Chapter Text
Makoto Naegi knows the art of wrangling better than even the most experienced of wildlife warriors.
A skill one needs, if they plan to anchor both Kyoko Kirigiri and Byakuya Togami in one place for any amount of time.
Consumed by constant responsibilities (or just a need to be busy, if you ask Makoto) the two of them seldom find time to relax. And while Kyoko enjoys journalling more than just the details of a case, and Byakuya can easily fall into the clutches of a particularly riveting book, these are hobbies that are reserved for downtime. Of which, there is little. Even less with all three of them together. So, if Makoto wants any quality time with his partners at all, he has to get...clever.
When they were in school together, that often meant finding a reason to keep them both in Makoto's dorm until after curfew. And then, when they went to leave, informing them that 'hey, that is actually breaking the rules, y'know.'
And while neither of them are particularly rule-abiding (Kyoko discards any rule that doesn't seem logical to her, and Byakuya feels himself above the common man) they still...stayed. Grateful for the excuse, maybe. And later, when they were all huddled in a bed that was barely fit for one growing teen let alone three, Makoto was grateful too.
Sure, it often meant a knee in his back and hair in his nose, but if there was one body part to listen to above all else— it was his heart. And his heart told him that being squished between lovers is where Makoto truly belongs.
As they've grown older —left school, left a routine that kept them bound together— things got more difficult. A normal part of growing up, maybe, but certainly not helped by these two in particular.
It seems Kyoko has no concept of time, really. Slipping away at a moment's notice for a case. Whether it be dawn or dusk or dead of night, she'll come and go with little warning.
Like an alley cat that comes 'round just for a feeding.
And if she's a cat, Byakuya is a— okay…Makoto might be good at wrangling but he doesn't know all that much about animals, really. He had a dog, as a kid, but it favoured Komaru more than him and he's never really gotten over that grudge—
Anyway. Byakuya is something with a rigid sense of time...if such a creature exists.
He minds the hours, the minutes, the seconds. Pocket watch ticking away against his chest or in his hand. Digital alarm on the bedside table, glaring a permanent red. And a grandfather clock in their dining room. It plays a different piece of classical music as the hand strikes each hour. Four Seasons, Spring welcomed in lunch. Mozart’s Symphony number 40 was the soundtrack to an afternoon coffee, spent lounged with a book in the bay window. And Flight of the Bumblebee rang in seconds before the dinner bell, with chefs that probably race to have the evening's meal perfectly on time.
Not that they have personal assistants every day— chefs and cleaners and the like. Kyoko is...neutral to them. In that cold-fronted, introverted but polite way of hers. And Makoto himself finds being waited on awkward.
So, they limit hiring anyone except for big occasions. Days that are crammed with work, or nights when it's their turn to host any gatherings. Which is a good thing— not just for Kyoko and Makoto’s limited social skills, but because the basics keep the three of them grounded. And together. Cooking, cleaning, all of it. A mundane that forces them to step away from work for a while.
Forgetting all the paperwork and phone calls and red pen and...whatever else Kyoko uses for her job that Makoto might regret asking about. And just...existing together.
Maybe passing a feather duster to Byakuya, who will grumble with a tone that used to mean something, but is now mostly for show. And as he dusts the tops of the cabinets Kyoko might duck underneath his arm, fresh from the store with ingredients under arm. And Makoto might let the already cooking meat simmer for a little too long, distracted by the kiss pressed to his cheek and the warmth of domesticity. Snapped back to focus by Byakuya’s warning— words about the meat but the message underneath saying hey, what about me?
Moments that mean the world to him. Yet are far too short and infrequent.
There's only so much cleaning he can say is necessary. Only so much cooking needed for three. And without such tasks to do, Makoto spends a good portion of each day (when he himself isn’t working) floundering around for excuses.
Going to bed early? No, no, if Byakuya retires for the evening at an abnormal time he spends the time awake in bed in a snit, bothered by the change in routine in ways he will never verbalise. And during sleep he tosses and turns, as if disturbed down to the very core. And, as the sun rises on another early day, he wakes up more haggard than if he'd gone to bed late.
