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Fuma plays a lot of video games.
He plays them because when you're an only child and have a hard time making friends, Pokemon don't tease you in the schoolyard. Because it's much less awkward to bond with peers when you share a hobby that doesn't require looking them directly in the eye. Because they're challenging, but only on your terms when you crank the difficulty on purpose.
He plays them because he finds the characters relatable.
And not the sidekicks or villains or even the hero, despite his epithet, but the ones half-rendered and pushed to the periphery. Often alarmed by just how clearly he sees himself in their unembellished programming. How empathetic he is to their auxiliary nature and recycled dialogue, straightforward and capitulating.
Fuma is addicted to it in a borderline shameful way. Wandering for hundreds of in-game hours to interact with every NPC he comes across, telling himself it’s to farm extra resources or get a better understanding of the story, when in reality, it's a lot more personal.
He is repaying a debt he owes to their likeness. Honoring the version of himself that exists without Yudai's hands on him, or Nicholas' mouth, or Euijoo's eyes.
Because sometimes, the three of them take up so much space in his head that he starts to feel himself slipping into the background.
Their intimacy manifested suddenly and with so much force that he doesn't really remember the onset in explicit detail. Like a punch, he'd simply blacked out and woken up in a world where he doesn't sleep soundly without the three of them close by. Where his heart thuds asynchronously until he's back within range and his body syncs to their shared rhythm.
It's almost as if before he met them, he'd been idling around, waiting to be activated, and only after they tapped into his character screen, was he able to spring to life.
Simulated at their behest and acting by their mercy.
With the space separating them now, the short distance between where Fuma observes from one side of the noraebang to the other, he cringes to himself and mulls over how insane that sentiment would sound to anyone else if he dared to speak it aloud.
He listens to Taki and the three of them shout along to some karaoke song they used to sing back in the I-LAND days, plasticky vinyl of the booth squeaking under his weight as he readjusts his legs under the table. The other members buzz around, jittery with the last bursts of energy from their short break before having to return to comeback preparations. Drinks flow freely and the room pulses around the nine of them, walls thumping from the heavy bass of a song playing next door, colored strobe lights flashing. The air is warm and vibrating with laughter.
Their singing never ceases entirely, though they cut themselves off periodically to ruffle Taki's hair or plant an intoxicated kiss to the crown of his head. Fuma regards the older three swaying, leaning in to whisper about something he can't hear over the volume of the music.
Without the weight of their gazes, he feels almost autonomous. Untethered from the gravity of them, he's free to gawk from across the table.
Euijoo glows in the dim light, nose scrunched and laughing at something Yudai says. The eldest's lithe arms drape loosely over his shoulders. Nicholas wobbles close by, gloriously flushed from the alcohol, reaching out to steady himself. No one else seems to notice, but Fuma can see the way his fingers curl around Yudai's wrist as they come to rest there, suggestive, a rare toothy smile splitting his face in half. Nicholas is tipsy and while Yudai and Euijoo are far better drinkers, all three are clearly drunk on the proximity.
Fuma knows them too well. He sips at his own beer, the glass sweating condensation into a puddle on the table and watches them work each other up. Fingernails pressing crescents into the fair skin of their forearms, knowing smiles and trading glances that drag from eyes to lips and back again. The alcohol is a good excuse, but truthfully, inhibitions have always run low between them.
Their next exchange is wordless, but written so recklessly across their faces that the three of them might as well be screaming it.
I want you.
Fuma's stomach flips when their eyes dart toward him.
He buffers. For a second there, he almost convinced himself he'd be able to enact some free will. To self determine for once, but with the three of them looking at him like that —poof—agency gone. Not even the phantom of it left to haunt the void between them. He stares at the trinity shaped crater.
His eyes darken, feeling himself activated, loading, and he realizes how hopeless it would be to bother resisting them at all. His illusion of control, shattered now. A life happening to him.
Player, pawn, or something in between.
He has to wonder if that's what love is.
Fuma and Yudai are opposites in every way that matters, except right now, when it doesn't.
Maybe opposites is too harsh, even if it is true. But they're like magnets with north and south poles. Different in a good way, the best way.
