stormymood (stormymood) wrote in arashi_exchange,

Gift Fic for tsunderellasays

GIFT FIC for tsunderellasays

Title: a rose is a rose is a rose
Pairing/Group: Matsumoto Jun / Sakurai Sho
Rating/Warnings: PG, none
Summary: The rose is missing!
Note: Sakumoto for you, dear tsunderellasays! And AU on top of it! What I can't write, unfortunately, is porn with a plot but I hope you will enjoy this piece anyway.

Yayoi Kusama, Pumpkin

Sho likes his job, he really does. Working in the insurance department at Benesse allows him anything and everything. The salary is great, the benefits too but it's not the most interesting work one can imagine. He is chained to his desk and business trips are a rare treat so, really, he welcomes any kind of change, but what the hell?

The traffic light changes from green to red, somewhere near the Okayama coast, and he spies into the stopping cars to find potential help.

He planned it carefully, he always does—take the Shinkansen from Tokyo to Okayama at 7.37 am, catch the local bus to the pier at 5.15 pm and arrive at Naoshima port 5.45 pm.

What a joke, the bus only runs until 5 pm (and Hyperdia told him otherwise, damn that train website), there was no taxi in sight so he finds himself in that ridiculous American movie pose, his thumb stuck out and waiting. When a car actually halts besides him and the window scrolls down, Sho is not sure if he can call himself lucky as he is greeted by a tiny monkey, looking up at him with huge eyes. Sho barely registers the laxed, „Hey man~“ spoken by the owner of that... creature. He just stares at the monkey. A monkey! On the lap of its owner. Behind the wheel.

Sho is close to losing his cool. Fuck the rare treat, fuck the nice change of pace, Sakurai-san, as his supervisor has told him. Fuck business trips, fuck the rose, Sakurai-san, one of the most prestigious objects in the collection of the Naoshima Benesse Museum, Sho thinks when the monkey peers at him anxiously from the side while he clings to the door handle.

His throat is impossibly dry while that guy, Daigo, man, speaks like a waterfall and drives like a madman. Consequently he is out of the car within seconds when Daigo stops at the pier.

And of course he misses the chance to get the oh-so-tempting water from the vending machine upon the very soon departure of (the fucking last) ferry and he is thirsty, sweaty and close to fainting upon arrival to Naoshima. The captain announces the arrival and Sho drags himself on shaky legs to the railing, dangling half over the rusty handrail. He drains down the water given by a blessed soul in form of a friendly old grandpa—the only luck he had all day. He groans when the cool liquid hits his tongue, squinting his eyes as the harbour of Naoshima comes into view and, with it, a huge pumpkin.

A pumpkin.

A huge pumpkin.

He must be hallucinating because there is no way such a huge pumpkin would grow on concrete; bigger than a human being, as it's proved by the figure right next to it, detaching itself from its structure, looking glued to it for a moment in the fluttery summer heat.

As he gets near, he can make out the large black dots on the yellow ground and man standing next to the pumpkin.

The boat docks and Sho gyrates with it, lightheaded and still a little dehydrated, but he straightens somehow and walks towards the pum—the man, who seems to be waiting for him, (not the pumpkin) and bows in a correct 45° angle.

„Sakurai-san?“ a smooth voice inquires and he looks straight into a professional smile with professional teeth, lined up neatly and white and perfect.

„Yes,“ he croaks, bowing a little sloppily in return. Just why is it that artsy people have to be handsome all the time to the point that it's simply bothersome?

„Matsumoto Jun. I hope you had a pleasant trip.“

„Obviously,“ he bites back. There is no way his condition has slipped from Matsumoto's piercing eyes.

Matsumoto smiles again. „Welcome to Naoshima.“ He guides him swiftly, showing no mercy for his situation, as he walks along the docks leaving Sho to follow him. Matsumoto proceeds to rattles down the schedule: arrival, scheduled interviews, investigation, departure. But then Matsumoto suddenly turns around and asks, „What do you know about art?“ and Sho stops and stares.

„Close to nothing,“ he answers. And it's half true. He has studied art history as his minor. A fact Matsumoto does not need to know and the reason why his supervisor thought it was a good idea sending Sho to Naoshima. And as much as he can appreciate a woodblock print by Hokusai or a photography by Ueno he has no clue about modern art at all, art that needs too much interpretation and understanding to be appreciated. And his artistic attempts leave Totoro looking like a snowman.