Kyoko might agree to go to bed early, spend that extra time together...however it may be spent. But if Makoto wakes at two AM for a sip of water, he'll often find her gone without explanation.
Frankly, Makoto was sick of the routine they've all found themselves in. Inconsistent and all too rigid and unlenient, even when it matters.
So, as the weather warms and the days get longer, Makoto mustered every bit of wrangling skill he'd learnt over the years— and he booked them all a holiday.
The actual booking is the easiest part, somehow. The hotel, the flight, the rental car...sorted without any fuss. It's forcing his partners to take a break without their knowledge that is the issue. It didn't have to be a surprise...but getting them to agree in the first place would undoubtedly be an even bigger issue.
So, Makoto went through the arduous task of contacting a secretary, and several other subordinates who can keep Byakuya's schedule open and fill in any jobs he's needed for. They get back to him remarkably quickly— and while Makoto could tell, even through email, that the tone of their responses was enthusiastic, he still isn’t sure why… being without a boss looming over you for a few weeks? Or, having a boss that will return to you with a tan and sun-warmed leniency?
Both. Most likely both.
Kyoko is much harder to prepare for. After some frantic google searches about the company(?) she works for —that only turn up shady, inconclusive results— Makoto settles on the next best thing.
He emails her father.
The two of them have a tentative relationship, but it is friendly enough. Things will never be as great as they possibly could be, but tensions have mellowed with age. And that's the best they can ask for. And, most importantly, Kirigiri senior knows the employers in question. It takes two days for him to get back with a response, wherein Makoto's nerves are so heightened that he nearly paces a hole in the bedroom carpet and Kyoko's every glance makes him break out into a sweat.
Late afternoon on the second day, Makoto gets home from work with a sigh. And as the door clicks shut, perhaps something too clicks within the brain. For he promptly remembers a detail he should've remembered a lot lot sooner. That, perhaps, part of the reason Kyoko and her father have a strained relationship in the first place is because said father and his father are perhaps, just a little bit...no contact.
The speed at which Makoto had whipped open his laptop in preparation to send over a follow-up apology probably broke the sound barrier. Well...it at least rustled a few papers off the table. So that's pretty impressive.
Anyway. He'd opened up his inbox, but before he could draft a new email, he noticed he had one sitting there already. And, all things considered, Jin's response was remarkably kind. He had agreed to inform Kirigiri senior senior about Kyoko's absence, a willingness to cooperate that left Makoto wheezing in relief. Jin seemed pleased more than anything that Kyoko was having a break.
Makoto had hurriedly promised to buy him a souvenir as a thanks, and slumped down in his chair. Phew. What luck. With all of that sorted, only one problem remained...how was he going to break the news to Kyoko and Byakuya?
Oh. Yeah that's...that's something he hadn't really considered. Which was alright, really, he had over two weeks to prepare an idea!
All of which he spent fretting instead of plotting. And by the time came when he should have really really let them know by now because the flight was soon and they still had to pack and oh god he really should have thought about this all earlier— things turned out okay, somehow.
Apparently, he'd been as subtle as a bull in an antique shop. Obvious enough that Byakuya had clued in on something being wrong and had taken several precautions in case each possibility was correct— the creation of an expansive pros and cons list, in case Makoto brought up the idea of kids, again. A read-through and annotation of ‘You, Me and She: A Couples Guide to Sharing,’ on the chance that Makoto would suggest it’s time to spice things up.
And, finally, a fully packed suitcase, on the occasion they would have to go somewhere. The only thing that made Makoto feel stupider is Kyoko's one assumption. One that was, unfortunately, right on the money.
"Well," She'd stared at his gaping mouth, suitcase in her hand. "Aren't you going to pack?"
The holiday started early for his partners, who got to lounge around while Makoto hurried to shove almost everything he's ever owned into a suitcase. Well...lounged is the wrong word. Relaxation to the two of them looked like sticky-beaking in the doorway, mugs of —presumably— coffee and tea in hand as they watched him work.
