Work Text:
The first time he’d done it had been catastrophic, of course. Yuma hadn’t been expecting it, and would never have been ready even if he had, so the aftermath of that had been pretty messy and embarrassing.
He was less surprised when Fuma started doing it again in the Blaze the Way tour, but it wasn’t better. At all.
But it was survivable. He’d survived the first time, and he could get through this, too. The position was horrifying, but at least Fuma stayed up on his knees so there was some gap where there most needed to be a gap. It would be okay. He’d live.
Then Fuma had obliterated that small mercy by sitting all the way down on him, showing nothing on his face but his usual acting for his sung lines.
It was very brief, of course, but instantly seared itself onto some fundamental surface at the root of Yuma’s brain. The weight of him, the heat, the spectacularly dangerous central point of contact, the weight.
He didn’t have time mid-performance to allow it to sink in. He dove into the exertion and concentration required by their art to keep him distracted, keep it floating on the surface where it couldn’t destroy him.
Very, very unfortunately, once it was over, he had to go back to the empty quiet of the hotel where nothing would be able to keep it at arm’s length anyway. To the room he was sharing with Fuma.
Rooms were always randomized. He’d stayed with every other member dozens of times. It wasn’t a conspiracy that he’d drawn Fuma this time.
There might, however, have been some intent behind Fuma one-upping himself that way tonight.
If there had been, Fuma was giving absolutely no indication. He went about his usual nightly routine, humming happily to himself in the afterglow of an excellent performance with great audience energy. He emerged from the bathroom freshly washed, wearing his dark green pyjamas, blithe and yawning.
Fuma had gone first because he liked to go to sleep earlier than Yuma did. It was Yuma’s turn to wash up, now, but he couldn’t get up and maintain his dignity at the moment.
He was sitting on the edge of his bed, facing across the tiny gap to Fuma’s bed, which Fuma was clambering into, clearly about to bundle himself up and say Good night and leave Yuma alone in the waking world with the problem he’d caused.
“Are you going to do that again?” he asked.
Fuma paused, then turned to sit cross-legged atop the covers, letting his jolly good mood fade into a more serious expression. “It wasn’t planned,” he said.
He didn’t ask what Yuma meant, which meant he’d known it might be an issue and had chosen not to bring it up himself, perhaps — probably — in deference to Yuma’s dignity.
Yuma’s strained, ragged dignity, which was barely holding on and would disintegrate if he even tried to stand up.
“Did it hurt?” Fuma asked, gently concerned. “Was it uncomfortable?”
“No to the first,” Yuma said. “Yes to the second.” Emphatically yes to the second.
Fuma winced. “Sorry, then. I’ll be careful not to do it again. Is it still okay to do it the old way, or should I go back to the original and stick to that?”
As if the original had been much better. Fuma’s fingertips trailing down his chest from chin to just barely short of groin, nose following them with intoxicated hunger… Deer Hunter had always, always been a capital-p Problem.
But he’d been given the chance to back down. Multiple chances. They hadn’t pushed him to do the move if it made him uncomfortable.
He’d chosen to do it, and even encouraged Fuma to get nastier about it early on, because he fucking loved it.
So he had very much made his own bed, here. Just.
He didn’t know how to answer that question.
Instead, he opted to ask another one. “Why did you do it?”
Fuma pursed his lips and shrugged a shoulder. “Just a whim. Felt like stepping it up a notch, since it’s been so well-received so far.”
“Yeah, it’s definitely been driving LUNÉ crazy,” Yuma agreed with a little laugh. “I can relate.”
That made Fuma look at him a little closer.
It could’ve been confusion, but it wasn’t. Yuma had never been all that interested in or good at subtlety. He’d said outrageous things on a number of occasions in the past, and pushed boundaries in various ways. This wasn’t coming entirely out of the blue, and Yuma knew Fuma knew that.
“…How bad did it get you?” Fuma asked, finally, eyes running critically over Yuma’s hunched posture with new understanding.
Yuma squirmed and looked away to the side, reddening. “Pretty bad.” He paused, evaluating the state of himself, and amended, “Really bad. Really… really bad.”
Fuma had the grace to look a little ashamed of himself, but the audacity to also look quite pleased with himself.
“Want to tell me about it?” Fuma said, far too casually, smiling.
