Fuuma takes the stairs up to Nakamaru's apartment three at a time, the bag of beer clutched in his hand banging crazily against his shins. The combination of being almost an hour late and having a dead phone means he doesn't slow down, even when he almost trips on the second to last step. He manages to catch himself in time, right hand slamming against the railing hard enough that his palm is still stinging when he pushes out of the stairwell and onto the right floor.
They've met up for drinks three, maybe four times since 24-Hour Television last year. Alone, just the two of them, usually at Nakamaru's place when their free time happens to coincide. The novelty hasn't worn off yet — seeing Nakamaru outside of work, tipsy and laughing and red from all the alcohol — but neither has the niggling fear in the back of Fuuma's mind that all of this could disappear so easily.
It's not like Nakamaru's new to the industry. He of all people should understand that sometimes work ends up going much longer than expected, and how impossible it can be to get even one moment to send a personal message to someone who might be waiting on you. But still, the thought persists: that if Fuuma fucks it up one too many times, all of his careful plans and incessant flirting over the past two years will have gone to waste. That Nakamaru will write him off as some dumb kid, just another disappointing kouhai that didn't deserve the attention after all.
One of Nakamaru's neighbors has literal stone lions outside their front door; Fuuma always forgets. He stubs his toe rounding the corner, jagged pain blooming in his foot. "Shit," he mutters, hobbling past. He's out of breath by the time he skids to a stop outside Nakamaru's door, throat dry enough that he's tempted to crack one of the beer cans open right in the hall and chug it all in one go. Instead, he takes half a second to compose himself, tugs at the hem of his shirt and adjusts his bangs as best he can without a mirror, and then straightens up to knock.
"Just a minute!" he hears Nakamaru yell from somewhere inside the house. "I'll be right there!" At least that gives Fuuma a little more time to calm his breathing. A few moments later, there's a weird clanging noise and a muttered curse. Fuuma's mouth twitches. He's shifting on his feet when something scrapes against the other side of the dark wood. The knob jiggles before the door finally swings open.
Fuuma takes a deep breath, ready to rush out an ill-conceived apology, but there's… no one? He blinks, rocking back on his heels. Eventually, his gaze drops low enough to find a little girl staring up at him, eyes big and round. Her long hair is done up in cute pigtails, and she's wearing a yellow sundress with a fuzzy bumblebee decal on the front. She looks about five years old, certainly young enough to be…
Wait. There's no way Nakamaru has a secret child, right? Well — Sakurai Sho did kind of set up a precedent when he made his announcement a few years ago, but surely someone at the jimusho would have let something slip if that was the case.
Before his thoughts can spiral too far, the little girl tilts her chin up and says, "Hi," in English, face breaking into a wide grin. "Who are you?"
"I'm Fuuma," he says, responding in kind. His English hasn't gotten much use since Mari left, but hopefully it's still passable. "Um, what's your name?"
"I'm Mia." She steps back, socked feet sliding a little against Nakamaru's floorboards. "Would you like to come in?"
Fuuma usually kicks his shoes off in Nakamaru's entryway just to be obnoxious; it's worth it to see the way his whole face creases with his frown. Today, however, Fuuma is in the presence of a very polite five-year-old who could very well be Nakamaru's daughter. Just thinking that in his head makes him want to crush a can of beer immediately. He crouches down and eases his sneakers off one at a time, setting them next to Nakamaru's before donning a pair of slippers. He's so aware of Mia's laser-focused regard that the hearty aroma hanging heavy in the air doesn't register until he straightens up again. "What's that smell?"
"Uncle Yuuichi's cooking dinner," Mia says solemnly. Fuuma doesn't slap his own forehead, but it's a near thing. Of course Mia's his niece; Nakamaru has mentioned sisters before, and one of them definitely lives in Australia. No wonder this kid's English is so good.
Fuuma sniffs the air a few more times. He'd recognize the flavors anywhere. "Curry, huh. Is that your favorite?"
Mia's face lights up. "Yes!" She starts saying more, but the English is so fast that Fuuma can't really follow it. Mia seems content just to babble, though, so he nods along as they walk into the living room together.
There's some abandoned drawings on the coffee table, a well-loved stuffed rabbit hanging off the edge of the sofa, and markers scattered across pretty much every flat surface. The smell of spice has also intensified; he can hear Nakamaru muttering to himself in the kitchen. Fuuma crouches down, sharing a laugh with Mia when he hears something clang. In Japanese, he says, "Curry's my favorite too. Do you think we should go in and ask Uncle Yuuichi if we can help?"
