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“I thought you’d be disappointed in me for… for not finishing the course?” Fuma is trying to joke, lighten the atmosphere a little, but midway through the sentence the air is knocked out of him as Yūdai shoves him back against the wall.
“Are you kidding?” Yūdai asks, hissing, eyes dark and heavy lidded, and Fuma can’t parse whether he means: of course not or of course I am. And then Yūdai drops to his knees at Fuma’s feet.
Yūdai hasn’t even kissed him since they got in here - Yūdai often forgets to. But here are Yūdai’s hands, blunt fingernails scrabbling at the ties on Fuma’s sweatpants, the dry clothes he’d changed into once the production crew had fished him out of the water on the ‘Sasuke’ assault course. Yūdai’s fingers get under the elastic easily, and then into Fuma’s spare pair of boxers, and Fuma is chilly, and damp, and still kind of bummed he didn’t make it all the way round, so there’s no sense in how quickly he’s thickening under that grip. The grip and the scent and press of Yūdai against him, the sound of his breathing.
Fuma’s got a Pavlovian reaction to Yūdai at this point, probably. Not least because it’s only been Yūdai, touching him this way, since that night they got confirmed for debut and Yūdai had dragged him into a janitorial closet and congratulated him just like this, gazing up at him, all pink, like there was nothing he’d rather do to celebrate than get a dick down his throat.
Eighteen months later, and Fuma knows that impression was true: Yūdai loves doing this, craves it in a way that seems to scare him, certainly that he won’t talk about. They’ve still never discussed this – any of this – at all. Fuma doesn’t know if there was someone else, before himself, who made Yūdai this way. He’s tried to find out, as gently as he can - it could so easily be that whoever it was said something, did something, told or taught Yūdai something that makes him so skittish and stressed in these moments. And so Fuma talks himself, sometimes, the few times they’re alone and not already naked, about his previous partners, about some of the things he’d enjoyed with them. Not just the sex stuff, although he makes sure to allude to the fact that body size, or gender, or general masculinity, don’t have to imply anything about what you like in bed or vice versa.
‘In bed’ – hah! They’ve done this in a bed a grand total of three times. They’re not famous enough to be constantly in hotels, and when they are it’s usually packed more than two to a room, and the dorm is out of the question.
That leaves them cupboards, and the HYBE gym showers at 3am, and places like this, the portaloo block at the Sasuke filming site, which happens to have a relatively spacious lockable unit for each facility. When Yūdai had taken him by the hand after the filming finished, leading him away, Fuma had realised he must have been scoping the place out during Fuma’s interview. That all the time, Yūdai had been thinking about this.
Now, Yūdai’s grip on him loosens for a moment, and Fuma opens his eyes in time to see him spitting in his palm and putting it back again, getting Fuma the rest of the way hard. Fuma’s holding the edge of the little basin, bracing himself. He’s got too used to dry and rough and raw, all those qualities that burn the flame inside Yūdai’s eyes.
“There’s some hand cream next to the soap dispenser,” Fuma points out, gasping, “at least use it on yourself,” and Yūdai flashes that gaze up at him, half-accusatory.
“It’s OK that you like it,” Fuma says, slowly, gently, not for the first time. “I like that you like it, you can feel that I do.”
For a moment, Yūdai freezes. He’s looking at his own, stilled, hand in Fuma’s pants. His other twitches at his side. He hasn’t started touching himself yet - he tends to hold out until he’s right on the edge – whether prolonging it or trying to deny it, Fuma is never sure - or sometimes he comes without a hand on him, usually onto the floor if he remembers to push his trousers aside, and then Fuma wipes it up afterwards.
Usually, afterwards, Fuma kisses him. Usually, then, Yūdai lets him. At least for a minute or two.
