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“Good enough, Satoru,” Utahime huffs into the echoing silence as the music closes out, arms crossed across her chest as she squints in the wall-length mirrors of the practice room at him and his ending position. Her eyes are still critical as he collapses onto the floor, wood a cool balm against his sweltering skin. “We can work out the rest of your mistakes tomorrow when the backup dancers are here.”
“Like you don’t want to fix everything right now,” Satoru snarks back, chest heaving with exertion as he stares at the bright fluorescents on the ceiling, body tingling pleasantly with fatigue. Not the fatigue that comes with touring and promoting and recording back to back to back with no breaks, the kind of fatigue that leaves him passed out in a makeup artist’s chair and SWEETIES cooing over how adorable he looks sleeping and whoever will get to see his face by their side every night is blessed beyond comparison. The fatigue where it’s enough to feel satisfying, enough to know that he worked hard, put in all his effort into unrusting old gears and making each movement fluid again.
Utahime rolls her eyes, obviously restraining herself from marching over and smacking the shit out of him like she usually does. Any time they’re filming practices like this for tour content she’s much more reserved, at least physically. Her tongue is still a vicious weapon she uses to tear into him for her own enjoyment. But he’s never been one to back down, so he sticks his own tongue out at her, poking the bear and fueling her rage.
He cackles as she spins on her heels, muttering nonsense in Japanese under her breath that probably involves a couple threats of hiding his candy stash and roping Shoko into her plans of revenge. She grabs the remote to pause the music that’s started blaring through the speakers again, silence settling with the beeps of cameras stopping their constant watching, tripods and ring lights clattering about as they’re packed away, staff talking with each other about whatever it is they talk about when it comes to dealing with him.
“Lucky for you,” he drawls, rolling back up onto his feet and wandering over to Utahime furiously typing something on her phone—probably notes for the backup dancers tomorrow, “I plan on sticking around anyway to practice some of my older stuff again; don’t you worry.
“Good,” she responds without looking up. “Go over some of the floorwork while you’re at it. Lord knows I’m gonna hear you whining about how much your back hurts from the grinding on tour.”
“One: I’m not that old, grandma. Two: I’ll probably be complaining about someth—”
Utahime gags, grabbing her water bottle and whacking him over the head. “Don’t wanna hear about your sex life. I know enough about you already. Too much, honestly.”
“Not gonna stick around to make sure I stick to my word?” he asks with a hiss, ignoring the sting from the scolding and stretching his arms forward and up, pulling his muscles in that delicious pain-pleasure way to shake away some of the fatigue.
“Unlike you, I actually have other groups I direct that do listen to my instruction, like your seonbaes,” she says. Her eyes are going to get stuck in the back of her head with how much she rolls them. Though her expression smooths into something pensive, bordering on concern but that’s too foreign of an emotion between them.
“Don’t let him push himself too hard, Geto-san,” she calls out to the blob of black sitting in the corner nearest to them. Suguru pokes his head up when he hears his name; all that’s visible of his face behind the mask and baseball cap are shining eyes.
Even after production for his Japanese album wrapped up months ago, even as they slowly figure out and work on the rough and irritated parts of their relationship, even though they’ve been dating under everyone’s noses, it still makes Satoru stupidly giddy whenever he realizes Suguru is next to him, with him, a constant pulsar in his life.
“Assigning a babysitter?” he asks, eyebrow raised and playful glare shot at his performance director.
“Because I can’t even trust you with yourself. Don’t think I’ve forgotten those nights when we were still trainees where I had to drag you back to the dorms and shove packs of frozen peas under your shirt because you danced until you passed out.”
“Hey!” he whines, but she’s cackling and relishing in her revenge, leaving the practice room with the rest of the staff before he can get another word in. The door rattles shut behind her, leaving just him, Suguru, and their reflections alone in the liminal space of the practice room.
Finally, Satoru’s able to drop the mask, the snark and charm that’s always on display for the camera, the fans, the staff. He scrubs a hand over his face, probably smudging his makeup but he knows the artist uses some honestly impressive whatever-it’s-called to make sure it doesn’t budge.