Mia claps her hands together. "Please!" Her face falls a little. "But he said it might be dangerous, so he asked me to stay out here."
"Ah, I see. Maybe let's see if he'll change his mind, hm?" Mia lets Fuuma pick her up. He braces her against his hip, balancing the bag of beers in his other hand, and pushes into the kitchen, singing, "Uncle Yuuichiii," in as high a voice as he can muster.
"Just a second, Mia," Nakamaru says absently; he doesn't look up from the huge stock pot that he's babying. For all that the food smells amazing, the whole kitchen is basically a warzone, remnants of vegetable peels and partially chopped chicken hanging out with two knives on top of a gigantic cutting board. The rice cooker's whistling like a kettle next to the sink, and there are about 10 different bowls of ground or mashed spices scattered between dried bay leaves and some star anise. Probably not the best place for a five-year-old to be.
"Looks like you could use some extra hands," Fuuma remarks.
Nakamaru's head snaps over. His shoulders slump a little when he sees Fuuma, and several emotions flicker over his face in quick succession: relief, exasperation, trepidation, guilt. "Kikuchi," he says, jumping a little when a particularly large curry bubble pops in his face. "Sorry, I know we were supposed to hang out today, but—" His gaze bounces toward Mia and then back again. "It's a long story. I texted you, but I don't think you saw."
"It's okay," Fuuma says, because it really is. He may not know all the details right now, but he can pivot, especially if it means getting to eat curry that Nakamaru's clearly making from scratch. "Mia and I are great friends now, right, Mia?" Mia nods. Naturally, her eyes are glued to the pot of curry. "What do you need us to do?"
Nakamaru wipes a hand across his forehead. "I'm really almost done," he says, stirring the pot of curry a few more times. "But I could use some help with the dishes."
"Alright," Fuuma says. He sets Mia down on the floor and pulls the step stool out from next to Nakamaru's fridge, setting up in front of the sink. "Mia, do you want to help me dry? The faster we finish the sooner we get to eat delicious curry!"
Mia nods happily, clambering up onto the stool and tossing her little pigtails back over her shoulders. Fuuma gathers as much plateware as he can, hands Mia a soft square cloth, and starts rinsing the small wooden bowls first.
The last time Fuuma came over, he and Nakamaru ran out of beer around one in the morning. It was too soon to call it a night, but neither of them felt like going out for more, too buzzed and comfortable to leave the house. Of course, whatever delivery service app Nakamaru tried to use totally fucked up their order. Instead of another twelve-pack of Asahi, they somehow acquired a box of twelve perfectly ripe Alphonso mangos. "Not the worst thing we could've gotten," Fuuma pointed out, tipsy enough that the situation was hilarious and not annoying — which was how they ended up leant over the kitchen sink together, peeling mangos by hand and biting into them like savages, juice dripping down their forearms as they ate. When Nakamaru finally pushed him against the counter and pressed their mouths together, he tasted so sweet. It didn't matter the mess they were making; they stuck together anyway.
"So how do you know Uncle Yuuichi?" Mia's curious voice cuts through Fuuma's thoughts like a cleaver, and Fuuma nearly drops the extremely sharp knife in his hands.
He manages to keep hold of it, sliding a soapy sponge along the edge of the blade before setting it aside. "We work together," he says.
When Fuuma glances at her, Mia's mouth has formed a little circle. "Are you on TV too?"
"Mm, that's right," Fuuma says. Close enough, though when he woke up this morning, he hadn't anticipated needing to figure out how to explain naked dokkiris to a five-year-old. "Sometimes I sing on TV, sometimes I dance, sometimes I… swim." Nakamaru snorts loudly. Fuuma rolls his eyes and aims a half-hearted kick at Nakamaru's ankle.
"Okaasan wants me to take swimming lessons," Mia says, sounding dejected. "But I don't really like being in the water. It's scary."
"I get that," Fuuma says, handing her another rinsed bowl to dry. "It would be scarier to be in the water and not know how to swim, though, don't you think?"
Mia tilts her head. "I guess so."
"How about this," Fuuma says, knocking his elbow against Mia's shoulder. "If we get to hang out again, I'll teach you how to swim."
"You're qualified to do that?" Nakamaru asks quietly, underneath Mia's excited chatter in English.
Fuuma looks over. Nakamaru's moved the chopped chicken thighs back into the pot of curry. He hands Fuuma the last cutting board, and Fuuma shrugs. "How hard could it be?"