Carefully, now, Fuma puts his hand to Yūdai’s hair. And this time Yūdai yields to it, tilting his head in. Letting Fuma gently bring him in to rest his cheek against the angle of Fuma’s hip, nuzzling at the bulge of his erection, starting to breathe more heavily. Fuma can feel it through the fabric, the heat of the air Yūdai’s gasping out. Fuma pushes his fingers into Yūdai’s scalp, soothing, and Yūdai makes a tiny whine and then buries his face completely.
It's moments like this that the thought of just stopping this, of giving up on trying to navigate it, seems impossible Sometimes Fuma feels like he’s just an available body, like he’s collateral damage from toxic masculinity and the only sensible thing would be to step away, and sometimes he feels like he’d never known what love actually was, until now, until this. The thing for which people fight and bleed and yearn, and persist and persist for.
“You appreciated seeing me do the course, huh?” Fuma says, because he says out loud things Yūdai seems afraid to, so that Yūdai can see that nothing bad happens.
“Duh,” Yūdai murmurs, muffled, into the sweatpants. That close, the vibrations of his voice are a lot, and Fuma can’t stop himself moving his hips, which breaks the moment. Yūdai pulls back, frowning with focus, and gets the clothes properly down past Fuma’s butt and opens his mouth. His lips are thin and pinkish-brown, and slightly chapped, and Fuma wants to kiss him so much more often than they ever could, even if Yūdai let him.
But for this, Yūdai is always happy to offer his mouth, and every time Fuma slides into Yūdai’s throat, he feels it all way to the arches of his feet. Like he’ll come right away, just from that, and if not from that, then from the noises Yūdai makes with a dick in his mouth, little begging gasps that seem to break out of him. Yūdai likes to be made to gag, likes to be held still and get his throat fucked, likes so many things that of course he won’t tell Fuma about, relying on Fuma to figure it out.
Trusting Fuma.
Underneath it all, Yūdai has to trust him, right? For this to keep going on this way? That’s something. That could be something, someday, if Fuma can figure out how to help them both get there.
“What would you have done if I’d won?” Fuma jokes, because it’s something to say, because he doesn’t want to come yet, not with how Yūdai is shuddering which each thrust of his hips, and because his hands are still in Yūdai’s hair, stroking him, and Yūdai is letting him do that, and he doesn’t want that to end.
Yūdai blinks up at him. After a while of getting face-fucked, sometimes, he can go a bit softer like this. Eyes lidded, breath calming, like it’s a meditative state for him. It looks… good. Fuma hopes it’s good, that this is a good thing to do to him. For him.
Fuma wants to drop a kiss to his forehead. He strokes his thumb there instead.
Yūdai moves one hand to Fuma’s abs, feeling their definition, still cut from the ‘War Cry’ promos. His fingers drift to the base of Fuma’s cock, the small distance he hasn’t quite got past his lips, and then down and under to his balls, cupping their weight, more like a scientific inquiry than a deliberate provocation.
One day, when there’s a bed, Fuma thinks they could spend hours just touching each other. He imagines being able to stay with Yūdai, after moments like this, hold him close and safe until the fuzziness passes, rather than just cover for him when they have to emerge too soon into the world – there’s usually nowhere to lie or even sit after their sex anyway.
“Or you could do it, next time,” Fuma suggests. Carefully, he moves his hand to cradle Yūdai’s jaw and thrusts deep again, because he knows Yūdai will make exactly that noise when he does. “And you’ll definitely win, because, you know, it’s you. And then I can reward you. You know? Anything. I’d do…” he’s struggling with words now, it feels so good, Yūdai’s mouth, his tongue, his fingers digging into Fuma’s hips again. “I’d do anything you wanted, you could have it however you liked, you…”
Yūdai whines, knees widening as he jerks and spurts, coming untouched onto the linoleum under their feet, pressing his nose right to Fuma’s crotch, swallowing.
He reaches for Fuma’s hand. Holds it, tight. Doesn’t say anything, but doesn’t let go at once either, the one hand cradling the other, just for a while.