Chapter Text
It’s not often that Yuuji can get the time off work to attend Satoru’s photoshoots.
Thanks to Satoru’s patronage, his design house Jujutsu has rocketed upwards in popularity among Tokyo’s fashion-setters, its target audience moving away from student Instagrammers to serious fashionistas. All the staff have had to increase their relevancy and output, but Yuuji more than all of them is busy at all hours of the day sketching, cutting and sewing pieces that seem to fly off the rack as soon as they’re deposited there.
Such are the realities of having a top model who promotes your brand as a boyfriend.
Today, though, he took an hour off to visit the shoot and see the product of one of his personal projects being photographed against a luxurious background. Satoru’s doing shots for an article in Men’s Non-No in a fancy bar at the top of one of the many Roppongi sky scrapers, the atmosphere dark with black leather seats and gleaming black marble floors that reflect the small halogen ceiling lights like galaxies.
Yuuji stands behind the photography crew, two assistants on lighting plus the camera man, a friend of Satoru and Yuuji’s, Nanami Kento. Satoru’s wearing Yuuji’s latest design for him, a three-piece suit in steel grey with a hint of blue to it to set off his eyes. The fabric took Yuuji ages to find, the grey needing to be neither too dull to appeal on film or so blue that it seems casual. The suit is slim-cut and sharp, with long narrow lapels and razor-sharp creases in the trousers. The vest is the show piece, perfectly tailored to Satoru’s narrow chest with a deep V and five buttons to create a slender silhouette. It fits Satoru like a glove. Yuuji would love to peel it off his boyfriend one button at a time – but not right now.
Right now Satoru is lounging casually against a chair with a tumbler of whisky in hand, looking like a million dollars as he stares out over miles and miles of Tokyo that stretch off into the hazy distance and, looming large in the front of the scene like a showpiece, the bright orange frame of Tokyo Tower. His body is angled to show off his lovely face at a three-quarters view while the suit is captured full on, the jacket artfully falling away to display the vest, his expression haughty and dispassionate. The camera shutter snaps and Satoru moves through pose after pose, each effortless and completely suited to the atmosphere of the room: money, power, and excellent taste.
It's funny that even after six months, seeing Satoru bring the clothes Yuuji has designed to life still makes something catch in his throat. He has the gift of being beautiful in what he wears, and in making his clothes beautiful by extension. Satoru is one of the most sought-after models in Tokyo for precisely this reason; he’s also one of the least popular personally.
As cued by that thought, Satoru looks over at the camera. “Nanami, have you found a girlfriend yet? You know I heard Utahime joined Tinder and I bet you two would make a cute couple. She would totally swipe right for you.”
“Please sit on the chair, Gojou-san,” says Nanami, tonelessly.
Satoru twitches up the trousers and swings his legs to lewdly straddle the leather chair’s thick square arm for a moment, rolling his hips suggestively and wiggling his eyebrows, before shifting to perch on it. His long legs stretch outwards, showing off his lithe frame. Nanami sighs and takes a few photos.
“I think that’s enough for this look, Gojou-san. Will you go change, please? We have three more outfits to do, so please mind the time.”
“Nanami, such a slave driver,” whines Gojou, rising and walking over, his dress shoes clicking on the marble floor. He pushes past the two lighting aides and bends to kiss Yuuji on the mouth. “I saw you watching,” he whispers, his breath hot in Yuuji’s ear. “Like what you see?”
“Always, Satoru-san,” says Yuuji, smiling. “You looked beautiful.”
Satoru raises a hand to his heart. “You’re too pure, Yuuji. I’ll have to take you home later and absolutely ruin you. Or you could just come with me now, we could run away together – I have some very sexy panties with me, and –”
“I can hear you, Gojou-san,” says Nanami flatly, without looking over. “Please go change and refrain from living out your sexual fantasies during work.”
Satoru sighs theatrically and slouches off towards the change area, equipped with a hair-and-makeup artist to keep his looks fresh as well as an assistant from the other designer’s staff to make sure everything fits perfectly. Yuuji drifts over to Nanami who’s now sitting down and reviewing the pictures on his DSLR.
