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Mao just wants to get home already.
He’s tired and hungry and his bones are all sore and all he wants right now is to be passed out in his bed.
When Hokuto and Subaru arrived to pick him up from the airport, they’d taken one look at him and shared a concerned glance. Then they had to pry a sleeping Leo off of him, because he’d decided that Mao was the best contender for a pillow out of all of his companions.
Leo had passed out on his shoulder halfway through their plane ride as well, but Mao put up with it for a grand total of seven minutes before excusing himself to the bathroom and making it Midori’s problem. His body ached enough without his senior resting his entire body weight on him for two hours, thank you very much.
Almost as soon as he sits down in the backseat of Hokuto’s car, Subaru slides in beside him and forces his head onto his shoulder. Mao wants to protest, but then Subaru starts playing with his hair and he thinks that maybe letting someone else take care of him right now is what he needs.
Overall, his trip had been pretty decent.
Roughly three weeks ago, Eichi had called him up out of nowhere and asked if Mao would like to participate in a little Ring-A-Bell reunion tour to mark their anniversary. Well, asked is a generous way of putting it. Even now, five years after everyone’s graduated, Eichi still manages to have that sort of gentle intimidation technique, the one that makes it impossible for you to say no to him.
So Mao had agreed, and a few days later Eichi had pulled up to his apartment in a sleek black limo alongside Keito, Leo and Midori. He won’t lie, he felt rather out of place sitting in this car that probably cost more than his entire yearly salary in his button-up plaid shirt and ripped jeans.
But then Leo had started up a conversation about why the Easter Bunny brings eggs when bunnies don’t lay eggs—Eichi began genuinely pondering the question, Midori mumbled something about bunnies being cute, and Keito thought the whole thing was absurd. It reminded Mao of their high school days, and he found himself relaxing much easier than he’d imagined.
The reunion tour covered all the idol basics. From live shows to handshake events, the five of them spent those two weeks in much closer proximity than they have in years. Mao absolutely adores being part of Trickstar, loves his unitmates more than anything in the world, but it’s nice to work with old friends he rarely gets to see thanks to conflicting work schedules and the sheer distance between a couple of them.
One night, Eichi had insisted they go out to karaoke together. What initially began as them taking turns singing each other’s songs slowly morphed into them drunkenly reminiscing on their school days, a few tears being shed here and there. Mao doesn’t remember much, but at one point Keito patted him on the head and said something about being proud of how far he’s come, which led to Mao being the culprit for many of the aforementioned tears.
The day before they departed, Midori had pulled him aside and shoved a cute little pink squirrel plush into his hands. When asked why, he’d gone pink in the face and explained it was a gift for when he missed Mao’s birthday three months ago, due to Ryuseitai being on their first global tour at the time. It was such a sweet gesture that Mao almost cried again. He held himself together though, managing to coerce his reluctant junior into a hug.
So yes, all in all, Mao would say it was worth it. It was exhausting, and he misses home like hell, but he enjoyed himself.
“Sari,” Subaru whispers into his hair, gently pushing him up from his shoulder. “We’re here.”
Mao sleepily rubs his eyes, delighted to see the familiar building of his apartment block once he opens them. “Ah,” he mumbles, his voice thick with tiredness. “Thank you, Subaru, Hokuto.”
“Of course!” Subaru leans into his space again to hug him, so warm and alive that you wouldn’t imagine it was four in the morning. “We’re glad you’re finally home.”
“Yes, we are.” Hokuto leans around in his seat, looking far less composed than his partner. He’s got noticeable bags under his eyes for a change, his hair ruffled and shirt buttoned up oddly. For a second, Mao feels guilty about dragging them both out of their bed at this ungodly hour. But before he can voice his concerns, Hokuto speaks again. “If you ever need a ride home this early again, we’re always here. Let us help you more often, alright?”
Mao wants to climb over the seats and hug Hokuto too, but instead settles for a grateful smile. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
He exits the car, grimacing at the bitterly cold morning air. Hokuto helps him grab his bags from the trunk, and Mao takes this opportunity to hug him to make up for a few moments ago. “Missed you guys.”
