his neck, soft, slow. He’s shaking in Sho’s arms. Before Sho can get him to turn around, to face him and face what it all means, Jun lets out a breath.
“Halt program.”
He stands there for a while, Sho’s arms around him. He’s still warm. He’s always warm, it’s one of the first things they figured out together. Years ago. He wipes his eyes, having to move Sho as he needs to in order to separate them. Sho’s left standing there in the middle of the room, arms out and waiting for an embrace. His expression is soft, affectionate. But there’s nothing in his eyes. Nothing.
Jun moves to the bathroom, taking a look at himself in the mirror. Purple, under his eyes, almost like he’s been punched. Sho never remarks on how tired he looks. It’s not part of the narrative. He wonders what Sho even sees.
He splashes water on his face, clears his throat. He walks past Sho, still standing there waiting for Jun to love him back the way he deserves. He puts on his shoes and opens the apartment door, heading down the stairs. The bar isn’t really locked, of course, and he breezes through. Nino’s tech guy has already powered down and removed the bartender.
Jun goes out the front door, and without the lighting and sound effects, it’s just a sad, empty corridor. Jun taps in his code to exit, finding himself back in Nino’s lab. Nino and his tech are running scans on the bartender. Nino looks up, lifting the surgical magnifying glasses he wears that make him look like a bug.
“Something wrong?” Nino asks. Jun’s early.
“No. No, nothing’s wrong. I’ll check in with you tomorrow. Thanks for your hard work.”
Nino doesn’t question him further, settling his glasses back in place. “Good night.”
Part Two
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Matsumoto Jun/Sakurai Sho
Summary: If I didn’t like complicated, I’d have never fallen in love with you
Notes/Warnings: !!! Character death !!! Also includes explicit sex, angst, grief, depression, a few implications of violence. I’m also lacking in science/technical expertise. Considerable inspiration, including the story’s title, comes from the TV series Westworld, which I binge watched and knew had to somehow translate into a dark Sakumoto story. Because I’m a masochist (and I suspect a lot of other Sakumoto fans are too). Speaking of masochism, I would probably not recommend writing 15,000+ words in 36 hours but sometimes the words keep spilling out. Farewell, 2016. And thank you all for sticking around.
A rumble of thunder signals his arrival at the bar. The door shuts behind him, and he dumps his umbrella beside the other one already in the stand. It’s just after midnight, and the bartender has shut off the music already. He’s only staying open because they asked him to. Well. Paid him to.
He shrugs off his dripping raincoat, hanging it on the rack. It’s dim inside, and his shoes squeak along the floor as he rakes his fingers through his damp hair. When he left the office, it was barely a drizzle. The skies opened up fully while he was in the taxi. There’s only one other person sitting at the dark bar counter, looking considerably more dry as he nurses his fancy ass Scotch. The bartender stores it for him here, and each year that goes by the type of Scotch has gotten more exclusive, expensive. Symbolic of their growing success.
Jun has a seat beside him, rudely leaning his elbow on the counter, resting his chin on his palm as he takes in the sight of the man beside him. Round face, the barest hint of a smile. A thumb running around the rim of his glass absent-mindedly. There’s warmth in those large eyes of his tonight, a youthful sort of amusement.
“You started without me,” Jun pouts.
Sho holds up two fingers. “I’m not that far ahead. I know you’ll catch up.”
Jun grins, sitting up more properly. He nods to the bartender. “Master, please pour me a double from Sho-san’s special bottle so I can meet his expectations. Thank you.”
Sho crinkles his nose in irritation, annoyed at having to share. Jun wonders if Sho even knows he does it. Jun still wonders a lot of things about him.
When his drink is served, he holds his glass up. Sho, a little giddy already, knocks their glasses together with more force than he needs to. “Congratulations,” he says.
“Congratulations,” Jun replies, having a sip. It’s good stuff. Sho’s always bought the best, at least the best he could afford. Jun suspects the next bottle Sho buys and stores at this bar will be even more exclusive.
“To our future,” Sho says, sounding a little more arrogant.
