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Taipei was exhilarating.
Taki knew that they weren’t supposed to pick favourites, when it came to fans and concerts. If he were choosing logically, then Tokyo was the obvious choice. Close enough to his hometown, Japanese falling easily off his tongue.
But something about the way Nicholas acted when they landed in Taiwan, positively beaming, dragging the members around to restaurants and his parents house and places so nostalgic and familiar, made Taki feel warm too. Something felt different — not wrong, but easy. Everyone’s spirits lifted higher than before.
The exhaustion he felt didn’t phase him like it did in Jakarta. Even when his limbs were lagging behind, it didn’t stop him from spending half the concert admiring Yuma. Eyes darting between the crowd and the older, drinking in every fleeting touch and endearing ment and flicker of something between them that Taki could almost call nothing. Almost.
Normally, he was better at hiding it. Shoving it down, ignoring it.
But when the fresh, bright red of Harua’s hair drifts past his vision, and he watches the way Nicholas plays around with the younger, teasing and poking and prodding until Harua is flushed and pouting, Taki knows he should do something. Needs to do something.
Dance is his forte. His carefully crafted talent, a skill he’s honed for as long as he can remember, something as simple as breathing. But the way he, Yuma and Harua have been dancing between each other these past few weeks, always a few centimetres out of reach, tripping and falling, footwork lacking precision and their formation disorganised? It’s all wrong.
It could be the adrenaline speaking, but Taki feels like he’s halfway to exploding. Instead of fatigue, all he feels is frustration.
Maybe that's why the first thing he does when they get back to their room is shove Yuma against the wall, and kiss him. The door had barely closed behind them, but he didn't care.
“Eager, aren’t we?” Yuma pushes him away, hands slipping against Taki’s arms from all the sweat he’s worked up. It was building, the heat and the thrill and the burning in his chest.
“You,” Taki places a wet, sloppy kiss to the side of Yuma’s neck, “Are going to be the death of me.”
“That’s my intention,” The older sighs as he weaves his hands into Taki’s hair. Even the slight scratch of his fingers in this humidity is enough to make it look scruffy and roughed up. Yuma loves it, how easy it is to get under Taki’s skin.
Taki forgoes a reply. Instead, his mouth trails kisses down Yuma’s neck and his hands scrabble at his shirt desperately.
What he expects from the next few minutes is something like this:
Yuma’s shirt on the floor. His mouth against the other’s chest, sucking and biting and licking. It’s a routine that never gets old, a guilty pleasure that always feels good. Taki’s back pressed against the mattress, Yuma’s hands on his dick. If he was lucky, if his performance was better than usual, maybe a tongue and the wet heat of Yuma’s mouth instead. Finger’s prying him open and slow, gentle thrusts from Yuma.
Instead, there's a knock at the door. Taki jumps. Yuma doesn’t.
“Yuma-chan?” Harua’s voice is unmistakable. Even in this hazy, half-horny state, Taki would be able to pick it out of a crowd. It sounds innocent enough and he calls out, hoarsely:
“Give us a minute, Harua!”
“It’s okay, I’ll come get the door,” Yuma says at the same time. He’s looking down at Taki, smugly, from where the younger is half bent-down, almost kneeling but not quite, steadying himself with his hand.
“Yuma—” Taki protests, as he’s pulled upwards and rested against the wall, Yuma moving towards the door.
The sound of him entering the pin code is unmistakable, twisting the door knob, as he says, so calmly, “I know you want him too.”
And then Harua is there. Standing awkwardly in the corridor, eyeing Yuma up and down, more flushed than he ever is around Nicholas, and something inside Taki burns. His patience is non-existent today, apparently, and in a way that mirrors whatever he and Yuma were doing less than five minutes ago, Taki grabs Harua by the wrist to pull him inside, engulfs his face with his hands, and kisses him.