“We missed you too, Mao.” Hokuto rubs his back once, twice, before retracting out of the warmth of Mao’s arms. “Now go inside, it’s freezing out here. I would like to get home as well.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Mao chuckles, bending down to pick his bags up. “I’ll see you two on Monday, yeah?”
Hokuto waves him off, and when Mao squints at the car he can vaguely make out Subaru passed out in the back. His heart warms in his chest. He truly loves these guys.
It takes him a minute to fumble around with his keys, but the second he sets foot inside he nearly trips—a glance down tells him it’s their cat, winding himself around Mao’s legs with a content purr. Mao drops his bags, bending down to scratch the spot behind his ears he likes.
“Sonic,” Mao greets. His grey fur is soft under his fingers, a luxury Mao has missed these past couple of weeks. “Hey, baby. You been looking after him for me?”
Makoto had sent him daily updates of their cat, ranging from him lounging around in a typical catlike fashion to him in one of the silly little outfits Mika made for him last Christmas.
There had been one from last week that Mao adored so much he made it his wallpaper; it was sent just after Makoto had woken up, his glasses absent but Sonic splayed out over half of his face. Makoto’s sleepy smile had absolutely taken Mao out, Leo going as far as to laugh about his face being as red as his hair. He’s pretty sure that was an overstatement.
Sonic meows up at him, and Mao drops a quick kiss on the top of his head before standing back up and quietly toeing his shoes off. He grabs his bags again only to dump them in the living room, then makes his way into the kitchen.
He makes himself a small glass of water and puts a slice of bread in the toaster to satiate his hunger. There are a couple of plates stacked in the sink, but it’s nowhere near as bad as when he visited an ‘abandoned for a week’ Ritsu, as he put it. Koga had just gone across the country for some UNDEAD thing Mao’s half-asleep brain can’t remember, but Ritsu had acted as though it was the end of the world. Makoto seems to have handled himself slightly better, at least.
There’s a half-full glass of strawberry milk left on the coffee table in the living room, one of their controllers sitting beside it. Mao assumes Makoto must’ve been gaming until late again—it’s a habit he’s had since high school that he has yet to break, although it’s gotten considerably less frequent. Not that Mao has much room to speak, though, still staying up until one or two in the morning doing paperwork as if he’s still the overworked student council president he was at seventeen.
The toaster pops, and then Mao somehow manages to almost cut himself buttering his bread. He shoves it in his mouth and is done in record time, eager to get to bed already. After weeks of eating at fancy restaurants and sleeping in stiff hotel beds, he’s beyond relieved to be home.
Sonic trails after him as he pads towards the bedroom, avoiding the creaky floorboard and gently pushing the door open.
Makoto’s asleep on what’s typically Mao’s side of the bed, the covers kicked onto the floor and a pillow hugged to his chest. Mao has a sneaking suspicion of why and the thought aches.
Watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, he doesn’t feel like he’s going to snap in two at any given moment for the first time in a day.
It takes a moment for him to notice in the dimly lit room, but eventually he realises Makoto is wearing one of his shirts as well.
Over the years, Makoto got taller. As did Subaru, and Hokuto. Heck, even Ritsu put on a few inches. But Mao? He’s grown approximately one centimetre in the past five years. One. Mao can’t help but wish he didn’t look like a tiny pathetic loser every time they perform together, no matter how much Makoto assures him that it’s cute, that he likes being able to give Mao forehead kisses with ease.
(Mao likes it too, but he would never admit that out loud.)
It means, unfortunately for Makoto, that he can’t just casually throw on one of Mao’s hoodies like he did when they were teenagers without looking adorably ridiculous.
With time, Mao has become the clothes thief of the relationship. Pinching one of Makoto’s shirts to wear to bed or around the house, burying himself in a Pac-man hoodie when he goes to do their grocery shopping.
Even now, he’s got on a lime green hoodie with one of those Minecraft creatures Mao can never remember the name of on the front. Jun got it for Makoto a couple of birthdays ago as a joke, but it ended up being worn enough to the point the sleeves are frayed. Makoto made sure Mao had it packed before he left.