“This tour is gonna be a nightmare,” he groans into his hands, enjoying the way the darkness dulls the pounding that been beating a steady rhythm behind his eyes. “Why do they want me dancing back to back to back with no breaks?”
Suguru shifts behind him, all his baggy and drowning clothes rustling with his movements as his footsteps get closer. Warmth and pressure sinks into his shoulder as Suguru’s breath tickles his ear.
“Because you have the stamina for it,” Suguru hums, woody cologne flooding Satoru’s nose.
“Ew, pervert,” Satoru huffs, pushing at Suguru’s face half-heartedly. “Why’d you say it like that?”
“What other way is there?” Suguru chuckles. His hands reach out hesitantly, hovering over Satoru’s waist where he can see it in the mirrors.
Satoru understands the caution. He’s been careful in public whenever he’s with Suguru, especially after they talked about the Sweater Incident that blew up both their phones for a good two weeks. Though he keeps it to himself that he’s still ridiculously pleased with himself for causing such a scandal.
“Regardless,” he groans, tipping backward to lean his weight on Suguru’s chest, large, warm hands forced to envelope his hips to keep balance, squeezing gently, “I definitely don’t right now. Feels like I just ran a 5k in extreme heat and no water.”
“You’ll get there again. I don’t miss this part, that’s for sure. Though I never did anything this intense,” Suguru hums with a reassuring pat, warmth leaving Satoru’s back.
He doesn’t let Suguru get far, grabbing his wrists. “It’s just us,” he says, guiding calloused hands back to his hips, but this time he slips them under his oversized Cinnamoroll shirt. If he thought Suguru’s hands were warm before, they burn like fire directly on his skin.
Suguru sighs, a tiny thing caught in his mask, which can’t hide the tinge of panic in his eyes. “The CCTV—”
“Are off,” Satoru says, grin sly in the mirror as Suguru raises an unamused eyebrow. “I have my ways. One too many close encounters with sasaengs, so Yaga lets me do what I want with the cameras when I’m in here.”
“Isn’t that more dangerous?”
“The cameras in the hallway are still on. We’re on the fifth floor. Only way someone is coming in is either through the only door or busting through the windows, which I’d have to give them credit for if someone managed to figure that out. Maybe a ladder or those contraption window washers use.
“I promise it’s okay,” Satoru mutters, hooking a finger over the top of Suguru’s mask and tugging it down, smushing his lips into Suguru’s cheek and refusing to pull back. He cracks an eye open when Suguru huffs, watching the way his face scrunches at the continuous onslaught of affection.
“Fine, fine,” Suguru hums, hands drifting across Satoru’s stomach and pulling him flush against him as he hooks his chin back over Satoru’s shoulder. It makes Satoru’s heart swoop, throat dry. He knows Suguru is probably think about… all that, but Satoru also knows that there’s a possessive thought or two bouncing around his brain. That Satoru is only his to see, hear, feel like this.
Suguru turns slightly to kiss him chastely, quick and fleeting. “Are you actually going to keep practicing or were you lying to Utahime?”
“Ugh, mood killer,” Satoru groans as Suguru pushes him toward the stereo system. “I guess I’ll keep practicing. I know how much you like your private shows.” He can’t help but tease his partner, spinning around to face Suguru and wiggle his eyebrows in that corny suggestive way.
“Says the exhibitionist himself,” Suguru snarks back with a matching grin, taking off all the layers hiding him from view, leaving him in cargo pants and an oversized long-sleeve shirt. His hair has gotten longer since they met, grazing his hips every time he turns his head. Suguru says it’s a pain, but Satoru’s played every dirty card he has to keep Suguru from cutting it. It looks good on him, though anything looks good on Suguru.
“Says the one who doesn’t protest to it anymore and also engages in it,” he throws back, weaving his fingers together to stretch his arms over his head. The aircon blows over the sweaty skin of his stomach as his shirt rides up just a tad, and Satoru watches the way Suguru’s eyes helplessly drift to it.
“Go practice,” Suguru mumbles with another shove, turning away with a flush high on his cheeks. Satoru just sticks his tongue out at Suguru’s retreating back like the calm, professional idol he is.