It’s a little less frantic than kissing Yuma. Taki can count on his hand the number of times he’s messed around with Harua. Almost everything about him is unfamiliar, a landscape of opportunities yet to be explored. A mild panic drifts over Taki, because what if he’s getting ahead of himself, but it’s quelled by Harua’s tongue licking into his mouth just as eagerly, and a small, short whine.
“Cute,” Yuma laughs, crossing his arms and leaning back, “I knew inviting him over was the right idea.”
“You’re insufferable,” Harua mumbles, still half-kissing Taki. Suddenly, Taki doesn’t feel so confident. He knows Yuma like the back of his hand and knows Harua a little less so but the combination of the two is a puzzle, one that he’s only just started.
“Funny,” Yuma licks his lips, “You’re the second person to tell me that today.”
Taki loosens his grip on Harua’s face and lets his feet rest firmly against the ground again, before turning towards Yuma, “I did not say anything like that.”
“Same thing.” Yuma waves a hand, moving to sit with his legs spread wide on the ottoman at the end of Taki’s single bed, “But you know. I’m a little tired. After the concert, and all.”
“You were just kissing me with as much fervour as you do on our days off,” Taki counters.
“No. You were kissing me. There’s a difference.”
“I was not—” He starts, before yelping. Harua’s hands had made their way to his waist, and he pinched the skin, accompanying it with a kiss to the collarbone.
“Does anyone actually care what happened?” He asks, mouthing along Taki’s jaw after he speaks.
“Not really,” Yuma sighs, slumping, “But I’m a little tired, you know? You two can… do whatever.”
Taki blanches, “You brought me all the way here? For that?”
“This is our room, idiot.” Yuma deadpans, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. It is, in retrospect, but goddammit Taki is horny and pent up and needs something now or he’ll—
“So you’re gonna leave, Yuma-kun?” Harua questions. It’s adorable, the way he tilts his head in question. Yuma stifles a giggle.
“Hmm? Oh no,” He states, “I’ll watch.”
That’s… new.
Taki knows Yuma is into things. Lot’s of things, to be exact. Not that they’d ever discussed it. Of course they hadn’t. The kissing and the sex and the random hand jobs they’d give each other in the bathroom were as simple as breathing. A conversation wasn’t needed for them to just work, like that. But Taki knew from the way Yuma always seemed to corner him in the most inopportune moments (After a concert, when Euijoo was looking for them. Or in an empty practice room, the door unlocked.) that he liked it. The thrill.
The stakes for this were lower, in theory, in a private hotel room.
But having another member here balanced it back out to dangerous. Yuma and Taki were far from exclusive, sure. Taki knows that Yuma’s fucked Harua. Harua’s fucked him too, on occassion. The three of them together, though? It’s untrodden territory. Everything about this situation is uncharted. A new country and a new language. An unfamiliar hotel room with beds they haven’t even slept in, a combination of people Taki never thought was possible but had secretly, always hoped for.
Harua raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. Taki metaphorically crosses his fingers and hopes that's something akin to acceptance. He can feel the way Yuma’s peering at him even without turning around, the back of his neck turning red as he resists the urge to cover himself. The two of them are waiting for him to say something, it seems.
“Do whatever you want, Yuma,” Taki snorts, before pulling Harua back in for another kiss.
Instead of Yuma’s shirt on the floor, it’s his own. Harua was never super gentle with him, not in the way Yuma sometimes was, on the bad days. He pulls it off before Taki can even blink, or register the way his mouth is suddenly empty of Harua. Before he can whine needily. Harua grips him by the neck, pulls him down and close, and drags the two of them over to the bed. Taki’s so far gone, he barely feels being pushed down and his back hitting the bed.
Harua nips at his neck, lips and teeth making heart-shaped marks against his skin. Taki almost wants Harua to snapshot it, to make it permanent. It’s so pretty, he thinks, as he cranes his neck and watches as Harua makes a mess of him, panting heavily.
“You’re so pretty, Taki,” Yuma mumbles from a few meters away. He’s watching, like he said he would. But it’s almost too fond for what is, essentially, 4K porn. The apples of his cheeks and his teeth showing as he smiles, “You too, Harua-kun.”