He tugs the hoodie off and tosses it to some corner of the room, then almost trips over in an attempt to kick his pants off. Really, he should have a shower, but with Makoto so close to him after so long all he can do is move towards their bed.
Even though they spoke each day Mao was away, nothing really compares to being in the same room as Makoto, conscious or not. Makoto called him to say goodnight every single night, texted every time he saw something on the street that caught his interest, recorded every silly thing their cat did so that Mao wouldn’t miss it.
And now he finally gets to lay with him again instead of placing his phone on the pillow beside him and imagining they were together.
Mao slides into bed next to Makoto, takes the pillow from his loose grip as carefully as he can and replaces it with himself. He knows he shouldn’t wake him up, he really shouldn’t, but he’s stroking a hand up his cheek to play with his hair before he can stop himself.
Makoto hums quietly, eyelashes fluttering, and subconsciously leans into Mao’s touch. “Mao?”
“Hey, sunshine.”
The intimacy of it all tugs at Mao’s heartstrings. All his worries and stress are gone, a mix of joy and relief and adoration swirling around in him. It’s crazy what being around Makoto does to him—it’s as if this is where he belongs, like he’s found his place after stumbling around blindly for so many years.
“You’re home.”
Makoto’s voice is heavy with sleep, and his lips are curved up into a lazy smile. Mao presses a soft kiss to his forehead, his stomach fluttering when he draws back and meets Makoto’s soft gaze.
“Mm. Got back a little while ago.”
“Did Subaru and Hokuto pick you up?”
Mao hums an affirmative, his fingers carding through Makoto’s hair like it’s second nature. It’s soft, presumably recently washed, and Mao can faintly smell the citrusy shampoo he likes to use.
“Did you have fun?”
“Yeah. But I’m glad I’m home now.”
The first time the two of them had been apart for a prolonged amount of time was about four years ago. After graduating from Yumenosaki, they enrolled in the same college with a handful of their other classmates. Trickstar went on a hiatus for a while so that the four of them could just live their lives, could explore the world as themselves, far from the spotlight.
It took six months for Mao to tire of living alone and propose to Makoto that they become roommates, and three more before Makoto got his shit together and kissed Mao full on the mouth one night.
Not too long after that, Makoto had been whisked away by Izumi and Arashi for some modelling thing that lasted a week. Mao’s always known he had some issues with dependency, but being away from Makoto for even a measly week after spending the past year or so seeing him consistently every day drove him nuts.
It’s embarrassing when he thinks back on it, and he’s definitely not as bad as he used to be, but damn, did he wish his Makoto had been by his side all times on that tour.
Mao’s always been someone who likes to carry all his burdens alone, to stick it out even when times get particularly rough. But Trickstar has helped change that mindset, and so many years attached at the hip to Makoto has definitely made him less independent.
So when he got to his hotel room the first night of the trip—no one to make eyes at in the mirror as he brushed his teeth, the cold emptiness of the double bed, awakening to the absence of a body pressed familiarly to his back—it hit like a truck how much he missed Makoto.
He hadn’t told his companions any of that, of course, instead resorting to dumping it all on Ritsu, who took much pleasure in making fun of him each time it was brought up. He understood, though, and that’s what mattered. Even if he called Mao’s behaviour cute and clingy as if he wasn’t a billion times worse.
They lay in comfortable silence for a while, Makoto throwing an arm over Mao’s waist to tug him closer. Thanks to their height difference, Mao is usually the little spoon of the relationship. But there are times he likes to hold Makoto in his arms, to feel that he’s really there and breathe him in.
Makoto buries his face in the crook of Mao’s neck, pressing a ghost of a kiss to his pulse point. “Missed you.”
Mao’s heart skips a beat like he’s a teenager again. Admissions such as this are nothing rare between the two of them, much more open with each other than when they were in the awkward early months of their relationship.
Admittedly, it took Mao a little longer than Makoto, the idea that he has to bottle everything up inside not being something he could shake so easily. But after one or two experiences like these, he’s gotten better at it.
It was a slow process, but it made all the difference.
“Missed you too,” Mao murmurs, dropping a gentle kiss onto the top of Makoto’s head. “Now, I know you have tomorrow off, but you should go back to sleep.”