Enough to pull each other in.
Fuma mouths sloppily at the jut of Yudai's collarbones. His skin tastes like sweat from dance practice and something else sweet. Maybe the lotion he put on after his shower this morning, or the essence of perfume lingering. The one Yudai always keeps in his bag. The one Fuma smells in his dreams because he can never seem to wash the scent out of their pillowcases at the dorm.
Well, not really their pillowcases. Not anymore. Technically, they all have separate rooms now. The success of a million-seller record and the speed at which they're careening toward a Korean debut will do that, gift them that. Even though most nights of the week, any combination of the four of them end up tangled together under the sheets of whatever half made bed they stumble into first.
He really shouldn't be thinking about pillowcases while he has Yudai pressed up against the mirror of the studio like this, reflective glass fogging up from the heat of his body. Fuma exhales, centering himself, crowding closer to the older to push his head back, lapping into the hollows of his throat. Yudai's hands slide along the planes of his back, bunching up the fabric of his clothes, seeking the skin beneath. Fuma's hips jerk involuntarily and the friction incites a desperate groan that the older folds forward to bask in.
The door hadn't clicked shut more than twenty seconds ago, other members vacating to occupy themselves with something else. Fuma volunteered to stay back and clean up. Yudai lingered like a dare. Now look at them. Hot and heavy in an instant, hands slipping under the hems of their tank tops, splaying over ribs and fingers dipping into the waistbands of each other's sweatpants.
They bickered over something stupid at the beginning of practice, an angle in the choreography. Fuma's pride in having memorized the second verse, snuffed out by a single dismissive wave of Yudai's hand. The taunt sent a pulse of heat stinging through him. Not embarrassment at having been corrected, but desire.
Yudai has a very subtle and very particular way of doing that. Of reminding him. A warm hand on Fuma's shoulder squeezing into the muscle, a flickered glance at the mirror when he missteps the footwork, and that kamikaze smirk he throws around.
It feels deeply intimate even while they're working. Double meaning. Hands slipping lower, shining eyes raking over exposed skin, the same mouth that weaponizes that smirk, dropped open and drooling around—
Yudai whines at a languid pass of Fuma's tongue over the fresh bruise sucked into the skin of his shoulder. He's smiling like he knows what Fuma's thinking, like he can read minds.
Fuma fights tooth and nail to compartmentalize the two versions of them, desperate to keep the craving at bay and Yudai knows that. He likes to watch him grit his teeth.
Day to day, it's easy to forget that Fuma is the younger between them since they have so much respect for each other. Eldest sharing the burden like parents, having sworn a silent oath to shield the rest of the members because it's the responsible thing to do. Yudai relishes in that. He takes the reins because he wants to, needs to, because he's run marathons his whole life and still, somehow, has only grown more capable of pacing himself.
Fuma isn't like that at all. Don't get him wrong, he's very capable. He's sub-leader for a reason, but he has always been hungry. And once he has a taste for it, he's insatiable.
That mutual respect shines the brightest when it's just the two of them like this. Yudai always defers to him on company matters, in front of the cameras, in public. And in return, in private, Fuma abdicates. Obeys, because the older, in no uncertain terms, demands so prettily to be made a mess of.
So Fuma lets him have his way. Lets himself be pushed and pulled and used. Subtly and outright. Because at the end of the day, when he has Yudai writhing beneath him, whispering filth and begging, it doesn't feel like he's given anything up at all. All those glorious sounds he makes, every sigh and mewl and whine, drowns out the anxiety and stress and body aches.
Fuma is exactly where he wants to be.
He'll have to ask the security staff to scrub the practice room footage later, jaw tightening at the number of favors he's starting to owe. But when an unrestrained moan escapes him as Yudai mercifully slips a hand into his boxers, his mind goes blank.
He can't imagine what the harm would be in asking for one more.
Euijoo has the kind of waist that begs to be held.
Fuma can't suppress the thought while redressing, fumbling with the buttons of a linen shirt.