Yuma glowered at him. “And embarrass myself? What for? Don’t be a dick.”
“Because,” Fuma answered, moving to come sit on the edge of the bed with his knees jammed up against Yuma’s, “I’m curious.”
Embarrassment flared up into fury. “I said don’t be a dick. Come on. Just warn me next time, I guess. Okay?”
“Sure thing,” Fuma said, but he didn’t look chastened or sorry at all. His gaze was dark, intent, and opaque. “You don’t have to answer, if you really don’t want to. But I really do want to know what’s going on in your head right now.”
He was so close. Forearms braced on his knees, leaning forward just like Yuma was, face hardly a hand’s breadth away. Yuma could feel his warmth through their knees, through Fuma’s thin pyjamas and his own jeans.
“Sure about that?” Yuma rasped, suffering and mad about it.
Fuma, evilly, settled his palms on the sides of Yuma’s knees, thumbs resting atop the curving edges of his patellae, fingertips curling just slightly underneath into the ticklish bends. “Yeah.”
Well, fine, then. If he was going to literally ask for it.
“You sat on it,” Yuma said, slowly and pointedly, “like you were going to ride it. Onstage. With fifteen thousand people watching.”
Fuma nodded, so close his fluffy drying hair brushed against Yuma’s fringe. “Sure did.”
“So obviously,” he continued, “I’m thinking about you riding it. I don’t know if warning me would even help, but warn me anyway, because this really is uncomfortable. Now I’m going to go take a shower and deal with it. Okay?”
Exhaling through his nose, Fuma tightened his grip on Yuma’s knees slightly. “I didn’t ask to be a jerk,” he said softly. “I asked because I’ve thought about it, too. The moment I did it, and since.”
Yuma flinched and tried to pull back somehow, but even if he’d had the room, Fuma was holding him down by his knees and clearly didn’t intend to let him move just yet.
“What does that mean?” Yuma asked, voice rising precipitously into the range where it started sounding extra whiny. “Unless you’re going to do something about it, you should really back off—”
Fuma leaned forward and slid his hands up Yuma’s thighs, driving all the way into Yuma’s space without warning or hesitation. His mouth was less than a breath away. “And if I’m thinking about doing something about it?”
“Fuck,” Yuma said, entire abdomen clenched, “oh, fuck, come on. If you’re just messing with me, I swear—”
He was pushing himself back on the bed with his palms, he realized, trying to escape from the danger he hadn’t expected, too panicky to heed his dignity anymore. If he didn’t get clear right that second, he was done for.
Fuma’s hands, deprived of their resting place, slid off his thighs onto the bed to either side of them as Yuma scooted back, and he leaned on them as he stood to follow, until he was looming over Yuma from directly above, one knee now braced on the bed beside Yuma’s hip.
Yuma was flat on his back. He couldn’t quite make sense of how that had happened.
“I’m not messing with you,” Fuma said gently. “Knowing I did this to you is just doing something to me. If you’d rather not, you can just say so, and I’ll—”
It was too far for teasing. Way too far. However hard it was to reconcile with reality as he’d understood it up until a few minutes ago, Fuma had to meant it.
Dizzy, Yuma caught Fuma’s hips in his hands and dug in, his own tilting up, straining across the gap.
He was gross and sweaty from the stage already. He really needed that shower. But if he was about to get gross and sweaty again, he might as well just power through. Fuma didn’t seem to mind.
There wasn’t really anything left to say out loud. He pushed his palms up under the edge of Fuma’s nightshirt onto his firm obliques, unfortunately not the least bit ticklish, and savoured the warmth.
Fuma pulled his other knee up onto the bed and sat up a little straighter. It wasn’t exactly the same, Yuma’s lower legs were hanging off the bed and the bed was much softer than the stage, but it was close enough that he thought for one painfully prolonged moment that he might just come in his pants and wrap the whole thing up for the night.
Poised above him, hands planted on his chest, Fuma was unspeakably beautiful. Beautiful, graceful, powerful, one of Yuma’s favourite people in the entire world, and openly hungry for him.
“I need to fuck you stupid,” Yuma said, with flat honesty.
Fuma smiled and sank his weight more fully across Yuma’s hips.
Yuma realized, remaining higher faculties rapidly dimming, that Fuma was most of the way hard now, too.
“Then I think you should,” Fuma said, and made good.
—