Makoto huffs. “Big talk coming from you.”
“Mean, but fair.” Mao feels around with one hand for the covers, eventually dragging them off the floor to cover their bodies. “C’mon, we can talk all you want tomorrow. Can do whatever we want.”
The answer he receives is instantaneous. “Wanna stay home with you.”
Mao’s chest burns with affection. “That sounds good.”
Doing nothing is another thing Mao has never been particularly good at. He almost always likes to be engaged in some kind of activity, from soccer as a child to his paperwork now. It keeps his brain distracted, focused on anything but his problems. But those two years where he was free of the burden of being an idol, where he got to be Isara Mao and nothing else, had taught him that the occasional break does more good than bad.
Without a doubt, his preferred method of relaxation is to just be with Makoto. Going out to drinks with their old friends, goofing off as they grocery shop together, loafing around the apartment in their pyjamas and exchanging lazy kisses. It doesn’t magically solve all his problems, but it certainly helps.
The thought of spending tomorrow in such a way pleases him, makes him feel all warm and tingly right down to his toes. Reignites the flame of desire that’s been slowly losing strength with distance.
“Love you,” Makoto mumbles, hot breath tickling Mao’s bare skin. He can steadily feel himself losing consciousness, unable to fight off sleep any longer.
“Love you too.”
•••
As is routine for him, Mao rises with the sun the next morning, Makoto flush against his back. His face is smushed into the nape of his neck, one arm thrown haphazardly over Mao’s waist and their legs tangled together.
The middle of summer has never been either of their favourite time to cuddle, but right now Mao couldn’t be more content. Sonic is curled up at the foot of the bed, looking all too offended when Mao finally manages to slip out of bed. He casts a look back at Makoto, dead to the world yet still positively gorgeous, before brushing his teeth and having a quick shower.
After sorting through their cupboards, he decides to make simple pancakes for breakfast. He’s never been known for his cooking, but over the years he’s been able to master the basics. When they moved in together, it took three days of Makoto witnessing Mao’s nightly dinner of instant ramen or cheap pre-cooked meals from the konbini down the street before he took matters into his own hands.
It hadn’t been easy at first—Mao even burnt himself so badly it left a little scar on the bottom of his right palm—but after practicing consistently for a good year or so he got the hang of it.
(He never regrets the incident, though, because Makoto likes to kiss there and it makes Mao feel good about his place in the world.)
It doesn’t take long after Mao starts cooking for long arms to wrap around his waist, a head coming to rest on his shoulder with a yawn. “Mornin’.”
“Good morning, sleepyhead.” Mao leans back into Makoto’s touch, humming in appreciation when Makoto presses a soft kiss to his cheek. “Did you sleep well?”
“Better than I have in weeks.”
Mao finds that he feels the same. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” Makoto yawns again. “You were there.”
It’s very difficult for Mao to not get distracted after that, but he pulls through and soon enough they’re sitting on the couch, feeding each other and going over any little things they may have forgotten to mention in their texts.
“Y’know, I really missed your cooking,” Makoto says once they’re finished, carrying their empty plates back to the kitchen.
Mao scoffs. “You missed my cooking?”
“Of course.” Makoto bumps his hip into Mao’s playfully. “Your half-burnt pancakes are my favourite food in the world.”
“Oh, shut up, you.”
Makoto places his plate in the sink and then gives him a quick kiss on the lips. “I’m going to take a shower. Then we can play that new RPG I bought the other day. I didn’t want to start without you.”
God, Mao loves him so much.
So he cleans the dishes as Makoto showers, putting out some food for Sonic in the process. He sets the game up as he waits for Makoto to finish, which he does relatively quickly.
When he wanders into the living room—still rubbing his hair with a towel, his glasses crooked, wearing a shirt that is very clearly too small for him—the only thing that stops Mao from getting up to kiss him senseless is the cat curled up neatly in his lap. He has all day, he supposes.
Makoto settles beside him on the couch, thigh pressed against his. He reaches out to stroke Sonic with a coo, letting the towel fall around his shoulders. Mao will have to remind him in a few minutes to take it off.