Before Nakamaru can answer, there's a loud clattering sound from the sink. Mia has accidentally dropped the bowl she was drying. Nothing's shattered, fortunately, but her mouth has definitely started wobbling.
"Oops, that's okay," Fuuma says, scooping the bowl up and plopping it back in her hand. "You're doing great, this stuff just gets really slippery." Mia blinks rapidly, and Fuuma bumps her shoulder again. "How do you know Uncle Yuuichi? You haven't told me yet."
Nakamaru hides another laugh with a cough. Mia, sufficiently distracted, considers this very seriously for a moment. "Okaasan and Uncle Yuuichi grew up together. They're siblings."
"That's cool," Fuuma says, scrubbing the cutting board down. "Do you have any siblings?"
"I keep asking okaasan when I can have one," Mia says, pouting a little. "She said soon, maybe. If I'm very good."
They dry the cutting board together, each of them taking one side. "Well, I hope your wish comes true," Fuuma says, grinning.
"Speaking of wishes coming true," Nakamaru says from behind them. When they turn around, he's balancing three bowls of curry in his arms. "Let's go eat!"
"Let's go eat! Let's go eat!" Mia keeps the chant up until they get to the coffee table in the living room. She sits cross-legged on the floor in between them, spoon clutched in her hand.
"Careful, don't burn yourself," Nakamaru says, slouching against the seat of the couch. Fuuma drops the bag of beers on the floor next to his legs. He cracks one can open and hands it over to Nakamaru before fishing another out of the bag for himself.
Mia perks up. "Soda?" she says around a mouthful of curry.
"Nope, this is our adult medicine," Fuuma says, grimacing theatrically. Nakamaru's mouth twitches, and Fuuma hides a smile behind the rim of his can. "It tastes pretty bad, you wouldn't want to try it."
"I'll get you some juice," Nakamaru huffs.
Mia turns out to be a voracious eater; Nakamaru diligently wipes her face when curry inevitably ends up splattered on her cheeks every five minutes. They watch cartoons in the living room and doodle on some more printer paper for a couple hours before she finally dozes off, head pillowed on her arms against the coffee table.
When Nakamaru's certain she's fully passed out, he groans and tilts his head back against the sofa, knees cracking as he stretches his legs.
"So what's the story?" Fuuma asks.
"Eriko's family is visiting for three weeks," Nakamaru explains, staring up at the ceiling. "Originally I was going to see everyone during Golden Week, but today the jimusho had to schedule a work thing the same night as our family reunion. Mia was not happy when she heard I might not be able to come."
"She seems to have a lot of personality," Fuuma offers, and Nakamaru laughs.
"That's one way to put it." He reaches out to tighten one of Mia's pigtails, a fond look passing over his face, and Fuuma's chest clenches. "The only other time she could see me was tonight, and Eriko said she could drop her off on their way to a fancy dinner, so I said yes without really thinking about it. Then I was running around trying to get all the ingredients for her favorite food before she got here, so I didn't have time to explain all the details."
Fuuma shakes his head. "Well, my phone totally bricked while we were filming this afternoon, so I'm about twelve hours behind on all my texts anyway," he says. "Our manager's supposed to have a new one for me by tomorrow morning, but it's been rough."
"Kids these days, so addicted to their phones," Nakamaru teases, clicking his tongue. He laughs again when Fuuma scowls. "But seriously, sorry about all this. My sister should be coming by to pick her up soon."
"Nah, it's cool," Fuuma says. "It was funny watching you freak out about dinner. She probably would've been just as happy if you made her boxed Golden Curry mix."
"Yeah, well," Nakamaru says. "I only get to see her every few years, so it felt right."
You'd be a great dad, Fuuma wants to say, but he doesn't know if he should. Would it sound ultra weird coming from him? They haven't even talked about who they are to each other, really. As far as Fuuma can tell, they're coworkers who drink together from time to time and touch each other like lovers do when no one else is around to see. And the touching is excellent — he really hopes the touching keeps happening, and if Nakamaru keeps inviting him over, maybe he has the same hopes — but that doesn't mean Nakamaru wants to hear anything more serious from him.
Fuuma's scraping the last bites of curry from his bowl when someone knocks on the front door. Nakamaru gently tiptoes around Mia and gets up to answer. Fuuma's gathering all of Mia's artwork into a neat pile when a smartly-dressed woman with a short brown bob follows Nakamaru back into the living room.