"Really, Naegi?" Byakuya had scoffed. "Seventeen pairs of underwear?"
Makoto had shrugged and folded an eighteenth pair on top, just in case. With his luck, who knows?
And although the suitcase was bulging when he'd finished, and he'd had to rummage through a mountain of clothes to remove the pair of metal toenail clippers that airport security disapproved of, and then pay an extra fee because his luggage was beyond the maximum weight limit— it was all okay, in the end.
The sun on his skin right now certainly makes him think so.
"Isn't this nice, guys?" He asks in a lazy-lipped murmur. The heat has him drowsy and the only thing he can muster the energy to do is sigh.
He waits a moment. Two. Another moment more. But there is no response. Huh. Hmm. Maybe they've fallen asleep. Makoto is certainly ready to. After all that stressing and planning and hurrying it's like he has finally, completely unwound.
Bones made of lard and eyelids heavier than steel, Makoto’s head flops to the side with ease but it takes a near insurmountable amount of strength to crack open an eye. The drowsiness vanishes in an instant. An instant in which he bolts upright. "Wha— guys!?"
Said 'guys' grunt affirmatively but don't even look up from their laps. Makoto rises up onto his knees, lounge chair squeaking underneath the shift in weight. A better vantage point for him to see what has his partners so occupied.
Sprawled over Byakuya's crossed legs is a note-book calendar, opened on a page that is several months away. A blue pen in between two fingers, a black one pinched between two more. And a highlighter, poised in the opposite hand, its yellow cap perched between Byakuya's lips.
One chair over, and only a little bit subtler, Kyoko's knees are tucked against her chest, where she balances one of her pocket-sized leather-bound journals. Which would be fine, if she was journalling anything other than work. But she's not, because her hair is pulled into a ponytail, which she only does for fancy events or when she wants to concentrate, and the way her hand jerks across the page suggests she's connecting already written facts with lines, not writing a stream of consciousness.
And, frankly, Makoto has had enough of the two of them still continuing to work even after he's gone through all this trouble. "What are you doing?! We're supposed to be relaxing!"
"The world doesn't stop just because we're at a hotel poolside," Byakuya answers smoothly, mumbling around the highlighter cap. Clearly prepared for his interruption.
"Neither do murders, unfortunately," Kyoko adds.
Makoto feels his jaw pop with how much he's gawking. Unbelievable. He went through all the...the emailing and booking and packing and worrying and still these two that he is so so unfortunately deeply in love with won't even look away from their work for a few minutes to enjoy relaxing by a pool!
"You'll catch flies," Byakuya mutters dryly. Makoto's mouth snaps shut. And with his jaw clenched tightly the only sound of his frustration that can escape is a huff through his nostrils, like a bull prepared to charge.
Or, maybe more accurately, an annoyed dog. He certainly feels like one as he rolls off his chair and slinks into the rooftop shadows of the nearest building, tail tucked between his legs and all.
But what does Makoto know about animals? Or wrangling, apparently. It's not enough to be able to gather them both in one place for an extended amount of time if they're not going to enjoy it. Another sigh leaves him but it's less of an airy 'I've just had a sip of a lovely cool beverage' kind of sigh and something a bit more guttural. And toddler tantrum-y.
Ugh. Okay. Okay. How does he fix this? It'd take a physically stronger person than Makoto to pull either of them away from work. So...he'll have to…appeal to...the mind. Yeah...yeah! They are such intellectual people, of course the mind is the way to go!
And he'll do it by...by...
Makoto studies around him. There's the pool, brightly blue and rippling with a minimal breeze. At its ends, arches of lounge chairs. Four of which are occupied by the three of them and their belongings. The rest are, surprisingly, empty.
And there's...well, not much else. Just this wall that he's leaning on, next to a door that leads back into the hotel lobby. A rather reflective door, given that it's made of glass. He can glimpse his profile out of the corner of his eye.
And something about it gives him pause. Makes him turn to look at himself properly. Maybe it's the unusual scowl, deepening his brow. Or the way his arms are tucked tight across his chest like he can squeeze out the frustration. It doesn’t look like him at all. Not like the partner they’d fallen in love with, or someone they’d want to be lazing around with.