Jun says nothing, clinking their glasses again. They sit quietly, side by side, sipping the Scotch as the rain pummels the bar windows. The bartender’s all but ignoring them, making noise back in his stock room, leaving the bar to them.
Ten years. It’s been ten years since Matsumoto Jun and Sakurai Sho opened their first office above that creepy podiatrist’s office, nothing more than a few computers and cables, the two of them fueled entirely by delivery soba. And today after a decade of hard work, of sleepless nights and thousands of arguments, after trial and error and growth, they can safely say that they’ve “made it.”
The paperwork was signed just that morning. Sakuramoto Technologies has been acquired by a large public company. And he and Sho have just moved from “doing pretty good” to becoming filthy rich. They’ll have stock in their new parent company, and Sakuramoto will receive generous funding for product development. Sure, they’ll have to report in to someone now, but they’ll still be in charge of day-to-day operations.
They’ve come a long way in ten years.
“Do you remember when you broke our toaster oven?” Jun asks.
Sho laughs, and it echoes through the empty bar. Sho has always laughed with his whole heart. The toaster oven incident resulted in a visit from the fire department, and Sho had been banned from using any appliance besides the microwave.
“I’m still amazed we didn’t kill each other back then.”
Jun looks down at his drink, smiling softly. “Me too.”
Jun still lives upstairs from the bar. Ten years ago, he and Sho shared the smallest apartment on the second floor. Eventually all the hours they spent working together took a toll, and Sho moved out. But as Sakuramoto prospered, Jun was able to expand his footprint in the building. He bought out all his neighbors a few years back, and now the entire second floor is his. He’s knocked out walls, upgraded all the appliances. He’s got a top of the line toaster oven now.
Jun has everything he wants. Well. Not everything.
They reminisce for maybe an hour, bullshitting about work and life and everything that’s led up to today, until the bartender says he’s going home. Sho’s Scotch is set back in its hiding spot.
“Wanna come up?” Jun asks, hoping he sounds confident. Not nervous. Not petrified.
Sho surprises him, his alcohol-flush giving him a more carefree look than usual. “Yeah. Yeah, let me come up.”
The bartender unlocks the back door so they can directly walk up to Jun’s place instead of having to go back out into the rain. It’s a nasty storm, no sign of letting up.
It’s been ages since Sho’s been here, and Jun watches with a mixture of anticipation and dread as Sho toes off his shoes, padding into Jun’s place in his dark socks, the cuffs of his suit slacks scuffing quietly across the hardwood floors. When they were living here together, it was almost claustrophobic. Jun’s taken the space and opened it up. It looks more like a loft now, and Sho moves to the windows, watching the rain fall.
Jun watches him from behind his kitchen counter. Sho’s got really angled shoulders, a droop he sometimes overcompensates for by putting shoulder pads in his suit jackets. He’s ditched them tonight, and Jun takes in the sight of him. Everything he’s known, everything he’s memorized. For years and years. The back of his head, his soft black hair just brushing against his collar. His back, his waist…
“Matsujun?” Sho mumbles, turning around to look at him, expression curious.
At work, Jun is always “Matsumoto-san” or “Matsumoto-kun.” He hasn’t been Matsujun since…
Jun stays behind the counter, the last barrier between them. He looks down, feeling his ears grow hot. He shouldn’t have stared at him like that. “You want a beer or something?”
Sho steps away from the window. Sho walks toward him. His suit jacket’s unbuttoned, his lucky blue tie is loosened. Jun’s resolve is crumbling with each step Sho takes. “Matsujun,” Sho says again, coming to stand on the other side of the counter.
Their eyes meet.
But before Jun can speak, Sho speaks first. “Why now?”
Jun hates that he’s tearing up, but too much Scotch does that to him sometimes. He shrugs uselessly. “Because…because we’ve finally made it.”
Sho’s smile doesn’t quite reach his dark brown eyes. He looks just as nervous as Jun feels. “You said…you were the one who said we can’t.”
“I was wrong,” Jun admits, and they’re right back where they were six years ago.
The company comes first, Jun had argued. And Sho hadn’t put up a fight.
