It's October in Tokyo, the tail end of an abnormally intense typhoon season, and Fuuma knows three things: there's rain in the forecast, Sexy Zone is running behind schedule on their latest TV Guide cover shoot, and Nakamaru is ignoring him.
Beyond the usual ways that Nakamaru ignores him, that is. At this point, they've been working together for over two and a half years, so Fuuma has gotten pretty good at telling the difference. Normal: Nakamaru steadfastly not reacting to Fuuma's antics, despite his best efforts. Normal: Nakamaru leaving Fuuma on read just so he'll complain about it the next time they're sharing the same space. Normal: Nakamaru refusing to play along with Fuuma's fanservice on Jyanino, unless "playing along" means being allowed to sucker-punch him every so often, a song and dance as intimately familiar as the ones they perform on stage.
Decidedly not normal: a gap of almost two months without having seen Nakamaru at all, even at the office in passing. Sure, it's not uncommon for one of them to be missing on any given week considering their hectic schedules, and they've still got a backlog of pre-recorded material ready to post, so the channel isn't hurting for content, but that isn't the point.
The point is: this is different. Fuuma knows Nakamaru's ignoring him, because he hasn't cut anyone else off the same way. He still contributes to the Jyanino LINE chat every few days, usually after Nino's @'d him a link to some ridiculous new TikTok trend that he thinks they should incorporate into the channel editing. Under normal circumstances, even when Nakamaru's being an ass about replying to him, he'll send a response eventually, but their personal message chain has been a barren wasteland of Fuuma's one-sided memes and stickers since September. Whenever they see each other backstage, Nakamaru will usually at least toss a grudging nod at Fuuma's careless waves and sly grins. By contrast, Fuuma is pretty sure he caught Nakamaru abruptly turning around and speed-walking away from him at the last Music Station taping a few days ago. That's not just abnormal; it's really fucking weird.
So maybe it would be more precise to say that Nakamaru is… avoiding Fuuma specifically, in particular. Shit is targeted. Which doesn't make sense, because Fuuma got him the coolest gift last month for his birthday, so you'd think the least Nakamaru could do would be to send him a measly LINE message as thanks for—
"I can hear you thinking all the way over here," Shori calls from across the dressing room, where no less than three stylists are hurriedly safety-pinning him into his yukata. He manages to sound extremely concerned and like he'd rather not get involved at the exact same time. "It's ruining the vibe."
"My vibes are immaculate," Fuuma grumbles. "I'm ready to smolder for the camera. Look, see?" He leaps up from his chair — to the consternation of Inoue, the hairdresser applying yet another layer of gel to his updo — and nearly falls over when he tries to do a pirouette.
"Don't hurt yourself, Kikuchi," Kenty says, tilting his head over the armrest of the sofa. "Physically or mentally." Somehow, even stretched out like a banked sealion, the lines of Kenty's outfit remain uncrumpled. His hair still looks perfect. Fuuma would be more frustrated about that if he wasn't already dealing with a full-blown crisis.
Sou turns around and furrows his brow in consternation. "You know, your aura does look bad."
Fuuma blows out a breath and plops back into his chair, eyeing everyone through the vanity mirror. "I'm just having… I don't know." Inoue resumes diligently blasting hairspray in his face, and Fuuma squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, trying to figure out what the hell he can even say without sounding like a total nutjob. "I'm having friend troubles, I guess? Someone's, uh, stopped talking to me and I'm trying to figure out why."
When Fuuma opens his eyes, Kenty's sitting up, eyebrows lost behind his bangs, and Sou's frowning a little. Shori turns his head sharply and then says, "Ouch!" He must have gotten stuck with a pin. Fuuma winces, fiddling with the ties on his yukata. Laying it out there like that makes it sound way too juvenile.
"Nakamaru-kun, huh?" Kenty says at last, leaning back against the couch.
Shori nods sagely. "It's definitely Nakamaru-kun."
"I'm friends with more people than Nakamaru!" Fuuma splutters. He tries to leap up again, but Inoue's better prepared this time; she braces her elbows against his shoulders and keeps him in the chair. "I have lots of friends."
Kenty sends him a look. "Sure, but you wouldn't be sulking nearly this much if it was anyone else."
"Wh— Oy! I'm not sulking!" Just because it's true doesn't mean Fuuma needs to hear it out loud.
"I saw a Hollywood film about something like this in the spring," Kenty continues thoughtfully. "The Banshees of Inisherin? A friend breakup ends with a dead pony and someone losing a handful of fingers."
"A dead pony?!" Sou exclaims, horrified, as Shori remarks, "Marius told me he fell asleep in that movie."
"No ponies are dying," Fuuma says, shaking his head. "I don't even have a pony." They're rapidly losing the plot, but maybe it's better that way. Laying out every piece of evidence he has to prove his theory would make him sound truly insane, and besides, he doesn't have the time to get into all that right now, especially not in public. Inoue spritzes one last bit of hairspray near his temple, and then they're getting shuffled out into the main studio for the photoshoot.
The group shots take forever, mostly because the cameramen keep trying to coax Fuuma out of looking so despondent. "Melancholy can be sexy, but you don't even look sexy-sad, just sad-sad," Miura complains, waving off Fuuma's apologetic bows.
Afterwards, while Kenty and Sou are posing for their solo pages, Shori wanders over to where Fuuma's watching the monitors and knocks their elbows together. "Hey," Shori says, quiet but earnest. "Jokes aside, are you okay? Really. You've been acting strange all month."
Fuuma huffs. When did this kid grow up so much? It's crazy how fast the years pass. "Yeah, I'll be fine," he replies, reflexively running a hand through his hair. He jumps when Inoue materializes next to him like a ghost and liberally sprays his bangs again, a reproachful look on her face. "Sorry, sorry."
Shori hums, unconvinced. "I'm sure Nakamaru-kun is just busy," he murmurs, as Kenty bares his neck and gazes into the camera. "Isn't KAT-TUN on tour right now?"
Fuuma's too tired to deny it. "Yep," he says, trying to sound like a super casual person who hasn't been religiously following their tour stops so as to strategically time his LINE messages. It hasn't worked, anyway, so there's no point in bringing it up.
Something must show on his face, though, because Shori gingerly pats Fuuma's arm. "If it's really that bad, you could always try texting him about it."
Fuuma doesn't have the heart to explain exactly why that won't work. "Thanks," he says, "good tip," deflating into the depths of his yukata.
"Kikuchi-kun," Miura calls from the front of the room, as if on cue. "You're up. Give me something to work with, alright?" Fuuma sighs, clapping Shori's shoulder, and resigns himself to at least another hour of smizing at the camera.