"This is Eriko," Nakamaru says, gesturing at his sister. "Eriko, this is Kikuchi—"
"Oh, you must be the famous Fuuma I've heard so much about," Eriko says, somehow managing to convey enthusiasm while keeping her voice down so as not to startle Mia awake.
"Hello," Fuuma says, hoping his eyes aren't bugging too far out of his head. Is it a good thing that Nakamaru's talked about him? Somehow it feels like he should be more stressed out.
"Hopefully she behaved," Eriko says, kneeling down to shake Mia's shoulder. "Hey, honey, it's time to go back to jiji and baba's house."
"She helped wash the dishes, and here's all the cool stuff she drew," Fuuma says, smiling when Mia blearily blinks her eyes open. "Mia, can I keep this one?" It's of Nakamaru wearing a chef's hat in a child's approximation of an adult kitchen, chickens running around his stick-figure feet. So adorable it makes Fuuma's teeth hurt.
"Only if you teach me how to swim next time," Mia says around a yawn.
"Yes, ma'am," Fuuma says, shaking her hand. "It's a deal."
And then they're gone, Nakamaru murmuring briefly with his sister in the entryway before the door closes behind them. Fuuma gathers all of their empty bowls and brings them into the kitchen, runs hot water in the sink so the curry starts to loosen. When he finishes drying his hands and looks up, Nakamaru's propped against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, hair a wild mess around his head. "Thanks for today," he says gruffly, scratching one of his forearms, clearly embarrassed. "I wasn't expecting you to show up, but having you here… it helped a lot."
"Well, I'm glad I got to meet your niece," Fuuma says, grabbing the drawing of Nakamaru and sticking it on the fridge beneath a KAT-TUN magnet. "She's a cute kid." Fuuma grins. "Clearly she inherited the Nakamaru nose."
"She wears it well," Nakamaru agrees.
"Plus, I called you Yuuichi like fifty times and you didn't hit me once," Fuuma points out, cheeky.
"Believe me when I say I desperately wanted to," Nakamaru mutters, stepping forward to cage Fuuma against the kitchen counter. "But I can't be teaching her that violence is the answer."
"What a pity," Fuuma sighs, half a second before Nakamaru leans in and kisses him. He tastes like lingering spice, turmeric and cumin and ginger, a slow-burning heat that layers over the firm press of his hips and the way his fingers dig into Fuuma's shoulders.
When they break apart, Fuuma's lips are tingling. "I've wanted to do that all night," Nakamaru says, exhaling loudly.
Fuuma raises his eyebrows. "The whole night? So me being great with kids is what gets you all hot and bothered?"
"Shut up, Kikuchi," Nakamaru snaps, but his ears are turning red, so Fuuma is pretty sure he's right.
"I can be sooo responsible," Fuuma says, yelping when Nakamaru pinches his neck.
"You were an hour late today," Nakamaru replies. "Don't think I didn't notice."
Fuuma can read between the lines. It's good to know that he was missed. "I would've texted if my phone wasn't dead," he says. "But I got here in the end, didn't I? With beer and everything."
"Yes, yes, you're very dependable," Nakamaru says, rolling his eyes. "You'd be a good dad. Is that what you want to hear?"
Fuuma's heart stutters. He tucks his hands around Nakamaru's waist and bites his lip. "I mean, we're Johnny's," he says, tilting his chin up with a smile he hopes looks easy. "Isn't that part of what we do, too? Take care of our cute kouhai?"
"The way I feel about you isn't fatherly in the slightest, Kikuchi," Nakamaru says, brow furrowed, and somehow that's the thing that makes all the tension wash out of Fuuma's body. Maybe that's what he's needed this whole time — some indication that Nakamaru hasn't merely been humoring him for the past six months. That this actually means something to him; that he wants Fuuma just as badly as Fuuma wants him.
"What, you're not into that?" Fuuma says, batting his eyelashes. He's never left a good joke hanging, and he doesn't plan to start now. "Getting called daddy doesn't turn you on?"
"I will absolutely kick you out," Nakamaru grouses, "and then you'll never know about any of the things I want to do with you. All the things I want to do to you."
Fuuma laughs, feeling lightheaded. "I promise I'll be good if you show me," he says. Nakamaru sends him an unconvinced look, and Fuuma sighs, amends, "I promise I'll try. I want to know everything."
"One thing at a time," Nakamaru says, the corner of his mouth lifting, and tilts forward to kiss the rest of Fuuma's breath away.