He relaxes. Breathes out. Watches the way his shoulders fall and his posture changes. Extra visible because he's only in a pair of swim shorts. All three of them had gotten changed into swimwear...as if his partners had actually planned to get wet.
Makoto draws in a wounded breath. It puffs up his chest and squares his jaw. Huh. Kinda odd, watching himself. Funny, really, seeing the things that he doesn’t normally get to see.
Like the gap in his two front teeth, when he smiles. He can feel it from the inside, of course, especially when the skin of his bottom lip tries valiantly to get caught between said incisors— but he didn't remember what it looked like from the outside.
Or that one piece of hair that refuses to stick down, not with water or hairspray or gel or any other human chemical invention designed to do exactly that. Or even the flex of his bicep, as he raises arm trying to flatten down said hair. He's been practicing the martial arts Kyoko has taught him and it's showing, thank you very much!
Wait. He pauses. His smile grows wider. This is how he'll distract those two from their work! He'll...he'll seduce them!
Yeah...yeah! A genius plan, truly. Who wouldn't get distracted with five-foot- three-inches of skin and muscle peacocking around in front of them? And with their minds occupied by his body he'll be able to lure them somewhere where all they can do is relax— into the water. Like one of those siren creatures that sing out to sailors, crashing them into the rocks so they can be eaten.
Well, okay. Eating them is maybe a little too far…maybe that should be reserved for later, back in the hotel room— no, focus Makoto, focus! He slaps his face, leaves his palm there to cradle the now stinging flesh. It's them who are supposed to be getting seduced, not you!
He better get to it, before he becomes too distracted. And he's spent far too long staring at himself in the reflection of this door, anyway. With a sheepish wave to the hotel receptionist, who looks ready to phone security, Makoto retreats back to his partners.
Who have not missed his absence, if they noticed it at all. Which, knowing them, they have. Makoto sucks back in his pouty lip and un-furrows his low brow— no more time for sulking. Only seducing! Which...he's not all that sure how to go about, really. A skill he should've been working on instead of wrangling, maybe.
In the past, if he wanted attention of the more…adult variety, he'd always sort of just...been himself. Which is equal parts awkward as it is, apparently, charming. Not that Byakuya or Kyoko were often 'in the mood' or anything, just that, if they were, it wasn't because he'd done anything particularly romantic or seductive.
So, now, he had to figure out how to do it on purpose...
He starts out with a little strut, weaving between their lounge chairs and breaking past the shadow of umbrellas to stand on the sun-hot pavement. And, okay, the way he winces and alternates hopping on each foot before he decides it's a better idea to just retreat back into the shade is, maybe, not the sexiest thing he's ever done.
Not that they notice, though...fortunately.
He pulls himself into a stretch they, hopefully, will notice. Reaching up high and interlocking his fingers, he hopes that with palms to the sky they'll find a feast for the eyes. A flexing bicep to nibble, or a pectoral to nip. Though, as time lingers beyond what is a reasonable amount to hold one stretching position for, Makoto has to admit it's less like putting a full-course meal on the table and more like dejectedly reeling in the fishing line after nothing takes the bait.
He shuffles around and slowly, maybe even salaciously, bends down to touch his toes.
Okay. His fingers can't quite reach his toes. That's okay. The effect should still be the same! He's had more than one pinch to his behind from a wandering hand or two— gloved and not.
So, when he stands back up and checks over his shoulder, he should see two pairs of eyes locked right on target— really? Still no takers!? Not even a glance at his maybe-smaller-than-average-but-perfectly-proportionate butt!? Okay, he's really hurt now.
With stretching decidedly a fail, Makoto moves on to plan B of his hastily thought-out seduction...slathering himself in sunscreen like he's in a bad comedy movie. Or a perfectly average porno. Stomping over to their belongings, he's aware he's a little bit heavy-footed in his frustration, but c'mon! Surely he's allowed a little grumpiness!
