Work Text:
“You could have told me you wanted to take pictures,” Rin complains, as he sinks into Makoto’s couch, long legs stretching over the dark green foam. "I just came from the Uniqlo shoot- I could have brought some actual clothes for you to photograph.”
Makoto attaches his newly acquired 1.4 aperture 70 mm lens to his Nikon D300. "Are you saying my jacket and pants don’t count as actual clothes?" he asks, in tones of mock offense, before lifting his camera up and taking a test shot. He checks the instant feedback on the LCD screen, and then adjusts his shutter speed.
Rin rolls his eyes at him. “You know what I mean. I could swim in these clothes. Not photogenic at all.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Makoto counters, as presses the shutter again just in time to capture Rin lazily turning towards him, the sun reflecting off the crown of his head. “Besides you picked those clothes out from my closet.”
“Because they’re comfy! I spent half the afternoon getting gimped by paparazzi, and ideally, now would be the time when I would be relaxing with my boyfriend, if he wasn’t busy ignoring my wishes.”
“Aren’t you already relaxing?” Makoto points out innocently, ignoring that last jibe, as he takes another picture of Rin’s scrunched up nose and full pouty lips. “I’m not asking you to do anything, I’m just taking pictures of you.”
“How is this relaxing, when I do this for work?”
“You’re just lying there on my couch. How is that not relaxing?”
Rin’s scowl deepens when he realizes that Makoto’s logic is flawless, and that any retort he could make after that is just attributable to petulance. “Fine,” he grouses, giving in. He makes some sort of shimmying motion on the couch, as he crosses his ankles, resting them on the arm. “I still think you should’ve let me bring some real clothes though.”
Makoto shrugs. “I like you in my clothes. You look better in them than I do.”
“Flattering, but I doubt self-indulgent pictures of your boyfriend is anywhere near portfolio material.”
Makoto feels a rush of heat flood his cheeks, at Rin’s casual use of the word boyfriend. It’s been several months, and he still finds himself pinching his arm sometimes, to convince himself that he isn't dreaming; that he is actually in a relationship with Matsuoka Rin, one of Japan’s top male models. He pauses, and brings the camera down. “I’m not including this in my portfolio.”
“Oh?” Rin raises a flawlessly threaded eyebrow. “And why not?”
Makoto clutches the camera closer to his chest. “I’d like to keep this side of you to myself,” he says bluntly, with the sweetest of smiles.
This time, it’s Rin’s turn to flush a brilliant crimson, a touch of shyness blooming across his open, surprised expression, and the sight of it fills Makoto with some sort of possessive joy. He lifts the camera back up and captures it quickly before it melts away. Another one the public will never lay eyes on.
"What are smiling so much for,” Rin mutters, kicking at some invisible lint on the armrest of Makoto's couch. “It’s just a jacket.”
“It’s my jacket,” Makoto corrects. “And that makes all the difference.”
“God, you are such a cheeseball sometimes,” Rin says, though the laughter in his eyes, belies his harsh tone. He makes a vague waving gesture with his hand and rearranges his pose so Makoto can have a better view of his body. “Why are you not moving? Aren’t you going to try and get a good angle?”
Makoto laughs lightly, and takes another shot. "No, because you don’t have bad angles," he answers teasingly before ducking his head back behind his camera, admiring the latest picture he just took. His prediction of this particular afternoon is spot on— his apartment is aglow with the perfect natural light, the setting sun casting a soft glow around Rin’s toned, muscular frame.
“So what exactly do you want me to do?”
Makoto stretches across the bed and holds the camera at a slightly tilted angle. “Do whatever you want."
Rin’s mouth forms a perfect O, and Makoto takes a picture of that too. “Whatever I want?” he repeats.
Makoto nods and starts clicking away again, watching through his lens as Rin gets momentarily wrapped up in his thoughts, thumb poised on his adam’s apple, tapping a finger on his chin. After a few moments, he moves, slowly sits up from the couch and swings his feet down to the floor.
And then his hands reach up to unzip the jacket slowly.
Makoto’s mouth runs dry, heat flaring up deep in his belly, but his hands are steady as he snaps away.
Click. Click. Click. Rin’s stride was slow, deliberate, each step smoothly rippling from the heels of his feet to the curve of his shoulders. Makoto captures it all: the slight swagger in his gait, the contrast of his pale skin against the black and green of Makoto’s jacket, the glitter of his eyes beneath the sooty fringe of his lashes.
Makoto sucks in a shuddering breath as the jacket drops to the floor, just a few more feet before him. His hands tremble a little when Rin keeps moving, right hand now casually fiddling with the drawstring of his pants, swinging the loose cord in circles.
But just as he is about to press the shutter again, his hands are suddenly encased by slightly smaller ones, and before he can even protest, Rin has already taken the camera from him. He takes great care in putting it back in the case, disassembling the lens first, placing it in its respective place, then following with the camera body, before zipping it up and making sure it’s well in the center of Makoto’s table.
Then he looks back at Makoto, his eyes carrying the sort of teasing playfulness that no other photographer will ever capture on film, and tugs the drawstring off, the soft, thin material sliding down his legs easily. It doesn’t escape Makoto’s notice that he’s not wearing anything else underneath that either.
Rin's trademark expression is that sultry, rebellious glower he has perfected over the years.
But that was what Rin wears in front of the camera, along with his expensive, luxurious encasements- ten thousand dollar suits, cashmere scarves, silk shirts embroidered with crystal and jade. That’s what the rest of the world is privy too, what the world wants from him, what the world wants to see from him. They see his skin, the lines of his abs, the beautiful vee of his hips, the perfect symmetry of his face.
That's not what he's wearing now. The world doesn't see this. They don’t know about that tiny scar on his hip he got when he flopped on a surfboard in one of the beach shoots in Australia, or the way he sobs like a baby whenever he watches sappy stories, especially if they’re terribly clichéd. They don’t know the side of Rin that likes swimming, that loves long walks along the beach, the side that is fiercely protective of the people close to him.
Most especially, they don’t see the side of Rin that surrenders only to Makoto, and Makoto prefers to keep it that way.
Unable to help himself any longer, Makoto reaches out, slides his thumbs along the dip of Rin’s hips, feeling the hard jut of bone beneath his palms, before his fingers curve around the small of Rin’s back, pulling him closer. Rin’s breath hitches, barely audible, and Makoto leans forward, pressing the tip of his nose along the hard ridges of Rin’s abs, inhaling the scent of his own shower gel.
He feels Rin’s fingers sliding through his hair, pads caressing Makoto’s scalp briefly, before fisting around a chunk and tugging, forcing Makoto to look up.
Rin’s gaze is all sweet playfulness and raw desire, two things no other photographer will ever capture together on film. “I want what I came here for,” he says, voice low, darkly captivating. His other hand makes its way to Makoto’s chin, thumb cresting along Makoto’s lower lip. “For you to take something else other than pictures.”
Makoto closes his eyes, sighing against the salt of Rin’s skin, and gladly complies.
~fin~