"He isn't even reading my messages anymore," Fuuma groans into his beer at the end of the month. He's at Juri's house, four cans deep, drinking his sorrows away while staring at his phone. He's long past the "jumping at every new notification" phase, but having to live with a stubbornly dark screen isn't a much better alternative. The weather outside matches his mood perfectly; the clouds had opened up just as he skidded into the apartment building with his conbini haul, and now rain is drumming hard against the windows.
Juri idly switches the channel on TV and nudges Fuuma's thigh with the side of his foot. "If I'd known you were going to be such a party pooper, I wouldn't have let you in the door."
"If you hadn't let me in, you wouldn't have anything to eat for dinner," Fuuma retorts.
"Itadakimasu," Juri agrees easily, unwrapping a FamilyMart onigiri and taking a huge bite. "So what's the deal? Why are you glaring at LINE like it killed Raimu-chan?"
It's a testament to their many years of friendship that Juri doesn't immediately suggest Fuuma check in with a medical professional while he rambles about everything he's been obsessing over these past few months. Juri never passes up an opportunity to tease, but he's an active listener, and for that, Fuuma is thankful. "I guess Nakamaru's had over thirty years of experience avoiding people he doesn't want to see," Fuuma finishes, morose. "He's very skilled at making himself scarce."
Juri washes his last bite of his food down with another swig of beer. "Did you do something to offend Nakamaru-kun?" he asks, forehead wrinkled. "I mean, beyond the usual things you do to offend him."
"I've never been offensive a day in my life," Fuuma declares, and Juri snorts beer up his nose so violently that the blast radius reaches the coffee table. "Okay, well, now I'm offended."
"No, you aren't," Juri says, wiping his face clean with a tissue. "When's the last time you saw him?"
Fuuma flops back against the couch and stares up at the ceiling. It's not like he hasn't already been turning those moments over and over in his head since they happened. "Remember his fortieth birthday bash?" he mumbles, rubbing a hand across his eyes. "The huge joint one for him and Ueda that you couldn't attend because of… what was it?"
Juri squints. "Drama filming, I think?"
"Right, yeah," Fuuma says. "Kamenashi-kun booked out some swanky place in Roppongi Hills, you know the type. The Jyanino guys were there, and a bunch of his other friends, inside and outside the jimusho."
"Nakamaru-kun must have hated that," Juri says, laughing.
"I mean, he did seem pretty overwhelmed," Fuuma concedes. By the time he'd been able to wade over to where Nakamaru was, the only way to describe how he looked was haggard. "A lot of people came through, and they all wanted to talk to him. And — sure, I'd had a bit to drink, and maybe I was a little handsy, but I'm always handsy! I've been handsy since birth!"
Juri snorts. "I believe it."
Fuuma takes a deep breath, scrubs his fingers through his hair, and then exhales in a rush. "All I really did was say hi and give him a present. That's it."
"I'm sure," Juri says soothingly. After a moment, he props his elbows on his knees and peers at Fuuma's face. "What was the present? Not an ice pail this time?"
The thing about nursing a lowkey crush since your junior days, on someone you happen to have worked with quite a bit, is — you get to know a lot about what they like and dislike. How they act in their private life, as much as they can have one. Nakamaru keeps his real feelings very close to the chest, but Fuuma has made a case study of reading him over the years. It's not too hard, once you know what to look for.
In mid-August, a few weeks before Nakamaru started giving him the cold shoulder, Jyanino milked ten episodes out of a fully sponsored weekend trip to Kyoto as the brand ambassadors for JR West's new ICOCA app. They spent most of their time eating their way through the city and visiting various cultural sites, but a block and a half outside Nishiki Market proper, Nakamaru had ducked into an antique electronics shop on a whim. Fuuma doesn't know much about audio equipment, but he knew what it meant when Nakamaru's face lit up when he saw a vintage turntable in the back, lovingly preserved, and drank it in with the sort of reverence most people reserve for holy objects. "Oh, she's gorgeous," he mumbled, in a tone that made it clear he would never buy it for himself, even though price couldn't have been an object. Fuuma carefully noted down the store details and called that weekend, when they were back in Tokyo. Asked, "Is that item still available?" and when the friendly sales associate said yes, it was a no-brainer, really.
"Not an ice pail," he says now, downing the last of his beer. "Some expensive turntable, at-home delivery included. I don't know, maybe it was too much."
"Maybe he's just mad you didn't ask if he had room for it in his apartment first," Juri says, very dry, which sets off a back-and-forth of increasingly absurd reasons Nakamaru could be avoiding him. Maybe he's developed a sudden and intense aversion to Fuuma's cologne. Maybe a fortune teller told Nakamaru that seeing Fuuma would cause something terrible to happen to him. Maybe he's been moonlighting as a secret agent and now has to pretend not to know Fuuma for everyone's protection. It's probably not the most productive use of their time, but it does make him feel a little better all the same.
Around midnight, after three more rounds of beer and a microwaved dinner of beef stew, Fuuma jolts upright on the couch and yells, "Oh my God, what if he's dying?"
"Shut the fuck up, there's no way he's dying," Juri grumbles, smacking the side of Fuuma's head. "Don't you think someone would know if that was the case? Pull yourself together, man."
Fuuma crumbles into the cushions. "Ugh, I hate this."
"I know," Juri says, gentler. "You want a back rub or something? A sympathetic handjob?" Fuuma makes a noncommittal sound. Juri rummages through his pockets for his phone, lips pursed. "Maybe a chill threesome? It's pretty late, but I can see if Shoppi's awake and wants to come over."
Always tempting, but he's not really in the mood. "Let him have his beauty sleep."
On TV, a Music Station rerun starts up. It's the episode they taped last month. Fuuma doesn't feel like watching himself pretend to be loud and energetic on screen right now, either; it must show on his face, because Juri grabs the remote off the coffee table and shuts it off. "Something must be seriously wrong if you're turning down sex."
Fuuma sighs, falling back against the couch with a thud. "It's not like that'll fix anything. Sex isn't some magical cure-all."
"Mm, agree to disagree." Juri uncurls his spindly legs and comes back a few minutes later with spare bedding, dumps it unceremoniously on top of his head. "Think about it this way," Juri says over Fuuma's loud squawk. "Even if Nakamaru-kun has been gone for a few months, it's not like he's actually quit Jyanino just to stop seeing you. In the grand scheme of things, it can't be that big a deal."
"Yeah," Fuuma says, laying the blanket out across the sofa. "You're probably right."