Rummaging in the bag of all their pool-day things, the bottle of sunscreen is right at the bottom. The rustling of sun hats and towels and snacks as he reaches for it seems to bother Byakuya. Makoto watches his lip twitch and his hand underline something with a little more force than necessary and he decides 'good! yes you should be annoyed! In fact, you should be so annoyed that you can't work at all!'
Rustling everything around once more, for good measure, Makoto finally steps back.
He pops open the cap on the way to a prime voyeurism position— on the edge of the shadows, right between their beach chairs, but back far enough for them to get a good looking in.
They've clearly noticed him now, after all. Byakuya seems set on staunchly ignoring him, with that little crease between his brows that Makoto loves to smooth out with words and touches and even a little kiss—
And Kyoko raises a brow as if to ask 'What are you up to?' A purple gaze he'd happily show off for.
So, with no birds in the hand but two looking on from the bush, he squeezes the sunscreen into his palm. Only to realise that maybe the bird was, in fact, in the hand all along, as a heaping of liquidy white projectiles into his open hand with a sound from the bottle that is certainly not seductive.
Makoto stares. Kyoko flashes a hint of teeth, in a moment of amusement she quickly suppresses.
Sighing heavily, Makoto begins to smear the mass of sunscreen onto his skin. It slides awkwardly over his chest— more like the texture of a spoonful of sour cream than the thin, glistening spread he'd envisioned. Kyoko is smiling earnestly, now. And, yeah, she might be laughing at him, but at least her face is relaxed and soft in the way it not often is.
And hey, isn't that kind of what he was aiming for, anyway? Doesn't matter how he achieves it, really. Would've been nice to be a cool guy, for once— someone who can flex a muscle and have people swooning. Someone who can use something as simple as sunscreen and captivate an audience.
But that's not him, is it? He's the fool who planned a holiday behind the backs of people who figured out the surprise faster than he could iron out all the kinks in it. He's the guy who packed every pair of underwear he owned, just in case he somehow stained two pairs a day.
And, if the years have taught him anything, it's that Byakuya and Kyoko must like that kind of guy.
Scraping a great big dollop of sunscreen from his chest, he deposits it onto a leg with a wet thwack. And, while that is amusing in of itself, what really gets Kyoko giggling is when Makoto hops onto one leg so he can rub in the sunscreen over his other one.
Emboldened by her laughter, he repeats the same process on the other leg. Byakuya watches too, now, as he wobbles and hops to re-balance himself. It lands him back in the sun and over that boiling concrete, but nothing a bit more hopping won't fix!
Byakuya's eyes narrow into that look that is trying to say 'You’re an idiot' but Makoto always (and correctly) reads as 'You're funny and I hate it.'
Makoto dumps the bottle, no more of that needed. And clapping his hands together he distributes the remaining mound evenly, starting a frantic performance of covering both arms. It leaves him bundled tight, arms across his chest, like he's shivering in severe cold. Such a humorous contrast to his hopping feet over hot cement that even Byakuya cracks a smile.
Ha, he's doing it! He's distracted them and all he had to do is be himself! Isn't that beautifu—
A moment of weightlessness, in which his heart is the heaviest part of him and his arms scramble in air. Then, impact. A rush in his ears that is both loud and muffled. A mere second of thrashing in shock and then he breaks the surface.
Gasping heapful of air, Makoto rises above the water. A sweep of his hands wipes the water from his eyes and clears hair from his face. Revealing two people, staring down at him.
"I was going to warn you when you got close to the edge," Kyoko offers, rather unhelpfully.
"No, you weren't," Byakuya snickers.
"No, I wasn't," Kyoko admits easily.
Makoto lets out a sound that is somewhere between a groan and a whine. Whatever it is, it bubbles as he sinks back beneath the surface.
"You're alright," Kyoko states as he re-emerges. No question to her tone but Makoto nods regardless.
"Just embarrassed," He replies.
"Why?" Byakuya says. "For acting as foolish as you do every day?"
Makoto's 'yes' is muffled by the water he half hides under.
"Can hardly fathom why," Byakuya continues. "Nothing you've done while here is outside the realm of your ordinary, immature behaviour. Your inane attempts to garner our attention are nothing short of childish, you do realise?"