Sho hadn’t called his bluff.
Jun looks up, cursing his tear ducts for making a mess of this. It should have been more romantic than pathetic. “I can’t live fully without you.”
Sho’s laugh isn’t as teasing as it could be. He’s used to the dramatic, too serious things Jun will sometimes stutter out. “We just sold our company to the highest bidder. I’m not going anywhere without you, Matsujun.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” He holds onto the counter, the sink, for support. “You know it.”
Sho isn’t crying, but Jun can see real fear in his eyes. “You can’t change your mind this time.” He leans forward, refuses to let Jun look away. “Starting tomorrow, everything gets harder. We answer to them now. Do you understand that?”
Jun nods.
“And you don’t care about how much this will complicate things?”
“If I didn’t like complicated, I’d have never fallen in love with you.”
Sho’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t run away. It’s still Jun who has to move, has to come around the counter. It’s been so long since they’ve touched. Too, too long.
He reaches out, cups Sho’s cheek in his palm. Sho lifts his hand, wraps his fingers around Jun’s wrist. They hold like that for what seems like ages. Eyes searching, curious. Is it a mistake? A drunken mistake? It’s real, Jun pleads without words, stroking Sho’s skin with his thumb. It’s always been real.
He leans in, closes the distance, and even a flash of lightning outside doesn’t make them change their minds. Soft, tentative. But familiar. Home.
Without all the walls, the pathway to Jun’s bed is rather direct. They shed clothes all the way. The lucky blue tie. Sho wouldn’t sign any of the paperwork without wearing that ugly tie. Their suit jackets. Belts. He untucks Sho’s shirt from his slacks, kissing him, fumbling blindly at his buttons. Sho’s warm breath is against his face, his neck. How have they convinced themselves for so long that this isn’t necessary?
The storm makes the lights flicker, but they don’t go out. He’s able to see every inch of Sho, every bit of skin that’s been buttoned up, hidden away because Jun had lied for so damn long.
Sho’s on top of him, kissing him. Their hands are twined against the sheets, palm pressed to palm, and Sho calls him by his name. “Jun,” he breathes out, needy and raw after years and years of sticking to foolish principles. “Jun.”
The condom box has a cartoon character on it, and Sho’s laugh rumbles like the thunder. “They were on sale,” Jun whispers weakly.
“We’re billionaires now, you idiot,” Sho teases. “No more god damn sales.”
It’s a bit rough, trying to find the right rhythm after so many years apart. “Slow down, wait…slow down,” Jun complains with each hard stroke of Sho’s cock inside him. He wants it to last. He doesn’t want it to stop.
“Want you.” Sho’s voice, low, driven, teasing along the shell of his ear. “I want you.”
Jun doesn’t know how to tell him. Jun doesn’t want him to say it.
He shuts his eyes, presses his hand to Sho’s back, holds onto him tight.
God, he doesn’t want him to say it.
When it’s over, they lie in Jun’s bed. Jun on his back with an arm under his head, Sho on his stomach. Sho’s watching him, hair a mess, strands in his eyes. His lips swollen from Jun’s demanding kisses.
They stare for a long while at each other. Blinking. Breathing. Taking in the weight of what they’ve done. Everything’s changed. Sho’s smile lights up his whole face. It makes Jun ache.
Don’t say it, Jun thinks, please don’t say it.
“I can’t stay,” Sho says. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?” he asks uselessly.
“Parents are coming over. Taking me out for a celebratory breakfast. Their son, the billionaire,” Sho explains.
Jun inhales, exhales. “You can stay here until you have to go.”
Sho’s still smiling. A good fuck has left him looking twenty-five, not thirty-five. He reaches out his hand, and the brush of his fingertips along the underside of Jun’s arm is a ticklish torture. “My place is a mess. Gotta clean before they come over.”
Sho moves, leaning in for a kiss. Jun rests a hand against the back of Sho’s neck, holding him in place. Stay stay stay stay stay, he pleads without saying it aloud.
“We have a lot to talk about,” Sho says when he moves away, getting off the bed and starting the hunt for his scattered clothes. “After work tomorrow.”