If possible Matsumoto features harden even more and Sho wants to add that he is a freaking insurance inspector. And as one he doesn’t have to know a bloody thing about art besides its value. And just when he is about to open his mouth and say just that, Matsumoto clears his throat, turns around again and continues his way up to the modern, glassy museum building. „Very well. Then I suppose you’d welcome a small briefing on our facilities,“ he continues as Sho catches up, his voice dropping, „since I do not suspect you found the time to study the material I sent you beforehand, either.“

Fucking prick.

„Our museum is based on the concept of coexistence of nature, art and architecture. The facility consists of four buildings, all designed by Tadao Ando.“

The pause after the name is pregnant and for a moment Sho thinks Matsumoto wants to test him. But since he doesn't comment on it, they end up staring at each other in silence until Sho blinks and Matsumoto does too.

„Our Museum,“ he carries on, „which performs the complex’s principal function of displaying art, is a structure open to the outside world.“

Matsumoto sounds like he’s reading the brochure out loud, Sho thinks as he watches him recite in front of him, his brand shirt stark white wrinkled just so, tucked into his brand suit pants, which are too low and too tight to be proper suit pants, walking in a way that makes his hips sway (Sho swears, they sway—in eights—it's not due to his condition). All combined makes him appear sophisticated and so very right in place.

„In addition to the works in our collection, our Museum also contains permanent site-specific installations that artists have created especially for this building. That goes for Kusama's Pumpkin too.“

Sho looks back to the pumpkin standing proudly and mockingly at the docks and back to Matsumoto, all crisp and cool in front of the modern, sleek building.
Suddenly he feels like one, like a pumpkin, all sweaty, greasy, miserable and unprepared for Benesse although he’s worked for the company for more than ten fucking years.

And Matsumoto shows no mercy, gesturing to follow him through the glass doors.„Please follow me, Ninomiya-san is awaiting you.“


Yoshihiro Suda, Rose

Ninomiya's office is just as he imagined it, sun-flooded, full of books and catalogues in a sorted chaos.

Ninomiya, dressed in hideous shorts and a white shirt, is unnaturally calm about the whole art theft ordeal. He offers his hand and gestures to the sofa chair across his desk.

„We are very glad you came, Sakurai-san.“

Sho nods, so far Ninomiya seems to be the only one.

„I hope you had a pleasant journey?“


„Very well. You must be tired though.“

„Not at all,“ he smiles pleasantly. Since he is in well air conditioned surroundings he’s recovered a whole lot from the train-bus-taxi-hitchhiking-ferry drama.

Just that moment Matsumoto steps into the room, arms strained with more heavy catalogs, balancing a tray with an ice coffee on top of it. He sets the tray down carefully, slides the glass wordlessly towards Sho, bows shortly in apology for the intrusion and leaves without a word.

Sho is astonished, to say the least, with all the books and the coffee, the gesture and all. He can't help but follow Matsumoto's figure (ass, honestly) out of the room with his eyes, bemused by this hot and cold treatment and the whole situation. Only Ninomiya's comment gets Sho out of his thoughts. „I asked him to find pictures of the... missing object, so that you can imagine it more easily.“

Sho eyes the various thick books with several marks where, he supposes, are pictures of the art piece. Matsumoto must have been working like a bee.

“If you don’t mind I will start explaining the matter right away, we can’t afford to keep the facilities closed any longer.”

Sho just nods, pouring the complete content of the small syrup can into his coffee.

„The Rose was made by Yoshihiro Suda,“ Ninomiya begins to explain, flipping through a thick catalog before shoving it towards Sho over the table while he sips at his drink. „Of course he wasn't delighted that his artwork, er, vanished but to our great luck he already agreed to create another piece, it is just a matter of the salary.“

Sho bets it is, but he will have to prove the loss according to the policy or else Ninomiya will have to live without his precious rose. Sho leans forward to see how precious it was but the picture only shows a rose in front of a white wall, hanging upside down and no matter how he looks at it, it does not resemble art in the sense he appreciates.

Ninomiya catches his look, as he continues, „Suda makes life-like wooden sculptures of flowers and weeds.“ He turns over a page. „Placed in large empty spaces, the objects have a presence that dominates their surroundings.“

Yeah, Sho does not see that. A rose is a rose is a rose, right?

Ninomiya then unfolds the huge folder, taking out several photographs. „For comparison,“ he mumbles and Sho hunches over the pictures, comparing the white beton wall within the garden with and without the object, before looking at Ninomiya with a blank expression.