Makoto sighs and submits himself to a tongue-lashing. Mean, on the surface, but words that reveal he is known— so deeply, so entirely. Known to the point that even those who proclaim to not care, care enough to remember, and don’t care to hide it.
"If you hadn't realised such a thing I would be concerned about your capabilities to handle the work I've given you over the years. No secretary of mine is flailing about and flinging themselves in pools, I assure you."
"He isn't your secretary," Kyoko murmurs amusedly.
Byakuya sniffs. Nudges his glasses up with a fingertip. "His loss, truly. Although if he wishes to abandon the hopeless endeavour of teaching the nation's youth, my offer still stands."
"He would earn more than peanuts," Kyoko concedes.
"Hey!" Makoto protests. He would continue on arguing that he doesn't teach for the money, but looking at Kyoko he notices that something is...off.
The look in her eye. That glint. It's not just teasing, it's...scheming.
"Precisely," Byakuya's face pinches into its regular, practiced smugness. "And under my careful eye maybe he'd learn a thing or two about propriety—"
There is exactly one second between the end of his last word and Kyoko giving him a calculated shove.
Makoto isn't sure what he enjoys more— Byakuya's squawk as he topples over pool ledge, or the spluttering sound he makes upon surfacing. Maybe the answer is the rare, unfettered laughter of Kyoko.
"Wha— how dare—" Byakuya's anger fizzles out in the face of her joy. "Oh, ha ha. Yes, so mature."
"And dry," She retorts. Which is the wrong thing to say— or, maybe, the right thing. An inviting thing.
Byakuya’s face grows remarkably lopsided, a crooked smirk pulling at lips and brow. And, predictably, he strikes a hand across the surface of the water, sending a spray up and out. Makoto can't suppress his grin. How unusual is it, to get both of them feeling this relaxed and free? Clearly his efforts have been worth something.
Kyoko doesn't say another word. Shaking the water from her eyes, she peers around them. Probably to confirm there isn't anyone else here, as she starts taking off her gloves. With hands bared, she chucks them somewhere behind her. Vaguely in the direction of their belongings, probably. Makoto isn't looking because he's much more interested in the telltale bend of her knees.
Byakuya's eyes widen "Wait—"
Too late. She launches herself in their direction. Makoto's view is entirely eclipsed in black bikini and pale skin and his ears are filled with Byakuya's panicked yelp and then all his senses are washed away by the wave that crashes over him.
Blinking water from his eyes he's just quick enough to see Kyoko and Byakuya rise up together...from where she has landed practically on top of him.
"I cannot deal with—" He breaks the surface already fuming, but is quickly silenced when she grabs a cheek in each hand and pulls him down into a smothering kiss. Makoto gapes. Okay. Maybe his methods have worked a little too well.
...But not well enough if he's not getting any of that action!
They separate with an audible pop, like something out of a cartoon. Makoto wouldn't be surprised if little red hearts had formed in Byakuya's dazed eyes. Er, better not suggest that to him, though...
"What are you still doing over there?" Kyoko asks. Makoto startles out of his thoughts and hurries to paddle over.
She waits with open arms, and once he's in range he's yanked in to receive a kiss of his own. Her flesh is sun-warm and her hair is laden with the stench of chlorine but his world narrows to the focal point of her lips.
Flesh that pulls against his own because it's all bitten-up. A rough slide that catches on the gap between his teeth. And, suddenly, the idea of his teeth being where hers have already been leaves him slack-jawed in whimpering awe. Something she takes advantage of immediately. Deepening the angle of her head, widening the stretch of her mouth, he feels woefully unprepared and delightfully consumed.
And as their tongues brush, ever so slightly, he is left with the aftertaste of lemongrass, a hint of the chapstick Byakuya always uses.
Suddenly faint, sinking to the bottom of the pool and remaining there for life is now a concern.