Jun says nothing else, staying in bed, watching Sho put himself back together. Boxers, socks, slacks, shirt, jacket, lucky tie. They kiss for a long time at the door, until Sho finally has to push him away. It’s still pouring outside. His car’s in a lot down the street, and he’s going to try and run for it.
He lifts his umbrella, now dry, from the floor of Jun’s genkan. He smiles and opens the door.
“Well. Until then.”
-
Aiba’s been Jun’s personal assistant for years. He’s a hard worker, and though he was initially quite intimidated by Jun, that has softened in time. Aiba knows how Jun likes to work, knows when Jun needs a break, and most importantly, Aiba knows when his opinion isn’t welcome.
He’s not the kind of guy that’s suited for office work, trapped inside all day under harsh artificial lights, but he’s adapted as Sakuramoto grew and evolved. He enters Jun’s office with a half-assed knock, small green spiral notebook and pen in one hand, Jun’s coffee in another.
He sets the coffee down on Jun’s desk, opens his notebook. Aiba abhors technology, which makes him even less suited for his job. But Jun refuses to let him go. Aiba reads Jun’s schedule for the day aloud, which he’s handwritten in his notebook instead of relying on Jun’s Outlook calendar.
Aiba finishes his reading, pushing Jun’s still untouched coffee closer to his fingers. Aiba tactfully keeps from remarking on the dark circles under Jun’s eyes, though he doesn’t bother to hide his look of concern. In Aiba, Jun has found a kindred spirit. Another person who is unable to hide what he’s feeling, another person whose face gives the whole game away.
“Cancel my 11:00,” Jun says, finally lifting the coffee to his lips. It’s already getting cool. Aiba probably waited in the hall for a while before coming in, not quite ready to face him.
Aiba hesitates. “You’ve rescheduled that three times.”
“And this will be the fourth time,” Jun says, having another sip and clicking his mouse through to the next email in his inbox. The text on his screen is blurry. He couldn’t be bothered to put in his contacts this morning, and he’s wearing an old pair of glasses. An old prescription.
“I’ll reschedule the 11:00 for next week,” Aiba says.
“And cancel the 2:00.”
Aiba looks up, incredulous. “Jun-san, that meeting is with…”
“Reschedule it.”
“Okay.”
He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, gesturing limply at his monitor. “Says ‘Inbox 320,’ aren’t you taking care of it?”
As his admin, Aiba has access to Jun’s email box. He deletes spam for him with great zeal, trims the fat, only leaves the most important things for Jun to click on himself. “Yeah. Everything that’s left is…essential.”
He squints a little, checking subject lines, the names of the people who’ve sent them. More than three hundred emails that apparently need his attention. He closes out the window, shaking his head.
“I’ll check into it later,” he says.
Aiba nods. “There’s a few contracts that have come through that need your signature.”
“Fine.”
“When shall I bring them in?”
“Surprise me.”
He has another sip of his lukewarm drink. He doesn’t need to be such an asshole all the time, and he knows it.
“Aiba-san?”
“Yes?”
“Is Ninomiya in today?”
Aiba pauses, as though he wants to say something else. Jun looks up, seeing how uncomfortable he’s making his admin. It’s a wonder Aiba’s still here putting up with him.
“Yes, Ninomiya-san is in.”
“Good,” Jun says. “That will be all for now.”
-
He arrives along with a rumble of thunder. The bar door shuts behind him, and he tosses his wet umbrella in the stand with the one that’s already there. It’s just after midnight, and the bartender has shut off the music. But they’re paying him to stay open for a little while longer.
He hangs up his dripping raincoat on the rack. This bar has always been poorly lit, and he rolls his eyes. His wet shoes squelch along the floor, and he runs a hand through his hair. When he left the office, it was barely a drizzle. Things have since changed. There’s only one other person sitting at the bar, sipping his fancy Scotch. The bartender stores the bottle for him here.
Jun has a seat beside him, sitting sideways, swiveling and swaying on the stool, taking him in. From the dry state of his suit, he’s been waiting a while. He’s tracing along the rim of his glass with his thumb, an impish smile on his round face.