He feels like a pervert, thinking of Euijoo two cubicles over, tugging down the too short, too tight hem of a t-shirt the stylist insisted he try on and parade around in. Fuma's fingers twitch against his thigh to stop his mouth from watering, already teetering at the edge, comeback prep in full swing and so bone-deep tired he could keel over.
They all are. Just off an international tour, rolling straight into TV appearances, ISAC, arrangements for the encore concerts, festivals, charity lives, recording, re-shoots. Their schedules are non-stop and the members are spread thin and more independent of each other than usual. The kind of separate togetherness that frays Fuma's nerves.
Japan, Korea, Japan, Korea and back again. It's wonderfully strenuous in the way that a steadily growing career should be, but it's exhausting.
They haven't had the bandwidth for much of anything besides dragging themselves through the shower and into bed every night. Honestly, it's mortifying that a tiny sliver of Euijoo's stomach had been enough to fluster him.
This fitting could not end soon enough. The room is stifling.
He and Euijoo are alone at the company building today. The studio empty, other members still sleeping at the dorm on one of their increasingly few-and-far-between days off. They're here as leaders, called in by management to put out a fire that frankly, could have waited until Monday. And even though it comes with the territory, that doesn't make it any less frustrating.
They muddle through like they always do, if not a bit too agreeably. It's why they're stuck playing impromptu dress up after running into a stylist on their way out the door. Fuma knows that she means well, but his patience is wearing thin, nerves already grating from the unexpected wake up call and glimpse of Euijoo's midriff. When she finally releases them, he's a live wire.
Euijoo notices.
After the fitting, as they slink down the hall toward the elevator, Euijoo slows, fingers brushing against the back of Fuma's hand, shoulders knocking as they come to a stop in front of the door to a maintenance closet. When Fuma blinks up, Euijoo is already looking at him.
And god— he has these eyes that say everything.
He's shouldering the door open and dragging the younger inside without so much as a nod between them.
They collide with a shelf of cleaning supplies. Fuma's hands are all over him the second the door locks, fingertips chasing the goosebumps that raise across Euijoo's sternum while he rucks up the fabric of that itty bitty t-shirt, skin hot like lava when he finally sinks his hands into the dips of the waist he's been salivating over for the last twenty minutes. Euijoo makes the softest noise when his thumbs knead into the muscle, and Fuma thinks he could die right here.
He has a thing about Euijoo's waist, feels possessive and little obsessed over the curve of it, how smooth the skin is, how perfectly his hands fit into the space above his hipbones.
Fuma yanks them flush together, heart slamming against his rib cage. Euijoo grinds down on his thigh, panting, lips curling around the shape of a plea that never rings out. A muffled half-sob escapes him instead. Fuma feels the air thicken and leans in to brush their mouths together. Not quite a kiss. The younger squirms in his grip, pupils shaking when their eyes meet, looking so pitiful that Fuma would laugh if he weren't quaking with the exact same longing.
Euijoo never asks for anything, not directly. He doesn't command the way Yudai does, far too modest when he shouldn't be. Even with capital desire sparking under his skin that threatens to ignite him. Always so reserved. Their perfect, selfless leader, even now. Even when he wants.
The metal shelf squeals behind them, tearing through the viscous silence. Euijoo vibrates. He sniffles, hands fisting the fabric of Fuma's shirt, still holding himself back. But for all of the words his mouth can't say, his eyes spill them out.
Please, please, please. Take what you need. I want you to.
Euijoo reminds Fuma so much of himself. An extension, like a phantom limb. They surrender the same way. Euijoo abdicates just like him and he isn't sure if he should be grateful or profoundly sorry.
Fuma's chest heaves in understanding, slipping away the layers of fabric. He takes control, spits into his palm and snakes a hand between them, head tipping back, feeling ripped into. So drained and relieved he could cry. He chokes on a moan. Euijoo hiccups and falls forward, nuzzling into Fuma's collar, breathy whines tumbling out. The silence bleeds into something else, the sound of skin on skin and stuttered breath. It doesn't take long for the rhythm to turn sloppy.
Fuma uses his free hand to coax Euijoo's face out of the crook of his neck. He knows what he'll see, knows it will turn him inside out, but covets the view anyway. When Euijoo lifts his head, his eyes are blown wide and brimming with unshed tears.