„By placing his sculptures into places that are easily overlooked,“ Ninomiya offers not without amusement at Sho's lack of understanding, „he heightens awareness of the space and encourages the viewer to look more closely at things that they might not normally notice.“

Now Sho can’t help but see straight through the irony. „And when did you realize that it was gone?“

Ninomiya does look uncomfortable for a moment before answering. „When the rose lost its petals.“

Sho can't help but chuckle. But then he meets Ninomiya's raised eyebrow and he clears his throat. „Who wanted the piece in the collection?“ He asks, trying to find his way back to his professionalism.

Ninomiya looks sharply at him. „That would be Matsumoto-san.“


„Our chief curator.“

Jennifer Bartlett, Bridge, boat, dog

The morning sun is flooding the room. Sho groans as he turns around under the blanket. It's not a good decision to leave the curtains open when the suite has large panoramic windows on two sides, allowing to see the best view in the entire building, looking out over Shikoku and the Island Sea.

It’s not that it isn’t breathtaking, but it’s just too early.

He blinks, and blinks again, gradually overcoming the sleep due to the overall whiteness. The suite is wide, the furniture well-chosen and well placed. His eyes travel to the art piece, a triptych—three large graphics in light and dark blue as well as in pink. He can make out the vastness of the sea, with a bridge, a lone boat and a dog, always there, no matter how the light, together with the time of day, changes.

It's funny how the picture instantly reminds him of his arrival. He in a boat, on the vast sea, completely exhausted and Matsumoto waiting for him. Forever waiting for him.
Nice, he thinks before he catches himself grinning like an idiot upon the image, and he frowns. It's not like it has to be that stuck up curator—

He throws the blanket aside, somehow annoyed, takes a shower and grabs his toothbrush. He steps outside on the balcony and brushes his teeth, starting to enjoy the morning for once as he observes the shadows from the tree branches dancing across the garden in the light wind. He pads around to the other side and promptly sees the man on his mind, lingering in front of what looks like a weird antenna. His figure is bent backwards in an unbelievable angle, looking up the four thin poles.

And he smiles. In a way that clearly shows how much he enjoys just looking at the—it must be a—sculpture. At that moment Sho yearns to see what he sees, to a level that he wants to study book upon book just to be able to enjoy that... thing just as much as Matsumoto. He stares at him, his toothbrush still in his mouth, observing how he makes a full round around the sculpture before ticking it off on his writing board. Inventory, it hits Sho.

When he rounds the pedestal Matsumoto comes to face him and his smile fades as he catches Sho's eyes, his own questioning, an eyebrow rising. Sho holds his gaze, absorbed already, until Matsumoto gets uncomfortable all of the sudden, bows and leaves.

Well that was awkward, Sho thinks. It’s strange for this guy to be nervous around him. There is only one reason as he isn't the handsome one.

Hiroshi Sugimoto, Coffin of Light

The room is so dark he almost misses him on screen because it looks like a photography straight from a lifestyle magazine. Matsumoto is standing right there, in front of a large, pitch black picture. And he just stands there, motionless. His left hip his jutted out, his long right leg stretched and Sho has the sudden urge to do things to him through the screen. He doesn't know where this attraction comes from. Normally he isn't the type to go for looks and—he leans forward, forcing himself to focus, Sakurai.

„How could it be that it slipped your consciousness, Ohno-san, that the rose was exchanged?“ He asks standing in front of the monitors and next to the security guy. Actually he does not wonder that anything slipped that guy’s mind, he doesn't seem very much awake.

He watches Matsumoto taking a step back briefly, finally, before approaching it again, grazing the frame with his long fingers, gliding over it.

„It is not on camera, I checked.“

„Did you... and why—wait, why does the alarm does not go off. Your curator is touching what I assume is worth some millions Yen.“

„The alarm only goes off when the object is being moved.“

Sho pinches the bridge of his nose. „Ohno-san would you give me the tapes of the past weeks?“

„Would have to speak to Nino, but--“ Nino, what is this, a huge family?

„Is there something else I should know? Maintenances, blackouts...“

„Nothing like that.“

Nothing, Sho muses and silently continues watching Matsumoto walking through the halls, from screen to screen. He clearly loves what he does, just as clearly he must have something to do with this whole rose case. It has to be him—Sho is already so biased despite his usual calm and analytic approach that he just knows he must be the person responsible for it.