Later, when he's brushing his teeth in the bathroom, a notification from Ninomiya pops up in the Jyanino chat: Here's the recording schedule for November~ Get ready to sell your souls to our latest corporate sponsors. There's a screenshot attached, with several hours blocked out two Fridays in a row. It looks like a lot, but this should give us enough material to get through January.
Within about five seconds, Yamada replies, Should be able to attend both times!
Anything for a bigger budget wwww, Fuuma types out one-handed, then gargles and spits, rinses with mouthwash. He's half-expecting Nakamaru to brush them off like he has been since September, but by the time he returns to the living room, Nakamaru's replied, I'll be there, and Nino's sent a bunch of welcome back stickers into the chat. Fuuma's heart does a little backflip in his chest. It takes him a long time to fall asleep.
Fuuma spends most of the next week so jittery that his manager Hashimoto issues a moratorium on caffeinated beverages in an effort to calm him down. To that end, it doesn't really work, but he sure does get tired more often, sleep deficit from 「11:11」 album promotions and endless planning sessions for their December tour creeping up on him without the strong buffer of coffee. The third time Fuuma dozes off in the dressing room, he wakes up with a tower of couch cushions stacked on top of his body. Shori and Kenty remain straight-faced as Fuuma struggles out of the pile, but Sou's giggling in the corner gives them away. "I'm drawing a dick on your face next," Kenty warns, but there's no heat to it.
Friday morning, he's so early to taping that only one other member of their support staff has arrived: Takara, the guy that usually handles their sponsorship stuff, who's setting up a dazzling spread of 7-Eleven snacks against one wall of the studio. Fuuma nods at him, shedding his jacket and hanging it up, and then eyes the room. Tries to figure out where to sit so that he has a good vantage point of the door but isn't obviously waiting for someone.
It takes too long to decide; he's still standing in the entrance when the next person arrives. Crashes into him, he should say, because whoever it is runs in so fast that Fuuma loses his balance, staggering forward from their combined momentum. "Ow," Fuuma says, the wind knocked out of him, and turns around to catch — Nakamaru's pinwheeling arm, steadying him as he sways precariously.
He looks even more haggard than when Fuuma saw him last, which is saying something; there are dark smudges beneath Nakamaru's eyes, and his sweater seems to swallow him. The wrist in Fuuma's grip feels thinner than usual. Maybe Nakamaru hasn't been sleeping well either. That's concerning. Fuuma knows how much Nakamaru needs rest.
Before Fuuma can figure out what to say, Nakamaru leaps away, mouth stiff, eyes wide. Fuuma freezes. His throat tightens, stomach sloshing unpleasantly. In all the years they've known each other, Nakamaru has never reacted to him as though he's just seen a ghost. A moment later, Nino and Yamada shuffle through the door with their managers, bowing and saying their hellos, and the opportunity to address what just happened washes away like the incessant rain.
Fuuma's distracted as they start recording, the pit in his gut growing every time Nakamaru crosses his field of vision. The fact of the matter is: he'd been holding out some faint hope that everything really had just been all in his head. Fuuma might have been able to brush the past two months aside if Nakamaru had been as eye-rolly and dismissive as he always is, ribbing Fuuma for blowing things out of proportion. But it's impossible to deny the naked expression Fuuma saw on Nakamaru's face, lingering longer than he usually lets any emotion linger. He looked terrified, yeah, but even more than that, he looked guilty.
"Fuuma," Ninomiya says, sharp voice piercing the thick curtain of Fuuma's thoughts. "You've been quiet."
"Yeah," Yamada says with a teasing grin. "Shouldn't you be the most excited that Nakamaru-kun is back?"
"Sorry," Fuuma says. He straightens up on the couch and cracks a smile. "Of course I'm excited. It's just — my manager's trying to wean me off caffeine, and it hasn't been going so well."
Nino arches an eyebrow. "Hm." He doesn't look particularly convinced, but turns back to the camera anyway. "Well, you're in luck. Today's sponsor, 7-Eleven, has graciously provided us with the newest products in their Premium Gold line, including several coffee beverages. We'll play a bunch of different games to pick who gets to sample what. Losers have to drink noni juice."
Fuuma does love a good batsu game. He attempts to focus on winning and getting to eat some tasty conbini food, or at least losing in dramatic style and making the noni juice look as unappetizing as possible, but it isn't easy to ignore the distance Nakamaru continues to keep between them. By the end of the first round, during which Fuuma wins human whack-a-mole for the right to eat fancy microwaved curry, he's sweaty and exhausted and in a worse mood than before.
After Fuuma records his requisite curry CM, Nino starfishes on the ground. "Let's take twenty minutes before the instant ramen game," he gasps. "That was more tiring than I thought it would be."
"It's just because Kikuchi's so damn competitive," Yamada groans, rubbing his head. Fuuma had hit him with the blow-up hammer the most, but hey — food was on the line.
Out of the corner of his eye, Fuuma sees Nakamaru edging out of the studio, ostensibly to use the bathroom. Fuuma quickly excuses himself too, catching up with him halfway down the hallway. "Hey," he says, biting his lip when Nakamaru jumps. "Can we talk for a minute in private?"
Nakamaru doesn't reject him outright, which is something. They duck into a side room their staffers use for storage for privacy. Beneath the fluorescent light, Nakamaru looks even more sickly. "Hey, how are you?" he says, voice chipper and upbeat. It sounds completely wrong.
"Really?" Fuuma says, jaw clenching. "You don't just get to pretend like the last two months didn't happen."
Nakamaru's shoulders slump. "Kikuchi—"
Fuuma tries not to let too much hurt bleed into his voice, but it still cracks when he asks, "Why have you been ignoring me? Did I do something?"
"No," Nakamaru says, mouth twisting. "Nothing like that."
"What, then?" Fuuma reaches out to brush a hand against Nakamaru's arm, a platonic gesture he's initiated countless times, and Nakamaru flinches, a full-body reaction. Fuuma's stomach drops away again.
"Don't touch me," Nakamaru says, eyes piercing. "Please. Just — give me some space, okay?"
It's the most serious Fuuma has ever heard him sound. There's no joke in his voice; the request is distressingly sincere. Fuuma will do a lot of things for the bit, but he knows when to stop pushing, even though the entire interaction has left him with more questions than answers. "Okay," he says, the words like cigarette ash in his mouth. "All you had to do was ask."