Taki gets to watch as Harua turns a deeper shade of red at the compliment, erection now fully pressed against Taki’s leg.
“Yuma’s pretty too,” Taki breathes out. His head is a mess of giddiness and feelings that he doesn’t want to touch yet, so instead he focuses on the way Harua has moved from his neck to his chest.
“Speaking of Yuma,” Harua finally leaves Taki’s skin alone and pulls away, lips swollen and wet with saliva, “Help me move him onto the bed?”
He’s probably referring to the way Taki is half-on and half-off the bed, too limbless to move himself. Yuma gets up and lifts his legs easily, until he’s entirely on the mattress, back leant against the headboard. Then, he backs off, sitting back down and looking far more hungry than he did a few minutes ago, giving Harua space to crawl onto Taki’s lap.
“I’ll suck you off for that, if you want,” Harua offers. His words flow out so easily, even as he palms the bulge forming in Taki’s pants. He’s so hard it hurts, and Harua pressing against the fabric of his pants leaves a wet spot from where he’s leaking.
Yuma shakes his head, “No. I want you to focus on Taki.”
There it is again. That tenderness seeping through. No matter how much they bickered, it leaves Taki feeling warm and dizzy to know that Yuma always has his back like that.
(He’ll tease him, later. For choosing Taki’s pleasure over a godly blow job from Harua. Then Harua will poke Taki in the side, and offer one again to Yuma. This time, he’ll take up the offer greedily.)
“Whatever you say,” The younger almost rolls his eyes. Taki whimpers in response. Whatever boneless feeling he had earlier is gone, as he grinds his hip upwards to meet Harua’s. There’s no rhythm to it, just desperation. His hands reach out blindly again, curling into the fabric of Harua’s shirt that is still, unfortunately, on.
“Patience, Taki-kun,” Harua whispers against the shell of his ear.
“How do you expect me to be patient when Yuma’s been playing these games for like, half-an-hour now?” He cries. The friction of his jeans against Harua’s erection feels far too good. He’s grinding faster now, impatient against Harua’s slow, deliberate movements.
“I’m not Yuma,” Harua says matter-of-factly.
It’s true. There’s this push and pull between Yuma and Harua that ends with one commonality: Taki. He’s in the middle of it all, and even when Yuma has his hands off, only joining in with his eager gaze and occasional comments, it feels like Taki is being smothered from all angles. Harua’s hands against his bare chest, running over his torso and grabbing his waist and teasing his nipples. Yuma’s unfiltered, dirty comments, encouragements, pet names and all the things that make Taki keen. They’re not each other, of course not. There’s things that Yuma does that Harua would never work up the courage to even mention, and there’s parts of Taki’s body that Yuma doesn’t dare to explore. But they work in this perfect harmony and Jesus Taki is so far gone that he doesn’t even care anymore.
“I know,” He moans, shame thrown out the window a long time ago, “But I want to. Please, Harua. Please.”
It’s so vulgar, the way he’s begging for it. But everything feels so good and Taki’s cock is on fire and it’s burning, Harua’s hands know exactly what they’re doing and the movement of his hips is so perfect. Then, Yuma:
“You can come,” He purrs, “Come for us.”
Taki’s sent over the edge and he sobs, releasing into his underwear. Everything about it feels dirty — the way he’s been brought to an orgasm in less than ten minutes, his boxers and pants now sticky and unwearable. Or maybe it’s the way he continues grinding up into Harua even after he feels the rush of heat.
Harua isn’t far behind him. In Taki’s post-climax haze, he just about notices the way Yuma is now leaning over Harua, hands wrapped around his waist and dug underneath the waistband, jacking him off. He says something unintelligible and kisses Harua sweetly on the neck, and then Taki feels him shudder. The growing wet patch and slowed movements tell him all he needs to know.
When Yuma lets go of Harua, he collapses, right on top of Taki, who grunts in surprise.