„The rose was taken four weeks before the incident for inventory,“ a voice cuts into the silence of Sho's thread of thoughts and Ohno's nose picking. It is Matsumoto's voice. Sho spins around. He hasn’t even realized him vanishing from the screens. „By whom?“

Matsumoto smiles nonchalantly, handing Ohno a cup of milk coffee. „By me. I took photographs, checked it for damage and hung it up again.“

Sho gapes while Matsumoto strides forwards, wafting pass to click a few times. „The time I took it,“ gesturing to the stream, letting his camera self-taking the piece with much care before fast forwarding three hours. „The time I hung it up again.“

And that he does, hanging up the rose, a rose. Sho squints, it could be a rose and when he watches Matsumoto’s self-assured smile he knows it is not the original, no way in hell. And now he has to check four months’ worth of tape. Damn it.

Kazuo Katase, Drink a Cup of Tea

Sho has spent the afternoon on the too comfortable sofa chairs, slowly sinking more and more into the soft, gray cushions, watching the surveillance tapes and nothing. Nothing that would indicate, let alone prove, a change of objects. Matsumoto very clearly, well, as clear as these shots are, hung the rose back and there’s no way a real rose would last that long without water. Despite that spacy guy the surveillance system is up to the recent standards, there are no blind spots, no black hours... Just how did he do it? There’s no hard evidence but Sho knows it is him. Matsumoto. The way he looks straight into the camera from time to time leaves Sho slightly breathless, but mainly suspicious, with goosebumps, but mainly suspicious.

Camera whore.

He feels like he has seen a lot of Matsumoto within these hours of tape watching, fast forwarding, stopping when necessary, playing, fast forwarding. He treats the artwork delicately, with such utmost care that Sho had found himself hypnotized by fingertips sliding over marble, wood or beton, by the soft smile, bright eyes and huge laughter when he fools around with the other staff (a rare treat), gesturing huge and wide in front of the rose.

Sho just can't figure out why someone so dedicated to art would steal it. He just can't get his head around it, so he does what he always does when stuck: eating. When he enters the restaurant he hears breathy laughter and a „Matsuju~n“, he stops and stares as Matsumoto whacks the restaurant staff softly over the head, ruffling his hair and Sho yet again gets a glimpse of the rare treat.


„I—ah, a guest,“ the staff breathes and Sho bows slightly, vague. He joins Matsumoto at the counter. He can feel him tense while he scans the menu. When he looks up, he realizes Matsumoto is watching him for a change.

„Any recommendations?“ he asks in, he hopes, a relaxed manner.

„A cup of tea,“ Matsumoto deadpans and the staff stifles a laugh and Sho knows he has just missed the joke because when he is ordering tea (out.of.sheer.politeness) Matsumoto's mouth twitches and the staff is shaking from holding back his laughter.

Matsumoto bows and leaves while Sho takes a seat right next to the glass front with a view to the shore, with several objects in the scenery. On an Italian looking pedestal, far out there, he can see a huge bowl like form, behind it the blue, glittering sea and even to him it seems so picturesque that when the staff comes with his much smaller one, he asks what it is called.

„Drink a cup of tea.“

„I—thank you, but what's the name of the sculpture, there on the pedestal?“

Drink a cup of tea, it's the name of the artwork,“ his eyes shine with humor, twinkling.

„That—“ Sho starts, furious when he gets it.

„The tea is good though,“ the staff interrupts mildly. „Matsujun—Matsumoto-san wouldn't have recommended it otherwise.“

Sho nods a little dumbfounded, a little lost and a little pissed. He eyes the name tag before speaking up again. „Aiba-san, what can you tell me about Matsumoto-san.“

The staff looks at him, eyes as huge as saucers.

„Pure precaution.“

He laughs then, a different laugh from Matsumoto’s. Bright like the sun, too bright, less soft and fond like Matsumoto's when he's immersed by art, bringing coffee for that Ohno security guy or joking with the restaurant staff. Earnest and open unlike the smiles Matsumoto regards Sho with, halting ones, haughty ones, sarcastic ones.

„Most workaholic person ever,“ Aiba begins. „well next to Ninomiya-san. If you ask me, but don't tell him I told you, he could be an artist as well. Always playing around with ideas but I think he's intimidated by Oh-chan. Oh-chan has the talent, you see, but Matsujun the ideas.“

A curator with an artistic soul, huh? That just fits his observation.