Fuuma gets through the rest of the morning without letting too much of his gloom bleed through, mostly because there's simply too much else going on to wallow. A fierce battle of one-word pictionary for the instant ramen ends in Ninomiya's victory; he also wins 7-Eleven Trivia, which nets him a bonus single-serving cheesecake. To Hashimoto's relief, Fuuma doesn't win the beverage game: all the coffee and tea goes to Yamada, for being the fastest at speed-sorting Pocky with a pair of chopsticks. Because of some hidden game the staff were keeping score for, Nakamaru ends up winning a bag of fluffy matcha-swirl shokupan, which he seems somewhat cheered by. At the end of filming, they get sent home with extra samples of all the things they tried during taping. Not bad for a sponsorship deal.
There's no time to talk to Nakamaru alone again after that. Hashimoto ushers Fuuma to the van for his next appointment of the day, and by the time he gets back home, he's too tired to do much more than take out his contacts and crash.
All weekend, whenever he has downtime, his stupid brain keeps circling back around to the same thing. That's what he does best: he obsesses, catastrophizes, picks at problems like they're itchy scabs, every wound festering because he never gives them any time to heal. Sunday morning at NTV, before taping for the next Nino-san episode, he musters up his courage and pulls Nino aside in the green room. "Can you tell me—?"
"No spoilers," Nino interrupts, cheeky as ever. "You'll find out what the games are along with all the other guests."
"Not for today," Fuuma says, shaking his head. "About — the break Nakamaru took from Jyanino."
"No spoilers," he repeats, because he loves being cryptic as shit, but his eyes have softened a little. "I'm not gonna be his messenger, but he's been going through a lot, alright? Be gentle with him."
All of Fuuma's more ridiculous theories aside, there's really only one conclusion that makes sense to him. "Do you think he somehow found out that I like him?" he asks Juri on Monday night, back for another beer-laced pity party with the only other person who knows.
Juri balances his beer on his knees. "I think anyone who can't see your feelings from outer space really needs to get their eyes checked," he says, making a face.
"I'm being serious here," Fuuma complains, kicking at Juri's legs. "What if he hates me now?"
The can wobbles dangerously, but Juri salvages it without spilling anything on himself. Lucky bastard. "He doesn't hate you," he says, sounding more sure about it than Fuuma feels about anything right now. "And besides, you have plenty of plausible deniability. Being flirtatious with everyone is kind of your thing. Neither one of us has told anyone else, so how could he have found out?"
And yet, the facts remain: Nakamaru isn't speaking to him. Nakamaru doesn't want to be touched. Nakamaru has resisted every one of Fuuma's stunted attempts at figuring out the reason behind the madness. Whatever it is, the only thing Fuuma can do now is apologize and hope for the best. The sick feeling in his stomach will go away eventually. He's gotten through the past fifteen years of unrequited crushing just fine; what's another fifteen?
The main bulk of the week passes in a blur of frenetic concert prep. In the mornings, the group pores intently over every decision and detail, from the set list to costuming to transitions between songs and various scheduled MC segments. In the afternoon, as the order of events takes shape, the choreographers set a punishing pace for practice. Fuuma does his best to soldier through, throat sore and body aching at the end of each night. If he's less chatty and energetic than usual, his bandmates leave him alone about it. At least the constant grind helps him keep his mind off other things.
Still, Friday rolls around again so fast that Fuuma's surprised it doesn't leave skid marks on the floor of his apartment. When he arrives at the afternoon's Jyanino filming location, a rooftop gym in Shibuya that's about to open in December, there's an intimidating array of hair products laid out. Nino's manager hands them crisp white jumpsuits and clear visor goggles to change into, and someone else helps them strap GoPros to their heads. After a quick intro and tour of the facilities, Nino explains, "We're sampling shampoos today," a look of unholy glee on his face. "So we gotta get dirty first."
"Oh, no," Yamada says faintly. Nakamaru casts a resigned look at the sky. Fuuma crosses his arms, grits his teeth, and resolves to lean into the chaos of it all.
This is how they find themselves playing the messiest game of four-way dodgeball known to man. There's something kind of cathartic about pelting each other with rounds of colored powder that explode upon contact, bright trails streaking behind them as they run. Fuuma ends up coughing a lot, mostly because he can't stop laughing. It's a good time. By the end of the battle, they're caked all over, covered head to toe in several layers of fine dust.
Then they have to take turns washing each other's hair with Shiseido's latest shampoo line. Fuuma's eyes dart over to Nakamaru, whose face has gone stiff beneath the powder. "It'll be fun," Nino cajoles, ushering them down through the swanky locker room next to the pool area and into a full-on salon. They have one of the professionals demonstrate how to give a proper wash in one of the shampoo chairs, on an embarrassed camera guy who had gotten caught in the crossfire. Then they pair off predictably, Nino already waxing poetic about Yamada's skilled gamer hands.
Fuuma joins Nakamaru at one of the other shampoo chairs, leans in and covers his mic. "We don't have to do this if you don't want to," he says, but Nakamaru shakes his head, lips pressed together into a thin line.
"It's alright," he says. "You get settled in first."
Fuuma chews on the inside of his cheek. Nakamaru's so hot and cold sometimes; it really does defy all logic. Still, he pushes past his confusion and lays down. Nakamaru catches the back of his head and maneuvers it in place. Fuuma jumps when the water turns on, hissing past his ears. He tries to stay tense, tries not to enjoy it too much, but Nakamaru's hands are steady and gentle, firm enough to support the back of Fuuma's neck and soothing as they massage shampoo through his hair. He has to close his eyes to stop himself from staring at Nakamaru's face like a huge creep. It's already hard enough work to keep his breathing even.
And then it's over. "All done," Nakamaru says, stepping back from the chair. Yamada's just about finished with Nino, too.
They have the professionals quickly blow-dry their hair before switching places. Nakamaru plops down on the empty chair and leans back, eyes already closed when Fuuma catches his nape and guides his head into the basin. His lips are slightly open, and his breathing is slow and measured; laid flat, he could be asleep, exhausted after a couple months of non-stop touring. Fuuma carefully tests the water temperature on his wrist before starting to rinse. "You're being really diligent about this," Nino comments, peering over from his side, and Yamada yells when Nino accidentally blasts him in the eyes with the faucet.
Fuuma laughs it off, but he redoubles his efforts, hunching over as he squeezes out two pumps of shampoo. Of course he's being diligent. Who knows when Nakamaru will let him this close? Better to do a good job while he can, scratch his nails along Nakamaru's scalp, work the soap into a sudsy froth between the silky strands of his hair, push his fingers into the knot at the join between his neck and his right shoulder, the one that he's always complaining about—
"That's enough," Nakamaru chokes out, voice thick, his eyes flying open. That look flickers across his face, the one from last week, scared and guilty and miserable. It's gone in a flash this time, but it's all the confirmation Fuuma needs to know that he never wants to make Nakamaru look like that again.