“You started without me.”
Sho holds up two fingers. “I’m not that far ahead. I know you’ll catch up.”
“Master, I’ll take a double from Sho-san’s special bottle so I can make some progress quickly. Thank you.”
Sho crinkles his nose in irritation. Jun wonders if Sho even knows he does it.
When his drink is served, he holds his glass up. Sho, a little giddy already, knocks their glasses together with more force than he needs to. “Congratulations.”
“Congratulations.”
“To our future.”
Jun says nothing, clinking their glasses again. They sit quietly, side by side, sipping the Scotch as the rain pours down outside. Like it always does.
The bartender busies himself in the stock room, and they continue to sit without speaking. Sometimes Jun likes to drag out the silences.
But Jun wants to ask. Then again, Jun doesn’t want to ask.
“Do you remember when you broke our toaster oven?”
Sho laughs, and it fills the room. It’s always been a bit too much.
“I’m still amazed we didn’t kill each other back then.”
Jun looks down, shutting his eyes. “Me too.”
After about an hour of drinking and talking, the bartender tells them he wants to close down for the night. Like clockwork, the bartender.
Sho gets down off the stool, heading for his coat. Jun calls out, and Sho stops.
“Wanna come up?”
“Yeah. Yeah, let me come up.”
This time Jun stands with Sho at the long bank of windows that stretch along the wall of his apartment, watching the rain together. He knows Sho doesn’t like it, how open it is. Jun likes the freedom. Big windows, lots of light. Free space and hardwood floors. Sho has commented in the past that the place has no soul now. Sho likes old things, places with character and history. Sho liked it better when it was cramped, crammed full of tenants. The two of them trying to survive in a small space unsuitable for two.
They’re both looking out, but Jun’s watching Sho’s reflection in the glass. And Sho is watching his.
“Matsujun,” Sho eventually says, rain droplets sliding down the glass. “Why now?”
“I’m tired of pretending that I don’t want this. That I don’t need this.”
“You can’t change your mind this time.” Sho turns, looking at him. Jun can’t look, fixated instead on Sho’s rain-covered reflection, the slight distortion of his features. “Starting tomorrow, everything gets harder. We answer to them now. Do you understand that?”
Jun nods.
Sho grows impatient, fingers to his sleeve. Grasping. “And you don’t care about how much this will complicate things?”
Finally he manages to turn, looking into the deep, searching brown eyes he’d know anywhere.
“If I didn’t like complicated, I’d have never fallen in love with you.”
He’s still the one who has to make the first move, turning, backing Sho against the wall. His head thumps a bit comically against the glass, breathing nervously as Jun takes charge. Jun lifts his hand to Sho’s face, stroking his cheek with his thumb. It still amazes him how it feels, how Sho’s skin feels, every single time.
Sho’s hand locks around his wrist. Giving Jun one last chance to change his mind.
Jun leans in, and their lips meet. There’s no hesitation now. Sho opens himself up, giving in, kissing Jun hard, fumbling for his tie, undoing his shirt buttons. It’s not long before Sho has a hand around him, working his cock. “Here, over here,” Sho says once Jun is begging for more. “I want you right here.”
The mood lightens a bit when the only condoms Jun has to offer have a cartoon character on the box. “At least tell me the lube doesn’t have Doraemon or Hello Kitty on it,” Sho teases, brushing kisses along Jun’s shoulder blades, tickling his fingertips down the muscles of Jun’s back.
“Not to my knowledge,” Jun says, shutting his eyes as Sho’s fingers start to drift lower.
Sho fucks him there, right next to the window. Jun’s fingers leave streaks on the glass as he braces himself. The glass is cold from the unrelenting rain. Sho’s hands are on his hips, pulling him back against his hard cock again and again and again until Jun can barely stay upright.
“Slow down, wait,” he says. “Slow down.”
Sho stays inside him when he comes, gasping, tracing his fingernails lightly down Jun’s sweaty back. After a few dozen heartbeats, Jun feels Sho pull away. But he doesn’t leave, staying behind him, pressing a gentle kiss to his shoulder. “I want you to come too,” Sho says.