It burns like shame. Like Fuma's watching himself get off in a mirror.
Then, Euijoo leans in and whimpers.
"Hyung, please."
And that's all it takes. At his will, Fuma comes apart.
Nicholas has impeccable timing.
Maybe because he's the kind of person that lives in the moment. The type that needs everything immediate, right now, this instant, if possible. He has a sense of urgency about the things he wants, like if the moment passes and he doesn't act, he'll never get another chance. Innately charming, albeit scattered. So blazingly alive, that sometimes, if Fuma is standing too close, he can feel the flames singe him.
He's smoldering now, with Nicholas' lips wrapped around two of his fingers.
They've just finished onsite filming for the variety series. Pictures from a trip to the museum and pastries from a new cafe in Shinagawa City, artfully captured and sent off to the editing team. Usually, they would meet back at the company to finish shooting guidebook presentations, but the director runs into a unexpected conflict that frees the rest of their day up.
Nicholas has been an unbelievable tease all morning, obviously keen to tug at the short leash Fuma's been keeping himself on.
Crawling fingertips over pamphlets at the museum. Dawdling eye contact and suggestive hands on Fuma's thigh under the table at the cafe. A calculated bite of pastry, leaving whipped cream coyly smudged across the pout of his bottom lip.
The restraint Fuma had to exercise while wiping the mess away in front of the camera was practically inhuman.
Sensing the dense atmosphere, poor, sweet Jo opted to ride back with the staff, while the two of them decided to find their own way back to the dorm. A novel idea, that has quickly devolved into Nicholas yanking him into a vacant clothing store nearby. A sign reading "Out for lunch, to return at two o'clock" sits on the counter. Nicholas smirks when he checks the time on his phone. 1:27
Fuma lets himself be manhandled into one of the changing rooms and pressed against the cool glass of a full-length mirror. It only takes a fraction of a second for Nicholas to drag the curtain closed and lunge forward, mouths connecting like a sucker punch. The kiss is white-hot and sugary, the younger's lips already terribly sensitive and bitten sore.
Nicholas has this insane habit—bordering on oral fixation, Fuma thinks— of always poking and prodding at his own mouth, tongue jutting out to wet his lips, pearly teeth gnawing on the skin. It’s ridiculous, practically obscene in some circumstances. Which is why it isn't a surprise when Nicholas brings Fuma's fingers to his mouth and starts to suck, drooling around the intrusion, tongue swirling over his knuckles. A purr rumbles through him.
They should absolutely not be doing this where anyone could walk in, but Nicholas has never been convenient, and with a face like that, he's never had to be.
Fuma's own sanity fled him hours ago. The prying lens of the camera, a final barrier and now that it's gone and they're alone, the last of his self-preservation instincts follow.
Nicholas loves this kind of thing. A slow build to a lightning quick follow through. The risk and performance of it all.
It takes all the energy Fuma can muster to keep his hand from trembling as his fingers bob in and out of Nicholas' pliant mouth. His head cracks against wall when he throws it back stifling a moan. A dull ache pulses through his skull as Nicholas laughs, gurgling and pulls away. Fuma chases the warmth of him, but Nicholas evades by dropping to his knees. He looks up through dark brown lashes and bats them like a taunt.
Arousal throbs low in Fuma's abdomen. The way Nicholas' eyes dilate kneeling in front of him, fumbling with the zipper of his jeans, makes him feel insane. Like he needs to be locked up somewhere.
He threads spit slicked fingers through the hair at the nape of Nicholas' neck and the younger slackens obediently when Fuma brushes along his jaw to tip his chin up. He holds the eye contact, sucking the pad of Fuma's thumb into his mouth with a vulgar slurp and pops off to loll his head back, opening his mouth wide, eyes shining with a request.
Fuma knows what he's asking for, and it's lewd, even a little gross, but decides to indulge him anyway.
He lets a long, thin string of saliva drip from his mouth. It glints in the light before pooling on the younger's flattened tongue. Nicholas’ pupils expand when he swallows with an exaggerated hum, breaking into an unbridled smile that Fuma wants nothing more than to lick right off his face.