The game is brand new, with characters Mao’s never heard of and a plotline that Makoto’s probably going to predict the ending of less than halfway through. It has good graphics and engaging performances from the voice actors, and before either of them notices it’s well past lunchtime and they’ve completed about a third of the game.
Makoto makes lunch for them, something far more complicated than the pancakes Mao made for breakfast. He appreciated the five-star restaurants Eichi had treated them all to, but nothing beats a home-cooked meal. Especially Makoto’s.
They put on an anime as they eat, one Mao has been a fan of since the manga that he got Makoto invested in as well. Once they’re finished eating, neither of them bothers to move to the kitchen this time, just stretch to put their plates on the coffee table before cuddling up to each other.
Makoto runs his fingers through Mao’s hair, free of its clip for once. He’s always liked it when people play with his hair, but Makoto manages to get it just right every time. He compared Mao to Sonic once, joking that perhaps being around a cat so much is turning him into one. Considering the way Mao reacts to having his hair stroked, he couldn’t really come up with a solid argument.
As the anime reaches a filler episode, Mao lets his eyes flutter shut for a moment. He’s still tired after his four-hour sleep last night, and he knows he should try to stay awake in favour of not messing his sleep schedule up any further. But Makoto is so warm, and he’s so comfy and safe…
By the time Mao opens his eyes again, it’s darker outside and the TV is quietly playing one of those video game analyses Makoto likes to watch. Makoto seems to have moved them while he slept, Mao now laying with his head on Makoto’s chest and a blanket tucked around them.
“Hey there, sleeping beauty,” Makoto teases, pushing Mao’s bangs out of the way so he can kiss his forehead. “Someone was tired, hm?”
Mao huffs. “You would be too if you just got back from a trip across the country.”
“I know.” Makoto stretches his arms above his head. “I paused the anime right after you fell asleep, so you didn’t miss anything. Are you hungry? It should be around dinnertime by now.”
“Mm, but I don’t wanna move.”
“Takeout?”
“Takeout.”
One order of pizza and a few stolen kisses later, the doorbell rings, sending an unsuspecting Sonic into protective cat mode. To be honest, he reminds Mao of a dog at times. He reaches out to smooth the fur along his back, making gentle shushing noises under his breath.
“Who’s gonna go get it?” Makoto asks.
“Uh,” Mao says. “Not me.”
“You’re on top of me, though. I can’t exactly get up.”
“I’ll just move over.”
Makoto pouts. “But you’re keeping me warm.”
Okay, this is going nowhere. “I’ll go. But you’re going next time.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
The delivery man doesn’t recognise Mao, thankfully, and he accepts the pizza and pays with no issues. When he re-enters the living room, Makoto’s setting up a movie, two drinks on the coffee table for them. Sonic makes himself home between the two of them when Mao sits back down, oblivious to the fact that they wanted to cuddle again. Neither of them can find it in them to move him, though.
As they eat, Makoto talks animatedly over the movie, explaining all the small details and pointing out all his favourite parts. It’s an adaptation of one of the video games he’s played, and they’ve both watched it before so Mao doesn’t mind. He likes seeing Makoto so enthusiastic about the things he loves.
By the end of the movie, Makoto is fighting to keep his eyes open, so Mao clears away the stuff they’d dumped on the coffee table into the kitchen and turns the TV off before leading Makoto by the hand to their bedroom. They’ve come full circle, right back where they started, bodies tangled together in the comfort of their bed.
“I had fun today,” Makoto whispers in the dark.
Mao lets himself be held closer. “Me too. We should spend more days like this.”
Makoto breathes out a laugh. “I agree. I like being with you way too much.”
“Oh, stop it.”
“But it’s true. You’re cute and perfect for cuddling, and even though your cooking isn’t the best it’s clear you try your hardest, and your forehead is perfect for kissing, and—”
Mao slaps a hand over his mouth. He doesn’t need to look up to know he’s smiling behind Mao’s hand, his eyes all crinkled and shining with affection. It’s the kind of expression that makes Mao want to kiss each freckle on his face, to tell him he loves him a dozen times over even if he already knows that.
“Stop talking and go to sleep, you sap.”
And they do.