So Jun jerks off right there, left palm against the glass, erection in his other hand. He doesn’t bother telling himself to slow down, there’s no point. It only takes a few minutes of Sho’s soft kisses along his shoulders, Sho’s fingers pushing into his ass, before he’s coming hard, catching most of it in his hand, the rest dripping to the hardwood at his feet.
“Come here,” Sho says, “come here.”
They clean up together in the bathroom, taking twice as long because Jun can’t stop kissing him. He’s perched with his ass on the countertop, Sho standing between his legs with his hands resting on Jun’s thighs. Sho’s looking sleepy, but he returns every kiss without complaint.
Finally Sho steps back. Don’t say it, Jun thinks, please don’t say it.
“I can’t stay,” Sho says. “I’m sorry.”
Something about breakfast, his parents. Jun follows behind like a loyal dog, watches as Sho retrieves his boxers, his socks, the rest of his clothes. Jun trails him all the way to the genkan, kissing him with tears streaking down his face.
Sho backs away, brushing the tears away with his knuckle. “What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing, nothing.”
Sho lifts his umbrella from the genkan floor. His hand is almost on the door handle.
“Halt program,” Jun says, raising his voice.
The sound of the rain stops. Sho stops, his hand frozen in place. Jun lifts a hand to Sho’s face. Sho’s eyes stay open, but he doesn’t blink. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t do anything. Jun strokes Sho’s cheek with his thumb.
It still amazes him how it feels, how Sho’s skin feels, every single time.
-
Ninomiya Kazunari could have worked for any large company, but eight years ago he chose to work for Sakuramoto. Of all the company’s employees, “Nino” has always been given the most freedom. It’s what he thrives on, being able to work without interruption. To make mistakes and learn from them at his own pace.
It took Jun years to get accustomed to Nino’s methods because Jun is exacting and temperamental while Nino is patient and far more willing to fuck up a few times before he gets it just right. But when Nino does work for Jun, he takes direction without second-guessing, without suggesting how he’d go about it himself. And Jun’s rewarded him for it.
Nino’s salary, department budget, and compensation package was one of the non-negotiables with the acquisition. Despite that, Jun sometimes wonders if Nino would be happier somewhere else. But he knows he’d never get a straight answer.
There are four different security measures keeping Nino’s lab locked down, and Jun’s one of the only ones who can make it through them all. He passes the final iris scan, and the doors slide open, close behind him. In some TV drama, Nino’s lab would be in a grim basement, hidden away. Instead, Nino takes up the building’s 8th floor, chosen because of some baseball manager’s team number. “We don’t have an 88th floor so the 8th is fine,” Nino had decided.
It’s not dark and shadowy and mysterious. Nino’s inner sanctum is brightly lit, filled with the whimsical pings and zings of 1980’s video game music. Nino wears his crisp white lab coat over a faded t-shirt, sweatpants, and sandals. He’s making adjustments on his computer when Jun approaches. He looks over, sees the body on the cold metal table.
It always reminds Jun of going to the morgue, early that morning. He’d been the one that had been called when the parents couldn’t be reached immediately. He hates it.
There’s a light buzzing as one of Nino’s most trusted techs shaves the body’s face. “Getting more growth than you anticipated?” Jun asks, stroking his own face, finding a few days’ stubble of his own.
Nino looks up from his massive array of monitors, smirking. “I’m getting it under control. Just a small recalibration.”
Jun nods, eyes squinting at Nino’s readouts. “See that you do. Completely clean-shaven, you know that was his preference.”
Nino never says anything when Jun makes these kinds of comments. Jun appreciates it.
Jun wanders over to the table, looking down with a critical eye. Nino’s chair has wheels and he simply scoots across the floor after him, lazy as ever. The tech finishes up the shave, making a note of it on the tablet beside him. “His hair’s too long,” Jun says.
Nino leans over, a bit curious. “Where?”
Jun moves his finger across the forehead. “It’s a few centimeters off, right here.”