Fortunately (unfortunately) for him, Kyoko breaks the kiss. He's so close that her satisfied hum transcends sound and can be felt in the vibration of her throat rumbling against his jaw and oh, can his knees get any weaker? Maybe they can. The flush to her face is such a befitting pink, and it cradles the round of cheeks and the high of nose, and Makoto is really really glad all the decisions in his life have somehow led him to this point.
"Your technique could use some work," Byakuya interrupts. And his voice may be critical but his eyes are intent like a hawk's and Makoto is quite certain that isn't what he'd been thinking of at all.
"So could yours," Kyoko mutters wryly, with a smile. Byakuya scoffs. Setting his glasses down with a clink on the pavement, he wades closer.
Waves ripple around Makoto’s chest and it's the only warning he has before he is enclosed on all sides— Kyoko still holding space in front of him and Byakuya pressing in until they are front to back.
Makoto's breath leaves him in something resembling a squeak. Maybe the lack of air leaves him more heavy, or maybe his limbs have just forgotten how to work— either way, he sinks. Only a little, only until he's buried up to the collarbones in water, but it's enough.
Enough to be sandwiched between two bodies with no way of regaining any height.
"Uhh, guys—" His weak-willed protest is ignored.
"Practicing, are we?" Kyoko teases.
"Proving," Byakuya corrects. And prove he does.
Head craned skywards, Makoto's view of the sun vanishes beneath the angular undersides of jaws as Kyoko and Byakuya collide into another kiss above his head.
Whatever air he had left is promptly whooshed out of his lungs with speed that leaves him dizzy.
The shadows of their skin are so warmly dark, a lively flush that is blood-hot and invitation ripe. Crevices where jaw meets throat that Makoto would worship, if he could reach.
He can practically taste the movement against his lips. How he might savour the segmented roll of Byakuya's throat, as it bobs against his mouth. Or the swell of Kyoko's under-jaw, full with reaching and receding tongue.
One of them —or maybe both of them— intensify the kiss, crushing Makoto between the deepening press of their bodies.
Water from Byakuya's hair trickles down Makoto's neck, cold in its unfamiliarity, and his resulting shiver speeds up its journey. A travel that ends when it rejoins the pond created by the crevice of Kyoko’s chest.
And he thinks, maybe this is enough— the aftertastes, the shockwaves, the glimpses and soundbites and implication of movement. He doesn't remember what he'd aimed for, all that time ago, but this is enough.
They separate with a sigh. The sun comes flooding back in and Makoto reflexively flinches back.
"Mm. I think you were right," Is murmured beside his ear. He shivers back into Byakuya's hold. "This is just what we needed."
Kyoko's agreeing hum. "You're always right."
He finds the strength to open his eyes. Her face is soft and eyes somehow softer, and although Byakuya is unseen, the tension is bled from him just the same.
"You'll—" His own voice is croaky and he has to cough. "You'll agree to stop working?"
"Hmph." Byakuya's precise hand wipes wet hair stuck to Makoto's forehead. "For now, I suppose. Perhaps there is merit in 'taking it easy.'"
Makoto sighs in relief. Finally, he's where he needed to be.
The three of them spend many more hours there, huddled together in the water, sharing chlorinated kisses and pruney touches. And a fair bit more splashing, as is expected of two smart-mouths and their agreeable boyfriend. And many days later, when they'd finally returned home, something seems to have stuck to them. The sun? The water? Maybe the taste of each other on their lips— whatever it is, it follows them into their home.
Byakuya and Kyoko collapse into the couch with simultaneous sighs.
"Uhh, guys?" Makoto asks with a little laugh.
"Shut up," Byakuya warns, but his lips are lax and his voice is sleep-soft. "Come here."
And so, he does. Leaving the luggage behind he settles down between them. A head falls on each shoulder and it feels like holding the weight of the world. Somehow such a thing is easy, comes natural to him.
"Thank you," Kyoko murmurs into an ear. A kiss is pressed to his other one.
Makoto thanks all the skills he's learned over the years. How to wrangle two work-addicted partners, how to plan and scheme and convince. How to kiss, when nothing else can do the job.
And most importantly, he thanks the skill of learning to be himself. A man who loves and is loved in kind.