He sets the thin porcelain cup to his lips to drink when an epiphany hits him. Of course it is Matsumoto and now he knows why, why Matsumoto would even think of committing the sacrilege to steal a work of art. There are only two reasons he can think of now but it's not like he can prove it so there is only one way: confrontation.

Niki de Saint Phalle, Elephant

When Aiba confirmed that Matsumoto indeed occupied one of the Museums hotel suits all he has to do is go for a stroll early in the morning until he finds him... But nothing could have prepared him for this.

Sho squats down in front of the curator, cocking his head. „How do you call this pose?“

Matsumoto doesn’t even glimpse at him, as he supports himself on his hands, his legs stretched to the left side, off the ground and somehow his left arm is in between his legs and his legs are knotted and it is all too complicated but Sho wants to know how.

„Elephant,“ is the short reply.

„And how can you hold it?“ Sho asks curiously.

„By. Not. Speaking.“

Sho laughs. „But I came to share my theory regarding the rose,“ he starts conversationally, standing up again and circling Matsumoto, watching him as he slowly bends and folds to change sides.


„An art lover turns into a thief.“

„That easy?“ Matsumoto asks, as he lifts his legs parallel again up the ground.

Sho smiles, „Tell me.“

Matsumoto snorts and stretches further and Sho chokes at what he sees from behind. How can one person be so... so bendy?

„Why would I answer your insult, Sakurai-san?“

Matsumoto's sentence pulled him out of his thoughts. „Then how about a curator that wants to become an artist, continue the work?“

Matsumoto retreats then, breathing deeply, coming to a halt, standing, coming forward, too close to Sho. He can see the sweat trailing down Matsumoto’s jaw.

„Interesting,“ Matsumoto breathes, smiling. „What about money?“ He takes another step forward and Sho somehow mesmerized by the drops trickling down slowly, oh so slowly, takes a step back.

„You don't strike me as a person after money.“

Matsumoto halts for a splint of a second. „Me?“

„I have a feeling...“ He says challenging, searching for his reactions.

Matsumoto's eyes flash interestedly. „How about proof?“

„There is none.“

„What a pity,“ Matsumoto says, leaning forward, his eyes searching, most probably to see if he really wouldn't pursue the curator. „You're smart Sakurai-san,“ Matsumoto adds and Sho can feel his cheeks heating up, even more when Matsumoto's lips curl into a smile, caught in his teeth.

„Catch me—”


Matsumoto grins, “—if you can.” He takes another step, the only step missing for Sho to fall, spluttering, into the pool behind him.

„Fool,“ Matsumoto grins from above. Sho snarls, grabbing for Matsumoto's ankle, jerking roughly. Matsumoto shrieks, and gurgles, heaving for air once he surfaces.

„Are you insane?“ He screams like a fury, getting out of the water immediately, the clothes clinging to him like a second skin.

„I call it poetic justice.“ Sho says rather satisfied.

Matsumoto throws him a glare, swiping the black curls out of his face before he starts rambling, like a bunny caught in the headlight about bloody inspectors spoiling the fun, about air muscles and Masaki and chipmunk cheeks and dry ice and Sho has no idea what he is talking about, every sentence disconnected and spoken in such a rage. But Sho has no desire to stop him, just as he doesn't want to point out how he now can see literally everything through the wet, thin cotton pants. It's a nice sight after all and an interesting angle too.

Kan Yasuda, The Secret of the Sky

It's bittersweet.

He palms the flat stone underneath him. Aiba-san, the restaurant staff has invited him on his last evening to some star viewing, art discussions and mo~re and the best location apparently were these flat stones, artsy stones.

He sighs, waiting for his return with the promised tea.

He hears steps; barely lifting his head to look into the direction, he recognizes immediately the outline. The sway of hips is so completely different, that he jerks upwards, all ready to get up from the art piece. Matsumoto will eat him on his last day alive if he finds Sho sitting on one.

But Matsumoto only chuckles. „Please calm down, Sakurai-san, it's only me.“

„Only“ must be the understatement of the century.

„And Aiba-san?“

Matsumoto shrugs, taking a seat next to him, handing Sho the hot cup of tea, before leaning back to lie flat on the stone, just like Sho had earlier. It is suddenly oddly cozy on the flat stone.

“And I wanted to hear his opinion on these stones here.”