“How much is a few?”
“Two. Just a slight trim, right across here.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Nino says. “That’s a different system from the facial growth.”
“I know,” Jun says.
“Any other external considerations?” Nino inquires.
Jun knows every single patch of skin. Sometimes it gets too real, sometimes he can’t handle it. He makes Nino tweak something here and there. And then other times the imperfections drive him mad, and he makes Nino change it back.
“No, nothing else external.”
The eyes are closed for now, the soft lashes lightly brushing against his face. They probably spent a week alone getting the eyes right. It’s a miracle Jun didn’t drive Nino away with his specifications then. The color of the irises was the easy part. But the emotional responses, the resulting shifts, were the tricky ones. Windows to the soul, indeed.
“Okay,” Nino says, rolling away back to his monitors. “Internal considerations.”
Jun looks down. There’s no wrinkles in the dress shirt. Lucky tie with the Windsor knot. The suit’s been dry cleaned. He brushes his fingers gently along the collar of his shirt.
“Personality systems,” Jun says, taking his hand back, adjusting his glasses. “I want a bit more stubbornness.”
“A bit?” Nino asks.
“Lower cooperation by two percent. Raise independence by…” He looks down and grins. “Half a percentage point. Let’s not go overboard.”
“Got it.”
A pause and Nino speaks again.
“Wait.”
Jun turns, sees Nino’s eyes swim back and forth as he reads his monitor. “Wait?”
Nino shakes his head. “A two percent drop in cooperation takes him out of established operating parameters by…a full percentage point.”
“So?”
Nino doesn’t let any frustration show on his face. He’s just stating the facts. He waits for instruction.
Jun steps away from the table, moving to stand behind Nino. He’s right, of course. A warning’s flashing on the screen, asking Nino if he wants to confirm the programming changes. A two percent drop in any of the other models is rarely enough to make much difference. Their thresholds are calibrated more simply.
“He always played hard to get,” Jun admits quietly.
Nino’s music shifts to the next track, and Mario’s gone underwater.
“Make the changes.”
“Done.”
-
Aiba had been the one to contact the news stations that covered it, asking for copies of the tapes. He’d edited the clips down into a single video file that still sits on Jun’s hard drive. Jun’s had Aiba order in food for all the staff today, no reason, just a thank you for their hard work. It’s an expense that the corporate overlords will pester him about until Jun pays for it himself.
He’s sitting back in his chair, legs up on the desk, plate in his lap, letting the video play. Jun knows that Aiba’s been asked about it a lot.
“…police have ruled out foul play in the incident. Last night’s heavy rains…”
Tell the truth, Jun always instructs Aiba. If they want to know, tell them the truth. He has another bite.
“…where he was the chief programmer. The accident, coming less than 24 hours after the company’s acquisition by…”
Jun shuts his eyes. The reporters always sound so indifferent.
“…truck driver did not account for the slickness of the roads when braking…”
“…artificial intelligence, Sakuramoto Technologies, where he was the chief programmer. The accident, coming less…”
“…was wearing a seatbelt, and though the airbag did deploy…”
“…heavy rains led to at least a dozen accidents on roads in the Tokyo Metropolis. This incident was the only fatality…”
He sets the plate down on the desk, appetite vanishing.
“…chief programmer, Sakurai Sho, age thirty-five was…”
-
The storm outside has only gotten worse since he left, and his shoes squeak across the floor of the bar as he ditches his jacket and umbrella. Sho’s already drinking that Scotch he likes, the fancy one that the bartender stores here for him.
Jun sits down next to him, watches him run his thumb around the rim of his glass. He looks younger, carefree. Maybe it’s the haircut.
“You started without me,” Jun complains.
Sho holds up two fingers, grinning wickedly. “I’m not that far ahead. I know you’ll catch up.”
Jun waves over the bartender. “Master, Sho-san will be sharing from his bottle tonight. Thank you.”
Sho crinkles his nose in irritation. Jun wonders if Sho even knows he does it.