He rinses Nakamaru's hair off as fast as he can, fingers numb, and steps back so the salon staff can dry it. After that, the four of them take a comical selfie together, clean hair and dirty everything else. Nino prompts them to pay some lip service to how great Shiseido's new shampoo line is, but Fuuma's heart isn't really in it. He hasn't even talked to Nakamaru yet, but if this is the new normal — it's just too difficult not to think of this as the end of something.
As the sun slips below the horizon, they trundle into the very nice locker room to wash up. Fuuma drags his feet as much as he dares, slowly changing out of his dirty jumpsuit. He spends a long time in his spacious shower stall, water pummeling the back of his bowed head, watching the last of the rainbow dust disappear down the drain. Maybe Juri's free tonight; maybe Fuuma can crash at his place again, drown his sorrows in cheap beer and late night anime.
He's expecting everyone else to be gone by the time he gets back to the locker area. Instead, Nakamaru's sitting on the bench next to Fuuma's crumpled clothing, back hunched, hands held tightly in his lap. Fuuma's heart rate spikes; his fingers curl tighter in the fluffy white towel around his waist. This is happening, then. He kind of wishes he'd had more time to prepare, but he doesn't know if any amount of time would've been enough.
"Kikuchi," Nakamaru says, looking up.
"Nakamaru-kun," Fuuma says, fighting to keep his voice from wobbling. He sits down on the other side of his pile of clothes and just breathes for a moment, hair dripping, eyes gazing blankly at the wood-paneled locker doors. Then he thinks, fuck it, and lets the towel fall open.
Nakamaru audibly inhales, but otherwise, he stays quiet. Fuuma pulls his clothes on fast and rough, banging the heel of his right foot into the floor when he jerks it too fiercely through his pant leg. He can feel Nakamaru's eyes on him, tracking his movements. Like he wants to make sure he knows exactly what Fuuma's doing at all times, so he can make a swift getaway if necessary.
When Fuuma's dressed, he says, "Hey," dull and muted, still staring at the lockers. "I don't know what I did, but if you need me to, like, cool down on the obnoxiousness or the touchiness or whatever, just say the word." He swallows. "I've never wanted you to actually feel uncomfortable around me."
Nakamaru sighs. When Fuuma dares to look at him again, Nakamaru's shaking his head. "I'm not uncomfortable around you."
Fuuma laughs, can't help it, the hysterical sound bouncing off the walls. "You don't have to lie to make me feel better."
That bland, unreadable expression is funny when it's Nakamaru's ironclad uchiwa face, but it's the furthest thing from funny right now. "I'm not lying," he insists stiffly.
"What the fuck is it then!" Fuuma says, louder than he meant to, frustration boiling over. He scrapes a hand across his face. "Sorry, I didn't mean to yell." He takes a few calming breaths, and then continues, "Listen, maybe it hasn't been obvious, but all of this has really been messing me up, so—"
"I know," Nakamaru interjects, with more feeling, mouth dipping into a frown. "I know. I do owe you an explanation, I just don't—" He laughs, and it sounds hollow. "I haven't figured out how to say it without seeming completely crazy."
Fuuma scoffs. "Try me."
Nakamaru fiddles with the sleeve of his sweater, staring down at the tight knit. "Let me ask you something first," he says after a brief pause, meeting Fuuma's gaze again. "Have you really been in love with me since you were thirteen?"
Fuuma's blood turns into ice. He can't feel his face all of a sudden. It takes him a long minute to unstick his mouth. "What?" he says, faint and uncertain. Nakamaru looks like he already knows the answer anyway; is there any point in denying it? "How do you know that?"
"You told me," Nakamaru says.
"Ha!" Fuuma says, feeling flushed now, sweat accumulating in his armpits. "I think I would've remembered telling you."
"You didn't say it out loud," Nakamaru says, scooting down the bench to sit closer. Their hips bump together, and Nakamaru carefully reaches out to close his hand around Fuuma's wrist. "When I touch you, I can hear your thoughts."
Fuuma's mouth drops open. The shock bursts in his abdomen, like someone's sucker-punched him. After a beat, he narrows his eyes and turns his head, looking for cameras. "Are you kidding me?" he says roughly, trying to pull his arm out of Nakamaru's grasp. "Is this some shitty dokkiri, because I swear I'll—"
"Sit still," Nakamaru says in a tone that brooks no argument, and Fuuma stops struggling, stunned. He's daydreamed about Nakamaru ordering him around before, but all his fantasies take place under way sexier circumstances. Nakamaru huffs, one corner of his mouth tilting up. "You really daydream about me telling you what to do?"
Fuuma's jaw hits the floor again. What the hell? "How is this happening?"
Nakamaru squeezes Fuuma's wrist, eyes tired. "It started the day I turned forty," he says slowly. "You've heard the fairy tale, right? If you wake up a virgin on your fortieth birthday, you turn into a wizard. I never took any of that too seriously, but I woke up and went to work and every person I shook hands with, every staff member who brushed past me, every time I had to touch Kame and Ueda during KAT-TUN's choreography… I could hear them all." He blows a long, gusty breath out through his mouth. "At first I thought I was losing my mind, but then I realized it was actually real. Somehow that felt even worse. Do you know how exhausting it is to suddenly know how everyone feels about you?"
It's going to take Fuuma a while to process all of that, but his mouth moves faster than his brain. "Sorry," he says before he can stop himself, "you're a virgin?"
Nakamaru pinches the bridge of his nose. "I should've known that's what you would choose to focus on."
Fuuma shakes his head. It just doesn't make sense. "But — the pantyhose. The bra unhooking!" He raises his free hand and points at him. "You invited Rihanna home with you on national television!"
That startles a real laugh out of Nakamaru. "Yeah," he says. "That was for television. You know better than anyone that none of that stuff is real. It's not like she actually went home with me."
He's not wrong. Fuuma slumps, wrist going limp in Nakamaru's hand, and starts putting some of the other pieces together. "No wonder you looked so tired at your birthday party. So many people were there." His head snaps up. "Is that how you…"
Nakamaru's little smile has gone wistful, which is a vast improvement over anything else Fuuma has seen in the last two months. "You and I," Nakamaru says. "Before this, it was easy to just think of everything you did as a joke. Even if you were being genuine, I always thought you would grow out of it eventually. But then I saw you at the party, and you handed me that card with the receipt for that beautiful turntable, and when our hands brushed…" He trails off, eyebrows rising. "Fifteen years, Kikuchi? Really? You know how scary it is to think about trying to live up to that kind of crush?"