Matsumoto laughs next to him. “Aiba-san? He’s a hopeless case concerning art. Give him a line and two dots and he spots faces everywhere.”

Sho grins. They fall into a comfortable silence, a whole new experience for Sho, as he looks up the stars. He could lie here all his life, with that warmth next to him, with that even breathing, the sharp hip bones poking out in beautiful curves.

„How are your investigations?“ Matsumoto asks eventually.

Sho sighs, why fooling around, in the end they both only dance around each other. There is no way he can charge Matsumoto for that theft with as little as he had; case unsolved, his boss will have a feast. It is his very first unsolved one, but somehow, he can't say he is utterly disappointed in himself. He hates to lose, but losing to Matsumoto doesn't seem so bad. He remains silent, idly looking at that hip bone. He wants to feel it under his own hands, that sharpness.

„It's you. I—I just don't know how you did it.“ Sho admits. „Maybe you aimed for an effect like the lost exhibition, maybe you just like to see it as continued art by provoking the empty space, just like the rose aimed to highlight space which you usually oversee.“

Matsumoto sounds surprised, when he speaks, „You studied.“

Sho sighs heavily, almost comically.

„I did.“ And it was even interesting, he wants to add but not to admit. But then he sees the soft smile playing on Matsumoto's lips and he starts asking questions, first about various interpretations of the rose, the tea cup, the stones and idly listens to Matsumoto, who answers with passion, with deep knowledge and love.

And if he loves that rose so much, Sho thinks completely against his nature, let him have it. He turns his head to the side, watching Matsumoto's chest rising and falling with every breath. His voice carries over not only through the ear but also through the stone, vibrating gently.

Yeah, let him have it, he couldn't care less.

„Want to know the secret?“ Matsumoto asks after a long moment. Sho raises an eyebrow at him and Matsumoto's brows furrow. „This time you don't have a mike with you, right?“ He adds as if on a second thought.

Sho jerks up, fully turning to Matsumoto in surprise. „What?“

The curator shoots him that look again, as if he is an idiot. „You didn't have a mike under your shirt?“

„What?“ Sho repeats dumbly.

„Why else would I throw you into the pool?“ Matsumoto asks, annoyed.

Sho snorts and shoves his shoulder. „I am an insurance inspector, not a detective.“

Matsumoto laughs, suddenly all shy and embarrassed and cute. „So, want to know it?“

Sho chuckles, leaning back, joining Matsumoto with his hands behind his head. „No, I don't even want to prove you guilty.“ He hears how Matsumoto's breath hitches. „It would be wasted energy, I know as soon as I am gone, the rose will be back in place, carefully tangling from invisible threats.“

A grunt. In disappointment?, Sho wonders, glancing at him.

„You're awfully confident,“ the curators mumbles, staring at the sky, avoiding any eye contact. Sho watches him for a long moment, a grin forming oh so slowly on his lips.

Does Matsumoto think he would not pursue him out of romantic interest?

What a fool.


Back in Tokyo and after his boss had the time of his life screaming and downgrading him, Sho found himself on his way home. He doesn't know why but he boards the Oedo Line into the direction of Daimon instead of Nakano and leaves it at Roppongi Station.
He has no interest in the art night at all but the moment he sees the huge pumpkin, highlighted strangely in the darkness of the evening, his heart speeds up for no stupid reason whatsoever. And when a figure steps from behind, coming into view, sleek and stylish Sho thinks that his heart might as well have stopped.


Matsumoto comes towards him, a small smile playing on his lips as Sho retreats. But this time there is no pool to fall into, only darkness of the barley illuminated terrace and Sho halts when he bumps into the huge spiders leg of the Roppongi Hills Monument. Matsumoto leans forward, lips grazing his cheek and Sho shudders, he can't help it.

„Sakurai-san,“ the smooth voice inquires and Sho curses. „what do you know about art?“

He swallows hard. „Nothing.“

„Very well.“ Matsumoto's breath is hot against his ear, his cheek and tauntingly he adds. „I suddenly got money,“

Sho's eyes grow huge. It can't be. „You—“ Sho starts. That has been the one miscalculation. Matsumoto is just as evil as other people, fuck the artistic soul. He can't finish his cursing, he can't even think properly anymore as Matsumoto caught his lips with his own in a short heated kiss.

„How about we spend some of it?“

Well, Sho can't say he isn't up for benefits.

Tags: p: matsumoto jun/sakurai sho, r: pg, year: 2012
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