It’s an hour, maybe two of bullshitting. The past, the present. Only Sho talks about the future. The bartender says he’s closing up, and Jun waits until Sho’s already putting on his coat before he asks.
“Wanna come up?”
Sho hesitates, glancing out the bar window. “Coming down pretty hard tonight.”
“Stay until it lets up.”
The bartender jangles his keys, encouraging them to make a decision.
“Well, I guess,” Sho says, and Jun can see it in his eyes. He’s not sure what Jun’s got planned, but he’ll play along for now.
They take the back stairs up to Jun’s place. Sho moves to stand by the windows, watching the rain. Jun takes off his suit jacket, drapes it over the sofa. It’s been a long day. He moves over to Sho, stands just a bit too close.
Sho turns, taking a step back. This time his eyes are a bit cynical rather than nervous. “Why now?”
“Because I can’t keep pretending. I can’t keep lying to myself.”
“About what?” Sho asks, even though he knows what Jun means. He’s just making him work for it. They’ve always been at their best when they challenge each other, Jun supposes.
“About me. And you.”
Sho rolls his eyes, chuckling. “You were the one who said we can’t do this.”
“I was wrong,” he admits. His voice trails off. “I was wrong about a lot of things…”
When he leans in to kiss Sho, Sho stops him with a firm hand to his shoulder. “Jun.”
“You want this, too,” he mumbles. “I know that you do.”
“You think you know everything about me?”
There’s a dark undercurrent to Sho’s words, and for the first time, Jun wonders if Sho left his apartment with regrets that night. Jun wonders if he’s gotten it all wrong from the start.
He turns around, walks away, doubt constricting around him. Making it hard to breathe. He should stop this. He should stop.
“You can’t change your mind this time.” He freezes in place at the sound of Sho’s voice. “Starting tomorrow, everything gets harder. We answer to them now. Do you understand that?”
He still can’t move, and it’s Sho who walks forward instead. Jun can hear the cuffs of his slacks sliding along the hardwood floor as he approaches. Jun shuts his eyes, holding back tears when Sho’s arms come around his waist. He’s surrounded, intoxicated by Sho’s scent. It was almost as hard to perfect as his eyes had been…
Sho squeezes, voice catching in his throat. “Do you understand that?”
He can’t open his eyes, resting his hands on top of Sho’s. “Starting tomorrow, everything gets harder,” Jun repeats, knowing how bitter he sounds.
Sho’s voice is a warning, an admonishment. “And you don’t care about how much this will complicate things?”
“If I didn’t like complicated, I’d have never fallen in love with you.”
He allows Sho to press kisses along his neck, soft, slow. He’s shaking in Sho’s arms. Before Sho can get him to turn around, to face him and face what it all means, Jun lets out a breath.
“Halt program.”
He stands there for a while, Sho’s arms around him. He’s still warm. He’s always warm, it’s one of the first things they figured out together. Years ago. He wipes his eyes, having to move Sho as he needs to in order to separate them. Sho’s left standing there in the middle of the room, arms out and waiting for an embrace. His expression is soft, affectionate. But there’s nothing in his eyes. Nothing.
Jun moves to the bathroom, taking a look at himself in the mirror. Purple, under his eyes, almost like he’s been punched. Sho never remarks on how tired he looks. It’s not part of the narrative. He wonders what Sho even sees.
He splashes water on his face, clears his throat. He walks past Sho, still standing there waiting for Jun to love him back the way he deserves. He puts on his shoes and opens the apartment door, heading down the stairs. The bar isn’t really locked, of course, and he breezes through. Nino’s tech guy has already powered down and removed the bartender.
Jun goes out the front door, and without the lighting and sound effects, it’s just a sad, empty corridor. Jun taps in his code to exit, finding himself back in Nino’s lab. Nino and his tech are running scans on the bartender. Nino looks up, lifting the surgical magnifying glasses he wears that make him look like a bug.
“Something wrong?” Nino asks. Jun’s early.
“No. No, nothing’s wrong. I’ll check in with you tomorrow. Thanks for your hard work.”
Nino doesn’t question him further, settling his glasses back in place. “Good night.”
Part Two