“That hurts,” He mumbles, nose and lips now in Harua’s soft, red hair. Taki takes the opportunity to comb through it, gently, and Harua sighs in content.
“Blame Yuma, not me,” Harua mutters back, face pressed into Taki’s chest. Even though they’re sweaty and sticky and still need to rinse off after a four hour concert, it’s nice. To touch and breathe and take it all in for a moment. Taki counts the grooves in the ceiling and the number of times he feels Harua’s chest rise and fall, until Yuma speaks again:
“Go shower, you two,”
Harua fake gasps, and laughs, “Are you saying we smell?”
“I’m not saying that, but I’m not not saying that. Just go. Together, if you want.”
Taki’s not going to say no. He won’t deny an opportunity to see more of Harua. But he frowns:
“You’re not going to join us, Yuma?” He asks.
“If you think that shower is big enough for 3 people then you’re crazy,” Yuma snorts, shaking his head, “Besides. I have something to do.”
Harua shrugs. He’s not going to argue. When Yuma sets his mind to something, it’s almost impossible to pull him away from it.
The shower is short. As short as it can be, that is, when you spend half the time washing and the other half kissing lazily under the showerhead. Harua almost tastes better under the steam they fill the bathroom with from the so-hot-it’s-almost-boiling water. It’s cute, too, when he rubs shampoo suds into Taki’s hair and has to stand on his tiptoes, Taki steadying him by his elbows so he doesn’t slip on the shower tile. Or when Harua wraps the towel around Taki’s waist for him, pouting and insisting on pampering him.
(It’s bordering on something that’s not quite love, but is far past a simple affection.)
They emerge from the shower around fifteen minutes later, clad in white towels and dripping wet hair.
Yuma is sitting cross-legged on the bed, two pairs of pyjamas laid out on his bed. He moves swiftly to where Harua and Taki are standing, frozen and wide-eyed by the bathroom door, towel in hand.
“You’re going to catch a cold if you go to bed with wet hair,” He grumbles, reaching to dry Taki’s hair roughly with the towel.
“It’s the middle of summer,” Harua crosses his arms. Still, he doesn’t protest when Yuma rubs the towel against his hair too, and pats his cheek when he’s done.
“I got you two some clothes from my closet,” He shoves a red tank top and loose grey shorts into Harua’s hands and then a black tank top with matching shorts into Taki’s. There’s one matching component, though, and Yuma watches as the two dig through the piles of clothing.
“Matching underwear?” Taki stutters, “Really?”
Yuma nods.
“It’s cute,” He shrugs.
“You are ridiculous,” Harua says, but he’s laughing. Everything about this is funny, really. Sure, it’s sex, but it’s stupid. The way Yuma is messing around with them, the way Taki doesn’t seem to have an ounce of shame around either of them anymore, the way Harua made his way into their relationship, if you can call it that, so comfortably. It shouldn't feel as easy as it does.
But when Harua drops the towel to the floor and Yuma watches as he dresses himself, coming over to pepper little kisses on the inside of Harua’s thighs and then a sweet peck on the lips after he’s done and flopped against the bed, it feels right. Taki isn’t far to follow. Yuma kisses him too, sweetly and gently and combs his hair.
When he closes the door the the bathroom to take his own shower and rinse away the way he messed into his own underwear, Taki speaks into the calm of the hotel room:
“Harua?” He asks, “Help me push these two beds together?”
(When Yuma comes back, he’s surprised to see the two on live. He tries to act indifferent when Taki mutes it to help him get dressed. Pulling the shirt over his head and pressing his lips to the muscles of Yuma’s arms while Harua brushes his hair. Everything about it is sickeningly domestic, and Yuma thinks he could get used to this.
He definitely doesn’t get jealous when Taki and Harua show off their matching underwear to the camera. Nobody but him knows what it means. That the two of them are his. It hasn’t been said in words yet, won’t be for a while. But it’s something that doesn’t need to be said to be true. He’s theirs and they’re his. Always.)