“Sorry about that,” says Yuuji.
“Please don’t apologize for someone else’s ridiculous nature,” replies Nanami. He looks up, lowering the camera to his lap. “It’s good to see you, Itadori-san. And your designs, as always, are lovely. You really do manage to make that human disaster look inconceivably good.”
Yuuji smiles. “I think he does that all on his own.”
“Your clothes have a distinct effect on his appearance. An effect which sadly has yet to extend to his personality.”
“Yeah, I’m not sure anyone could really make a change there. But you know he’s not a bad guy, Nanamin. I mean… well, you know,” says Yuuji, growing embarrassed by the idea of explaining why exactly his boyfriend is a wonderful person. Gojou Satoru is Gojou Satoru, extravagant, outrageous, sexy, and just the sight of his ridiculous smile warms Yuuji’s heart. He can’t explain that.
“Yes, young love rarely abides by common sense. But you know Itadori-san… the stability and the kindness you offer isn’t something Gojou-san has often had. In all likelihood, it’s good for him. But he’s a mercurial personality, and they are often attracted to power and domination.”
Yuuji imagines this briefly, imagines trying to control Satoru. Imagines wanting to control Satoru. It makes his skin crawl. “That’s not my jam, Nanamin,” he says.
“I know. I wasn’t suggesting it. I was merely pointing out that you’re different than the types Gojou-san has gravitated to in the past. It’s a healthy choice. But I’ve rarely known him to maintain healthy habits.”
Yuuji frowns, feeling unbalanced, uncertain.
Nanami looks up at him from where he’s sitting. “I’m not trying to scare you, Itadori-san. Merely to let you know that Gojou-san may need help understanding what’s good for him. Help I think you can give.”
“Okay,” says Yuuji slowly, still unsure. “I’ll keep that in mind, I guess.”
“Yuuji! Come see this one!” calls Satoru from the changing area. Yuuji turns, then glances back.
“I’ve got to go after this. I’ll see you later, Nanamin,” he says.
“Take care,” says the photographer flatly, and turns back to his camera.
***
Back at Jujutsu that afternoon, Yuuji makes his appearance with coffees for the two other junior designers by way of apologizing for having ducked out. Megumi is in the bay window looking out over the street sketching, his inspiration coming in part from the pedestrians passing below. Nobara’s wrestling with some boning for a corset-like design, struggling to force the plastic rods back into the sheaths after having almost sewn them shut. She curses fluently as she wriggles, until Mai looks over. “Consider the customers, Kugisaki,” she snaps, and Nobara growls but bites off her profanity.
Jujutsu is a small fashion house, with the design works upstairs including fabric storage, cutting tables and sewing machines. It would be a luxurious space for two designers; with the five of them there it’s as cramped as the Yamanote line during rush hour. Downstairs is the showroom, their designs currently only sold here on location. Yaga, the owner, has been talking about doing a deal for some pop-up space with the Tokyo department stores but nothing’s materialized yet.
Yuuji puts the coffees down on the table beside a new copy of Pop-Eye, which he glances at. The photograph on the front cover is interesting, the model displayed from a sharp overhead angle that seems like it shouldn’t work, but does. He flips open the page and sees the photo credits: Design: Blue Horizon, Photograph: Getou Suguru. Not a name he’s heard before. He shrugs and cracks the coffee cups out of the cardboard holder to bring them over.
Nobara looks up from her work, her cheeks red with frustration and her hair mussed. “I hope you enjoyed fawning over your ridiculous boyfriend while some of us have been working,” she says, dropping her garment to snatch up the coffee and take a long drink, holding it like an addict. “Fucking finally, some caffeine.”
“Sorry,” says Yuuji, scratching at the back of his head. “I did have a good time, though. The shoot was real nice – in that new building over in Roppongi Ni-chome. The bar looked crazy expensive. And I mean, so did Satoru-san. But he always does.”
