swan dive into the logo! (turtle_ai) wrote,
swan dive into the logo!

  • Mood:
  • Music:

the traces of your tears will scatter [Arashi, Matsumiya]

[Title] the traces of your tears will scatter
[Author] turtle_ai  
[Disclaimer] I don't own Arashi, or Johnny's Ent. They do own my heart, however.
[Pairing] Matsumiya
[Rating] PG
[Summary] It is the same mission; kill with grace and no mercy. Matsumoto Jun has never failed before; it will never happen. But it does.
[Notes] I seem to be writing longer and longer pieces. I am proud of myself :D -shot- For ida because she always forgives me and is always there. I LOVES YOU, DARLING~ Here is where I would put sparkles and love and lots of hearts but communities don't want heartspams. XD Enjoy? n_n

The street lights illuminate the quiet roads, the dark night, but as far as Matsumoto Jun can tell, it is still bleary, opaque, and the dim lights comfort nothing. It is quiet, still, and the atmosphere unclear, murky, and suffocating. Almost dead, one would say, but Matsumoto Jun knows the presence of a dead atmosphere far too well, and this was not it.

He watches himself closely in the mirror, his eyes peeking out from the curly bangs he’d cared for and treasured since ten years before. Brushing his hair carefully to one side, he drops his hands, glares at himself in the mirror, and can only see a duplicate; someone who is not him. The other Him is staring back at him, with blank eyes – eyes that he should be familiar with, even after ten years. But he ignores it, turns his back, and closes his eyes, taking in a slow breath before slipping his shirt off, letting the illumination of the moon ripple over his bare, smooth back before he pulls another dark, neat sweater over his head.

Matsumoto Jun looks back in the same mirror, still sees those haunted, lonely eyes, and it frustrates him. He wants nothing more to smash the mirror until it crumbles at his very feet. He is no longer that person. He is no longer that weak, cowardly person staring back at him in the mirror.

He pulls on a pair of dark, skinny jeans that he feels too uncomfortable with wearing, and glances to the table sitting in the middle of the room. It looks foreign, abnormal, like it doesn’t belong there, doesn’t fit in. There is a gun resting on it, along with a pair of knives that he knows have been used to take sinful actions with.

He takes them with no hesitation, slipping them in the usual hidden places, as though they are nothing but pen and paper. It has almost become normal to him, and it is no longer unnerving.

On the other side of the small table there is a brown, thin file folder, and he reaches for it, reaching in and taking a few pieces of smooth, cold paper out. Scanning past the regular procedure, he searches the name of his victim with eyes narrowed.

Perhaps at this point he is supposed to be shocked, but he has seen too many of these types of names on these filthy reports. They no longer shock him, but this particular one disturbs him, makes him shiver just slightly as he grips the file folder with trembling fingers and lets go of it almost too quickly. The file floats out of his fingers, back onto the table, and the papers are scattered.

Matsumoto Jun doesn’t want to know what’s worming in his stomach. He pushes it down, spins on his heel, and walks out of the room, clutching the gun in its hidden place.

He has never questioned; he has never disobeyed; he has never failed. Lean, graceful, seductive – he has qualified for this job in far too many ways.

Matsumoto Jun cannot afford to start screwing things up.


With one hand rested on the linen-draped table, Matsumoto Jun searches the crowd of formally-dressed aristocrats for his target – his kill. He was not difficult to spot, for his eyes had rested upon his familiar face an infinite number of times before.

Ten years ago, Matsumoto Jun would have never imagined himself in this kind of position, this kind of job, in where the only objective was to murder with grace. His unnamed league of assassins is especially trained to kill unsuspecting businessmen during formal parties. They would kill without notice, without sound, and nobody would bother to investigate until it was far, far too late.

He turns away from the deafening crowd of chatters, laughter, and takes another sip of his wine, puts it down. Matsumoto Jun holds his head a little higher and begins to glide his way through to the crowd.
Be casual; be fast; be graceful.