"You don't have to live up to anything," Fuuma says, nonplussed. "You're already you."
Nakamaru huffs again. "You really mean that, don't you?" His eyes drift away for a moment, off toward the rest of the empty locker room; when he looks at Fuuma again, his gaze is clear. "I was just afraid, is all. That's why I didn't show up for two months, didn't reply to your texts, ran away whenever I saw you. I know it's a stupid reason, but I didn't know how to face your feelings. It didn't feel like I deserved them. Mine seemed so small in comparison." He untangles their hands and reaches up to fit his palm against the slope of Fuuma's neck. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause you any pain."
It's a good apology. Fuuma slumps into the warm press of Nakamaru's hand, the wind knocked out of his sails, relief unfurling to take the place of anger. "For a minute there, I really did think you hated me. It sucked. A lot."
"I don't hate you," Nakamaru says. "Sure, I haven't liked you for fifteen years either, but — you know. There's time for that."
Fuuma freezes, peering at Nakamaru's impassive face. "What are you trying to say?"
Nakamaru clears his throat, eyes cutting down to Fuuma's mouth and then back up again. "You think anyone who didn't like you even a little bit would ever put up with your shit?" he says gruffly.
"Nakamaru," he says, heart a drumming tempest in his throat, but before he can ask are you saying you like me, Nakamaru leans in and cuts him off, mouth thin and dry and perfect. His tongue swipes across Fuuma's lips, slick and firm, and it takes no time at all for him to completely steal Fuuma's breath from his lungs.
Fuuma would probably be content staying here forever, but he mumbles, "Wait," a delayed thought cutting through the fog in his head. When he pulls back, they're panting. Nakamaru's lips are shiny and wet, which nearly reels him back in, but this is important, too. "Did you actually like the turntable?"
Amusement dances across Nakamaru's face. "Really? You're asking about that? Right now?"
Fuuma pouts. "Come on," he says impatiently. "I spent a lot of money on it and haven't even gotten a thank you."
"You couldn't have gotten me a massage gun or something?" Nakamaru grumbles, but Fuuma can tell he's pleased. "I didn't even want to wear those New Balances that Ninomiya got me a few years ago. What made you think I was going to touch an antique Micro Seiki?"
"But you wanted it," he protests. "I could tell. You loved it."
Nakamaru nods. "I did," he says, "I do, but wanting isn't nearly as scary as having." He presses his thumb to the center of Fuuma's lower lip. "Sometimes it's hardest to touch something you love."
Oh, Fuuma thinks, a warm ache spreading through his chest. "Well, you can touch me any time you want," he says, purposely sleazy, and laughs when Nakamaru rolls his eyes and flicks his ear. For a minute, they just stare at each other under the harsh fluorescent lights. Then Fuuma curls his arms around Nakamaru's shoulders and asks, "So what does my love feel like?"
"Like a fucking typhoon, Kikuchi," Nakamaru says, and then they're kissing again, pressed as close together as two people can be, letting the storm sweep them away.
Fuuma enjoys making out as much as anyone else, but they do have to leave the gym before they can get to any of the really good parts. Even though Jyanino was the last thing on Fuuma's schedule, Hashimoto's still waiting for him in the parking garage. Besides, Fuuma always thought that his first time with Nakamaru would happen somewhere more romantic — and better for Nakamaru's back — than a semi-public locker room.
"I can hear everything you're thinking," Nakamaru says as they take the elevator down.
"I know," Fuuma says, innocent. Nakamaru makes an annoyed noise at the ceiling, but he doesn't move away from the deliberate brush of Fuuma's elbow. "Do you want to have dinner at my place?"
Through some bizarre quirk in the fabric of the universe, Nakamaru can read his mind right now, so Fuuma knows there's no point in disguising the real question, but it's still fascinating to be able to think Dinner can mean lots of things and Do you think the telepathy will go away if we bang? and see the tips of Nakamaru's ears immediately turn bright red. "You're so ridiculous," Nakamaru grumbles. "I didn't think you could get any touchier than you already were, but I stand corrected."
"You love me," Fuuma says, giddy.
"Against my better judgment," Nakamaru says, but his mouth twitches. Fuuma doesn't think he'll ever get tired of hearing it.
Downstairs, Hashimoto gives him the all-clear to go home. "Thanks for your hard work," Fuuma says, bowing. "Nakamaru will give me a ride." Nakamaru jabs him in the ribs for not using an honorific, and on the way to his car, they bicker about whether Fuuma's apartment has enough parking space for visitors. It's all so familiar that Fuuma could cry.
"Please don't," Nakamaru says, vaguely alarmed. Fuuma grins at the look on his face, jostling their arms together one more time, and climbs into the passenger's seat.
The sky is fully dark when they pull out of the garage, bright lights of the city leaving afterimages as they stream past. Fuuma isn't really paying attention, still dizzy from the swift about-face his life has taken in the past hour, so he doesn't notice where they're headed until Nakamaru makes a sharp turn, and Fuuma realizes he doesn't recognize the streets. "Are we driving back to yours?" he asks, heart leaping. "Why?" Nakamaru's eyes stay on the road, but even in the dim car, Fuuma can see his ears flushing again. Can't resist teasing, "Are you kidnapping me to harvest my organs for money?"
Nakamaru snorts. "Yep," he says, biting his lips around a smile. "That's exactly it."
In the time it takes them to park, Fuuma's run through about a million different scenarios for how this could go. He still hasn't been to Nakamaru's place, has only seen flashes of the inside of the apartment through random VTRs and the very occasional video call they'll do for the channel, but his overactive imagination has never been deterred by a pesky little thing like lack of information. He could get down on his knees and blow Nakamaru in the entryway, or Nakamaru could pin him against the couch and get off against his thigh, or they could take a long, hot soak in the tub and disappear into the bedroom until morning. So many options, each more tantalizing than the last. It feels like walking into a sumptuous buffet and not knowing where to even begin.
Nakamaru checks his mail before they take the stairs up to the third floor. He nearly drops all the envelopes in his hands when Fuuma touches his shoulder while thinking about just shoving a hand down his pants right there in the hall. "I hope sex does fix the telepathy," Nakamaru mutters pointedly, fumbling with his keys. "I'm ready to never have to hear anyone else's thoughts ever again."
"So you're just using me for my body," Fuuma says, cheerful. "It's okay, I don't mind. We can do whatever you want."