“Yes, it’s just another irritating thing about him,” agrees Nobara. She puts the coffee down and snags the heap of fabric on the floor. “What’s wrong with this?” she asks, and shoves it at him. He puts down Megumi’s coffee and picks it up from her. After a moment of examination he points. “If you seam-rip here you’ll be able to get the boning in and sew up over it again. It’s just a finicky angle.”
“Thanks.” She takes it back from him and hunts around in a cup that holds pens, pencils, a rotary blade, and comes up with the seam ripper. Yuuji leaves her to it and takes the coffee over to Megumi. He looks down at the pad of paper on the dark-haired designer’s lap, showing a simple woman’s skirt with layers separated by some kind of meshing. He puts down his charcoal and accepts the coffee.
“Thanks man. How did the suit look?”
Yuuji smiles. “It looked great. Really good. This one won’t be the cover image, but it’s still amazing. And the rest of the clothes from the shoot were super cool, modern takes on old classics. There was this one jacket…” he wanders off happily describing the clothes from international designers that Satoru was wearing alongside his.
It’s still crazy to think that clothes he designed and sewed are being modeled in a national publication alongside big-name Japanese designers like Yamamoto Youji and Watanabe Junya. Six months ago he was just starting his career, fresh out of design school and newly-hired into Jujutsu unsure even how to go about getting his designs from paper onto the shop floor.
“So what’s next?” asks Megumi, when he finishes enthusing over the other designs.
Yuuji blinks. “Oh, well I’ve got some orders on the go and two new shirts underway for the shop,” he says, a little puzzled because his work list is on the whiteboard just like everyone else’s.
“No – I meant for Gojou-san.”
“Oh, right. I don’t have anything else formally on the docket for him, but you know how it is. The things I think of, the things I design… really, it’s all for him.”
“Your muse,” says Megumi, smiling just a little.
Yuuji nods, feeling just a little heat warming his cheeks. “It’s so easy to imagine what would fit for him, what would be right. And if other people like that too, well, that’s good right?”
“It is. You’re riding a wave of popularity right now, and the best way to keep that up for a little while is to do what you’ve been doing. But at some point, you’ll need to think about how to keep things fresh. Fashion lives hard and dies fast, Yuuji.”
“I know. I know. But right now… I’m just really enjoying it all,” he says, plainly.
Megumi’s smile softens. “Then that’s good, for a little while. You’re doing good stuff, Yuuji. There’s nothing wrong with embracing that.”
Yuuji nods. And if a little portion of his mind is gnawing away at Nanami’s statement earlier, well, it’s easy to ignore.
***
A few evenings later Yuuji finds himself at the wrap party for the next issue of Men’s Non-No, a loose and informal event being held at a club with copious amounts of liquor, cigarettes, and models in very expensive grunge clothing.
Satoru, able to live up to the highest expectations, has dressed himself in a low-cut loose-fitting black tanktop with a mesh undershirt, and loose cargo pants with adorned with several thin silver chains; his boots are imitation army. The whole look is brought together and made tongue-in-cheek by a rhinestone choker that spells out SEXY. Satoru doesn’t usually wear heavy make-up but he is tonight, dark eyeshadow and heavy mascara to blacken his pale lashes. It’s very Visual Kei, a blast from Yuuji’s past, and the exoticness of it is deeply appealing.
Yuuji himself is wearing a simpler outfit, and a cheaper one. Just a light canvas crop-jacket over a camo tank top, and tight but not too tight distressed jeans. He lets Satoru accent his eyes with light streaks of eyeliner, thin towards the nose and wide at the edges. Unlike Satoru he looks neither expensive nor avantgarde, but Satoru does assure him that he’s plenty sexy enough. He accompanies it with a hand snaked up beneath Yuuji’s shirt to caress his chest, his long body draped against Yuuji smelling of hair products and aftershave.
Yuuji looks up into Satoru’s face, perfectly made-up, his eyes shining in the shadows he’s painted around them, and for a moment wants to do nothing other than pick him up and carry him back into the bedroom, to keep this man for himself and no one else. But that’s not how this works – Satoru lives for attention, and Yuuji’s alone won’t always be enough. He knows that. Tonight he wants to get out on the dance floor and revel in the eyes staring at him full of envy and longing.