Those were the instructions given.

Weaving through and between the different dancing couples, he makes his way over to the short, dark-haired heir. Stalling, he decides to delay the situation a little more, jerking unnaturally towards the drinks station and jostling a few other people but accident.

He has never faltered this badly; it bothers him.

Be casual.

He stops himself, takes a deep, shuddery breath, tries to stay composed; he steps forward. His target is chatting away in a friendly tone of voice, back turned to him. His voice is loud, clear, and Matsumoto’s body is tense; rigid. The unexpected feeling of uncertainty scares him for the very first time.

Be fast.

Matsumoto clears his throat. The other man turns around, stops his talking abruptly, eyes wide in curiosity and his hair slicked back in a way that almost elicits a sharp breath from Matsumoto. He is skinny, small, and has terrible posture. His back curves dangerously in a way Matsumoto has never seen before. Somehow, it doesn’t much surprise him.

“Ninomiya-san.” His voice sounds foreign even no his own ears; it is low, husky, and smooth. Matsumoto doesn’t remember being this nervous when having to talk to his previous targets.

The other man, Ninomiya, blinks.

Matsumoto holds a hand out, pale and graceful; expecting. Ninomiya lowers his gaze to the extended hand.

“Shall we?”

Ninomiya breaks into a wide, comfortable grin that makes Matsumoto’s heart fall down to his stomach. The shorter man reaches his own small, flat hand out and their fingers touch, pause briefly.

Be graceful.

Matsumoto grasps his hand in his own, swallows, and leads.


He is overdoing it. He is drawing too much attention to himself. He is almost intoxicated by the smell of him, his calloused hand in Matsumoto’s very own. He is getting distracted. He bites his lip, closes his eyes, and mutters an apology, cutting through the rest of the couples and walking away from the man he knew all too well. He is surprised that he hasn’t been recognized yet, but of course, the makeup applied was something Matsumoto would have never applied on this heavily in the past.

Returning to the refreshments area, Matsumoto pretends to absentmindedly smooth out the impeccably white cloths. He can feel Ninomiya’s gaze at his back, seeing through him as it had so many times before. He hears his quiet footsteps behind him, and his clear voice speaking to guests as he passes. Matsumoto is being followed. This was everything he needs, but nothing he wants.


“You’re following me, Ninomiya-san,” Matsumoto says, smiling as he turns around to face the smaller man behind him.

“And you are leaving, so soon?” He quirks an eyebrow.

Matsumoto says nothing. Ninomiya looks at him unsurely, tilting his head the smallest fraction of a degree, eyes searching his face. Matsumoto did nothing but draw him closer to himself. A small smile crawls its way to Ninomiya’s face, and his arms wind around Matsumoto’s neck, eyebrow still quirked. Matsumoto leans forward, brushes his lips against the other smaller man’s, and pulls back. Ninomiya’s eyes are looking straight into Matsumoto’s, and Matsumoto says nothing. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, until Ninomiya reaches up, pulling the other closer, to kiss him again.

This time the kiss is longer.


No feeling. This is another rule that is absolutely mandatory in the world of assassination. No feelings – emotions are for the weak, they hold the strong back and destroy them from the inside-out. All the blood that has accumulated on Matsumoto Jun’s hands, all those blissfully blank faces, all their lives crushes into dust. Memories he tries to suppress for so long, memories that were meant to mean nothing. He closes his eyes, feeling Ninomiya’s kisses peppering across his shoulders, his hands resting on Matsumoto’s slim hips.

No feeling.

So Matsumoto concentrates on feeling nothing. He has never encountered such difficulty, never has had to suppress his feelings this strongly. Never felt a burning agony in the back of his throat.

Ninomiya slides his fingers under his shirt, never looking up at his face. He, like so many others, is falling into Matsumoto’s trap. He had been caught in his cage from the first dance, and now he would make him disappear in a sweep of effortless movement.