It's so clear how unalike they are. Fuma, the type to to slip. To dwell and fuss over every little detail until he's lying awake at night, making himself miserable. To keep his head down and numb it all out whenever possible.
But, like this, like always, Nicholas rips him kicking and screaming back into the present, setting him alight. Scorched maybe, but still deliriously warm.
Fuma thinks he should thank him for the burns.
The storm outside has turned violent.
Lightning streaks across the sky of a city that Fuma can barely pronounce, but rolls off Nicholas' tongue beautifully, while they ride out an unexpected layover. Sheets of rain beat against the glass, rattling the windows of the hotel room. If the forecast is to be believed, they're stuck here through at least tomorrow afternoon. All flight traffic grounded until the weather clears.
The four of them have already dumped the key cards to their separate rooms on the mahogany dresser in favor of pushing the beds together. A "Do Not Disturb" sign hangs off the door handle. All gym invitations, convenience store runs and room service ventures spurred on by the other members have been politely declined. Phones buzz on the bedside table with messages from the staff about trying to make the most of this inconvenience. More texts come through seconds later, detailing the logistics with updated schedules and boarding passes. Fuma sympathizes with headache the cancelled flights are causing, but can't string his thoughts together long enough to bother formulating a response. Because despite the weather, he is basking in the sun.
There are shoes kicked off in a hurry by the door and piles of clothes strewn across the floor. The air in the room is thick and humid from rain, now devoid of that vaguely chemical hotel scent and replaced with something headier. Muskier, like sweat slicked skin and familiar shampoo.
Fuma reclines against the headboard, mouthing kisses at the delicate protrusions near the top of Yudai's spine, the older's back flush to his chest. He can feel the slow, steady beat of Yudai's heart, an athlete's rhythm, composed even now, while he watches the younger two kiss each other stupid inches away, sprawled over his lap.
It’s mesmerizing.
The way Euijoo and Nicholas get lost in each other, soft sighs unwittingly synced in that strange way only the two of them can manage. Their lips slide together, wet and raw, connecting like pieces of a puzzle. Euijoo laps prettily at the exposed enamel of Nicholas' teeth, tongues clashing and jaws working in time. Fuma drags his lips along the curve of Yudai's neck, earning a pleased hum, craning over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of them.
Nicholas, expressive as ever, wrinkles his brow in ecstasy when Euijoo bites his bottom lip and Yudai reaches forward to caresses the curve of his bicep. He shivers when the eldest threads his fingers into Euijoo’s hair, coaxing him to suck marks into Nicholas' chest, flushed pink and heaving. The younger complies dreamily, eager to please, severing the kiss and trailing lower. Itching to dissolve in their sea of limbs. Nicholas hisses at the loss of contact and pulls Yudai down, licking into his mouth to soothe himself in the absence.
At this proximity, wrapped in the three of them, Fuma feels the familiar tug of his agency slipping. Tangled limbs, caressing fingertips and the gossamer strands of saliva connecting them, wash away his autonomy in a flood.
A landslide.
He yields to the sheer force of something inevitable cracking his chest open. His head is full of them, thoughts throbbing with desire. With relief.
There are hands reaching for him, palms on his thighs, hips rocking into his. Lips that taste like shared toothpaste and bedding that smells like Yudai's perfume. Whispered praise that gives way to chants of "more" and "please" and "harder"
Fuma is putty, molded to the shape of them.
It stretches on and on. A glitch of some kind, surely. To feel pleasure like this. To be made complex and significant, with Yudai's hands touching every inch of him and Euijoo’s eyes rolling back and Nicholas’ pretty red mouth split at the corners from swallowing him whole.
His non playable character, somehow, capable of responsibility and remorse and presence. At their mercy maybe, but just as alive and aching. Obliged to weave together the narrative of them. Pieces of him revealed by their ministrations, written into his programming and etched onto his heart. Even at the periphery, a bridge, between code and pixels and flesh and bone.
This is no game.
Or even if it is, it hardly matters.