"Whatever I want, huh," Nakamaru says. "Be careful, Kikuchi." They push inside the dark house and leave their shoes and outerwear at the door; Nakamaru dumps his keys and his mail in an accent bowl on top of a wooden shoe rack. "What if what I want is to just climb in bed and sleep for twelve hours?"
"I could make that work," Fuuma insists, but Nakamaru must feel Fuuma's blip of disappointment crowding in behind him, because he's laughing as he escapes into the living room.
Fuuma follows after, socks sliding against the wood tile, eyes adjusting to the lamp that Nakamaru's switched on. The space is homey but well-maintained, cozy but clean. Some fluffy blankets are thrown over the back of a squashy gray couch, and a jaunty orange rug rests beneath the coffee table, atop which sit a slender laptop and a bowl of fruit. The curtains match the sofa. The bookshelves are stuffed full of a lifetime's worth of collected texts and vinyl records and interesting knickknacks, but Fuuma's eyes catch on the far side of the room.
"Oh, hey, there she is," he says, drifting over to gaze through the clear case. The Micro-Seiki turntable looks exactly how he last saw it, shiny chrome knobs and sleek dark body, an amplifier hooked to the back.
"The delivery guys had a hell of a time getting it up the stairs," Nakamaru says. "Music sounds great on it, though." A pause, and then, heartfelt: "Thank you."
"I'm glad you like it," Fuuma says, pleased. When he turns around, Nakamaru's leaning against the mouth of the hallway, head tilted, watching him. He doesn't react fast enough to hide the fond expression on his face. Fuuma's heart hammers against his rib cage as he closes the distance between them in two strides, hands coming up to cup Nakamaru's neck. "What are you thinking about?"
"Touching you," Nakamaru says easily, the corner of his mouth lifting in a way that Fuuma hopes is going to drive him crazy for years to come. Who is he to say no to that kind of invitation?
They kiss in the hall for a long time, Nakamaru's lips sweet and wet and open, hands creeping up the hem of Fuuma's sweatshirt, fingers tracing circles against his bare skin. Between one breath and the next, Fuuma's dick stiffens against Nakamaru's hip. Fuuma can feel the line of Nakamaru's erection too, pressed along Fuuma's thigh, can feel the way his hips are starting to jerk, and—"Wait," he says, lightheaded, panting into Nakamaru's slick mouth. He pulls back to meet Nakamaru's heavy gaze. "I know you're — you've never slept with anyone, but you've at least come before, right?"
"Yes, you idiot," Nakamaru says, exasperated. "I have a hand, and the internet—"
"Okay, okay," Fuuma says, laughing as he leans in again. "Just wanted to make sure."
Nakamaru's grip tightens around Fuuma's hips, and then they're pushing off the wall. Fuuma manages to stay upright while walking backward, still kissing Nakamaru, though the back of his head does knock pretty hard against the door to Nakamaru's room. After a moment of fumbling, they fall inside together. Fuuma's knee bangs against a swivel chair as Nakamaru switches the light on, and Nakamaru gets a little stuck as he's lifting his sweater over his head, but eventually they end up at the bed, most of the way undressed, skin flushed, hair mussed, smiling at each other like dumbasses.
"Where do you want me?" Fuuma asks, throat suddenly too dry.
Nakamaru flops back across the mattress, stretching out, bony elbows sticking up above his head. Fuuma's throat goes even drier when his eyes drop down to the significant bulge in Nakamaru's boxer-briefs. "Come here," Nakamaru says, beckoning with a hand.
Fuuma crawls up to kiss him again, savoring the taste of Nakamaru's mouth and the smell of shampoo lingering in his hair from earlier. He catalogs the way Nakamaru's breath goes unsteady when Fuuma runs his palms down his chest, swallows every sound he makes, presses as close as he possibly can. It seems insane that they're here, and even more insane that the coolest person Fuuma had ever seen on stage when he was a young, impressionable thirteen-year-old has never touched anyone else like this. The thought sticks in his brain long enough that he has to take another break just to stare down at Nakamaru's flushed face, his swollen mouth, the bright red crests of his burning ears. Fuuma spent years thinking that Nakamaru was impossible to reach, someone far off and unapproachable; he hasn't had enough time to consider this version of Nakamaru that miraculously wants him back. Even now, having existed alongside Nakamaru for years, it's hard for Fuuma to shake the feeling that the fragile bluster of his confidence will crumble into dust if he breathes the wrong way.
"Hey," Nakamaru rasps, cutting through all the noise in Fuuma's brain. "Kikuchi." He reaches up to fit his hand around Fuuma's neck, thumb and forefinger toying with the lobe of his ear. "Didn't you say it yourself, earlier? Relax. It's just me."
"You aren't just anything," Fuuma sighs, but his racing thoughts settle down a little. He drops another kiss across Nakamaru's lips before trailing lower, pressing his mouth down Nakamaru's sternum, blowing a raspberry against the swell of Nakamaru's stomach.
Nakamaru swats at his head, eyes narrow. "Annoying," he mutters, but he doesn't push Fuuma's head away when Fuuma meticulously peels Nakamaru's underwear off and then settles down between his legs, arms curling around his thighs. Nakamaru's tan skin is flushed a darker red at his crotch, cock jutting out from the snarl of wiry hair at its base, and he squirms a little as Fuuma stares up at him.
"Can I?" Fuuma asks, licking his lips. He knows Nakamaru can feel how badly he wants to.
Nakamaru slides his fingers into Fuuma's hair and twists, the sting of it shooting straight down to Fuuma's dick. "Please," he says.
Fuuma has given a lot of head over the years, fooling around with friends before debut and even after, during the slow years. It's always fun trying to figure out what works for someone, what techniques to try, and yet all of that expertise seems to disappear when he meets Nakamaru's unwavering gaze. He licks his lips again, mouth tingling, and slides his tongue from the tip of Nakamaru's cock to the base, tasting the warmth of his skin. The hiss Nakamaru lets out is deeply gratifying.
A thick bead of precome eases out when Fuuma squeezes Nakamaru's shaft with one hand; it trickles down over his knuckles. Fuuma licks his fingers clean, doesn't want any of it to go to waste, and Nakamaru groans when Fuuma inches closer and tongues at his slit. His hands tug more insistently at Fuuma's hair, holding him in place.
"You can be as rough as you want," Fuuma murmurs, smiling as he kisses the head of Nakamaru's cock. "I like it."