The small, nimble hands make their way down to Matsumoto’s belt buckle. Their hips grind together. It is the farthest he has ever let any of his targets go. Matsumoto has to act soon; his knives will be exposed, and then, there will no further explanation required.

Willing himself to let go of all signs of feeling, he does what he’s been taught.

Matsumoto whips the cold, black gun out, and slowly, he raises it to Ninomiya’s chest. He was close – close enough for Matsumoto to be able to hear the slow, innocent drumming of the heart that knew no death.

His finger rests over the trigger, yet he cannot bring himself to pull it. He lies there, half-exposed, with Ninomiya staring into his eyes. Time passes, and there is overwhelming silence.

“Jun,” Ninomiya breathes, and all of Matsumoto Jun is breaking. His hard emotional exterior is falling apart, all because of that damnable voice – all because of that damnable voice calling his name. Matsumoto’s muscles loosen, and he is no longer the man with a mask hiding his face – he is vulnerable, open, weak, and his bones shake with fear and pain He is no longer Matsumoto; he is Jun – weak, frightened, cowardly Jun.

“How?” Jun whispers, even though he knows how. It’s Nino. Nino is small, smart, and thinks fast. He is loud but not stupid. His emotions are full out in the open, but at the point, he couldn’t care less about the mission, about who he is supposed to kill. Maybe he doesn’t want to; otherwise he’d never get this far.

Nino reaches a hand out, cupping a hand to Jun’s cheek, running a gentle thumb over Jun’s face – and smiling, as though he is not aware of the dangerous gun pressed against his chest. Nino could always see through Jun. Nino could see things that Jun himself was not able to see.

Nino just knew things.

“Your skin.”

“You weren’t supposed to know,” Jun chokes.

“I know.”

Jun wants to tear all the pieces of murderous steel hidden in his clothes, to turn back time. But time is inevitable, and Nino knows.

“Why?” Jun’s voice is barely a whisper, but it is screaming, searching desperately for an answer.

“I’ve loved this skin for a murderously long ten years, and you ask me how I can remember?” Nino lets out a low chuckle, and Jun realizes that this isn’t the Nino he knew ten years ago. His eyes do not dance with light like they have once; they are but lifeless orbs now.

“Stop…” Jun has never been this weak before. He has never questioned; never disobeyed; never failed.

And now here he is, questioning, disobeying – failing.

Nino touches his fingers again, tentatively, and then engulfs them in his own. “Shoot me, Jun. Shoot me. You’ll get your money, and I won’t be here to torture you anymore.”

Jun squeezes his eyes shut, a lump heavy in his throat. He opens his eyes again, hands shaking in Nino’s. “Why did it have to be you?”

Nino is quiet. The abrupt pause is something Jun does not expect. He wants answers. He wants them now. And Nino always has answers, so why choose now to hold them back?

“Because you love me.”

Ninomiya Kazunari still has his pride to keep.

Jun feels Nino’s hands run through his hair and watches him close his eyes. “You can kill me now, Jun. You have always been the stronger one.”

His hands do not leave his hair. Jun’s eyes never leave his face.

Jun feels a strange need to kill him now. He cannot bear to see such a serene face when he is about to end Nino’s life. Why is he so hard to kill? He’d thrown all his prior relationships, connections, and identity away. Hadn’t he? No one else has every given him such difficulty. So why does it have to be the man he’s loved since even before ten years ago? Why does it have to be the man he loved so inevitably, with such intensity that Jun’s heart burns every time he sees him?

“I love you,” Jun whispers. The words inflame his throat, and he drops the gun in his hand, letting it fall. “I love you, Kazunari.”

Too much.

“I know.” Nino smiles. His eyes are closed.

The smile never leaves his lips.
Tags: --fandom: arashi
  • Post a new comment


    default userpic

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.
← Ctrl ← Alt
Ctrl → Alt →
← Ctrl ← Alt
Ctrl → Alt →