So: “Ready to go?” he asks, stuffing his phone and wallet in his pockets. Satoru smiles, his lips shining with almost-black lipstick.
“Ready,” he purrs.
They catch a cab to the Shinjuku club, a basement space that features bouncers and, judging from the diaphanous clouds drifting out the door, smoke machines. The bouncers pass Satoru and Yuuji immediately, Satoru with his arm slung over Yuuji’s shoulder as if to offer protection. In reality, it’s simply to offer admittance.
Inside it’s hot and sweaty, the music loud and the lights strobing through the smoke that lies over the floor like the haze over the summer sea. Yuuji’s gotten used to clubbing with Satoru, to the pretty, pretty people and the bitchy conversation and the endless drinks. There’s more than drinks on offer, Yuuji’s come to recognize, but Satoru is completely clean and he himself is entirely outside of the drugging circle. Tonight they greet a few friends, Satoru makes a couple of introductions for Yuuji, and then it’s drinks and dancing.
Satoru dances like he does everything: outrageously. His style is pure over-the-top sex, running his hands over Yuuji’s face, his chest, his ass, fitting their bodies together on the dance floor and grinding, or half stripping himself as he moves. All seduction, pure and simple, and Yuuji can only take so much of it before he has to step away or risk needing to pull Satoru away for a quick fuck in the bathroom.
Tonight Satoru is working those black-painted lips, using the contrast with his snow-pale skin expertly to enhance his open-mouthed pants and wet kisses, the way he occasionally raises his fingers to his mouth to suck at them with absurd lewdness.
Yuuji lasts one song more, then has to push Satoru away – the model pouts – and climb up off the sunken dance floor to find a cold drink. The models mostly drink ridiculous cocktails but Yuuji sticks to cheap whisky and water. He sits on a stool to cool off while around him people laugh and drink, and on the floor the models show off their long beautiful bodies. Really though, Yuuji has eyes only for Satoru.
The music changes to something with a marginally slower beat, and the dancers adjust their styles. Satoru is just pulling his hands through his hair with the focused intensity of a man who knows every eye in the room is on him, when someone steps up to start dancing with him. A shorter man with long, black hair done up in a messy bun, a shirt with a wide rent down the front stitched up loosely with silver thread, and pants that are tight at the hips but balloon out at the bottom hems like a workman’s tobi pants. Silver seams up the sides add additional detail.
Yuuji sees Satoru stop dead, his hands caught in his hair. Slowly he lowers them, the two men talking now. Then they turn and make their way off the dance floor in the opposite direction from Yuuji, climbing up out of the sunken stage and over to stand by the wall.
It’s not particularly kind to say, but Satoru doesn’t have a lot of time for very many people. He schmoozes at parties and will grab a drink with acquaintances, but he doesn’t like hanging around to chat. And when he comes to a club, he wants to drink and dance, not socialize. So Yuuji’s surprised when he doesn’t return to the dance floor after a few minutes. He finishes his whisky, puts the glass down, and slowly drifts over on the outskirts of the dance floor to see who it is Satoru’s talking to.
Except that, when he arrives, Satoru’s standing alone with his arms crossed, leaning against the wall. He catches sight of Yuuji and for just a moment instead of welcome, Yuuji sees calculation in his gaze. Then he’s smiling and reaching out. “Yuuji! Ready to dance some more?”
“Don’t you want a drink? You’ve been dancing for almost an hour, Satoru-san.”
“Well, maybe.” He slings his arm over Yuuji’s shoulder and they head towards the bar.
“By the way, who was that you were talking to? A friend?” asks Yuuji.
Satoru’s eyes are distant, shadowed by the make-up. “No,” he says. “Just someone I used to know.”
Yuuji waits to see if he’ll say anymore, but he doesn’t. They grab some drinks and do a little mingling, just brief hellos and sharp-edged comments from the models on their outfits. Yuuji keeps an eye out for the guy in the black tobi pants, but he doesn’t see him again and by the end of the night when they roll into Satoru’s luxurious apartment, drunk and exhausted, he’s forgotten all about it.