Things happen very quickly after that, Fuuma swallowing Nakamaru down in earnest, Nakamaru's hips rocking up to meet every bob of Fuuma's head. Fuuma only coughs a little the first time Nakamaru hits the back of his throat; he relaxes more, lets his jaw hang lax, saliva and sweat easing the glide. Nakamaru's eyes flutter shut when Fuuma hollows his cheeks and swings his head back and forth, lips meeting the ring of his fingers. "Fuck, I'm close," Nakamaru mumbles, and Fuuma picks up the pace, redoubles his efforts, gaze glued to the rapid rise and fall of Nakamaru's chest, the strain in his arms, the tension in his neck. Nakamaru's thighs box tight around Fuuma's head, his ankles crossing behind Fuuma's back. A long, low groan rolls up his entire body when he starts to come, shaking through his orgasm with Fuuma's name on his lips.
The first wave of come coats the inside of Fuuma's mouth; he tries to hold on, drink it all down, but the itch in the back of his throat makes him cough and rear back, eyes closing reflexively. The rest of Nakamaru's jizz lands across the ridge of his cheek and the bridge of his nose, dripping down toward his chin.
When Fuuma opens his eyes again, Nakamaru's running his fingers through the mess. Fuuma unwinds his arms from around Nakamaru's thighs, grabs Nakamaru's wrist, and licks his hand clean, before rubbing the rest off his face and doing the same with his own hand. Then his brain catches up with the rest of his body, and he scrambles up the bed, eyes wide. "What did you call me? Say it again."
Nakamaru huffs. "I've called you Fuuma before."
"Not like that you haven't," Fuuma counters. Nakamaru rolls his eyes and pushes him down into the sheets, straddling his hips, and Fuuma knows he's being played, knows Nakamaru is trying to distract him from paying too much attention to some vulnerable expression of feeling, but that's alright. He can play along.
"Fuuma," Nakamaru says, tasting the word with relish that Fuuma won't soon forget. "I'm going to touch you now."
Fuuma's heart is beating so hard that it's a wonder it hasn't already burst straight out of his body. Before today, every other time in recent memory that Nakamaru has laid hands on him, it's been because of a stupid flirty comment Fuuma made during Jyanino taping, or because Nakamaru had taken exception to an egregious violation of his personal bubble. This time — Fuuma's close because Nakamaru wants him here. Nakamaru's hands are just as rough as they always are, just as firm and steady, and Fuuma feels like a teenager again, about to bust a nut in two seconds because of the novelty of someone else's palm reaching into his underwear. "Shit," he says, exhaling slowly in an attempt to calm himself down. "Can you hear my thoughts anymore?"
"No," Nakamaru says, sounding somewhat relieved. He braces his free hand against Fuuma's shoulder and squeezes the other around Fuuma's cock. "So if anything feels bad, you'll have to say it out loud."
"Feeling bad isn't the problem," Fuuma moans, tilting his hips up into Nakamaru's grip. "I'm like, this close to coming way too fast."
Nakamaru laughs, shaking his head. "Isn't that the goal? Coming?"
"Ugh," Fuuma says, but he can't be too mad about it, not with Nakamaru perched on his thighs, pleasantly weighing him down. Not with Nakamaru's hand in his underwear pulling hard and fast; not with Nakamaru's attentive eyes watching his every move, like he's trying to remember everything for next time.
Fuuma's spine lifts off the bed as he hurtles toward the edge; his toes curl; his nails dig into Nakamaru's biceps. When he comes, he makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat and falls limp against the bed, sweaty and satisfied.
They stay like that for an extended moment, nestled together in the sheets, gradually catching their breaths. When Nakamaru finally retracts his hand, Fuuma shimmies out of his underwear and wipes himself off with the damp fabric. At the dubious look Nakamaru sends him, Fuuma rolls onto his stomach with a cheeky grin, fits his chin in his hands, and says, "You'll lend me fresh boxers for tomorrow, won't you?"
"Bold of you to assume I'm letting you stay the night," Nakamaru sniffs, but he crosses over to the dresser to grab a pair for him anyway, so Fuuma will take the win.
Nakamaru disappears out the door, and Fuuma hears pipes in the bathroom start running a moment later. He stares at the crumpled pile of clothing on the floor for a minute before rescuing his pants and fishing his phone out of his pocket. Turns out sometimes sex IS a magical cure after all, he types into his LINE chat with Juri.
Juri replies with a string of question marks and then several confused stickers. Fuuma manages to send back i'll explain everything later before Nakamaru returns, skin scrubbed pink, and hands over a wet face towel. As Fuuma wipes himself off, his stomach rumbles, and Nakamaru's eyes crinkle. "Hungry?"
"I could eat," Fuuma says, casual, trying to act like having dinner at Nakamaru's house isn't something he's been trying to finesse for at least five years running.
From the looks of it, Nakamaru isn't terribly fooled. He's chill about it, though. Always has been. "I've got leftover curry in the fridge," he says, pulling his clothes back on. Kind of sad, seeing all that skin disappear behind layers of fabric again, but it's alright. Fuuma will have loads of opportunities to get it all off him again.
"Sounds amazing," Fuuma says, rolling over again and propping himself up with his arms. He doesn't miss the way Nakamaru's eyes stick on his bare chest. "Then we can go for round two, right?"
"You're vastly overestimating a fortysomething's ability to get it up again," Nakamaru grumbles. That's not actually a no, and Fuuma can see the tips of Nakamaru's ears starting to turn red, so he thinks his chances are pretty good.
When Fuuma strolls into the practice room the next morning, Kenty takes one look at him, snorts into his tea, and says, "Oh, good, he's finally back."
Sou peers up from his concert notes and offers Fuuma a bright smile. "Wow, Fuuma-kun! Your aura seems a lot better. What did you do?"
It's been eleven years, and they're all adults now, but it still feels weird to talk about this kind of thing with the babies. "I made up with Nakamaru," Fuuma says, plopping down on the hardwood floor and starting to stretch. The inside of his mouth is still sore from when Nakamaru kissed him before he left, and there's a pleasant ache in his back that probably won't go away for a few days. He feels excellent.
Kenty drifts closer, clocking the tasteful bruises that Nakamaru had sucked along the line of his collarbone. "Making up sure is one way to put it," he says, raising his eyebrows, and laughs when Fuuma sends him a rude gesture.
Shori makes a face, like he'd really rather not know. "Well, whatever it is, I'm glad we can get back on track."
"Me too," Fuuma says, meaning it. On his phone, a new notification pops up — a message from Nakamaru, the first one he's gotten in two months. He's sent a photo of Fuuma's dirty underwear folded neatly in his laundry basket, exactly where Fuuma left it, with the caption: Are you looking for a fight, Kikuchi? 💢
You can punish me tonight, Fuuma types back, grinning like an idiot, and leaps up to greet the rest of the day. He can tell it's gonna be great.