Begrudgingly, he does what he’s told, sneakers squeaking against the linoleum as he spins on his heels and scrolls through the audio files prepped for tour on his phone. There’s a lot he could work on, needs to work on, solo. He wanted to perform more of his older songs, things that are closer to his heart compared to the overused catchy beats he’s been forced to crank out. Not that he doesn’t love those. Maybe he’s just been spoiled with Blue and working with Suguru on songs that actually mean something again.
He hovers over Limitless, but he doesn’t let the gentle rhythm flood the speakers like he wants. It’s supposed to be a surprise. No one except Utahime and the sound engineers know it’s on the setlist for Yokohama Arena, and only Utahime knows there’s choreography for it since she’s been helping him work out the stiff parts.
The list whirs past his eyes over and over the list until his fingers stop over Sugar. He stares, blinking at it, and gets an idea.
“Actually,” Satoru starts, tipping his head to look at where Suguru’s settling back in his corner of the practice room, legs splayed in front of him. He hums in acknowledgment, phone screen a gentle blue illuminating the contours of his face. “I was thinking about practicing Sugar since it’s been a while since I performed it. Wanna help out?”
Suguru doesn’t move, but Satoru spots the way his fingers pause their scrolling, the way his body jerks slightly, the way his eyes drift up, peering at Satoru through his lashes. His expression becomes unreadable as he blinks slowly.
“I thought you were doing solo choreo this tour,” Suguru says just as slowly, painfully still.
“That was the original plan,” Satoru sighs, nails tapping against the counter as he schemes. “But you’ve seen the fans. You know how much they love the pair choreo. Well, most of them anyway. There were also the crazy people that think I’m dedicated to them and that dancing with Utahime was a sin. We don’t think about them though.”
“Mhmm,” Suguru huffs, and Satoru watches the way his eyes flicker. It’s not enough for just anyone to recognize, but Satoru’s spent lots of time learning each of Suguru’s expressions and mannerisms. Just from that, he can see embers of jealousy smoldering beneath his skin.
“So the company thought it would be a good idea to bring it back this time. The backup dancers and Utahime are coming with us anyway, so why not?” The half-truths slip easily off his tongue, but he knows it’s going to bite him in the ass if Suguru ever asks Utahime about the details.
“Can’t you just wait until tomorrow to practice Sugar then?”
“I could, but I want to practice it now,” Satoru whines, batting his eyelashes, not pulling all the aegyo stops but definitely putting on his best pair of puppy eyes.
"I can’t help you, Satoru,” Suguru sighs, hiding behind his bangs and finding his phone marginally more interesting. “You know I can’t dance.”
Satoru grins, huffing with an eye roll as he stalks over to Suguru, fingers laced innocently behind his back. “Uh-huh,” he hums, leaning over Suguru so he’s forced to look at Satoru. “Like you weren’t religiously watching the MV and dance practice and every single promo stage when it came out.”
Suguru doesn’t look up at him, but Satoru at least gets the satisfaction of watching his boyfriend’s ears turn red and fingers twitch around his phone.
“Sure, it’s probably been a while since you have, but I know you can dance, sugar,” he purrs, crouching down to breathe into Suguru’s ear. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the times I’ve heard shoes squeaking in here when you’ve visited but I got pulled away for recording.”
Finally, Suguru looks up at him, mouth twisted in a grimace, face burning red, glaring daggers at him.
“C’mon,” Satoru whispers, grinning sharply as he holds a hand in front of Suguru, wiggling his fiingers to tempt him. “It’ll be fun, I promise.”
“You’re doing a lot of promising today,” Suguru huffs, glancing unamused between Satoru’s eyes and offered hand. “What do I get if I say yes?”
“Bragging rights.” That gets Suguru’s expression to go from bored to exasperated. Despite that, it’s still adorable, and Satoru can’t help the cackle that slips past his lips, shattering the tension he was carefully building up.
“Try again,” Suguru says, crossing his arms with a raised eyebrow.
“Suguru,” he whines, but his boyfriend isn’t swayed, even when Satoru snakes a hand around Suguru’s arm and tries to tug him upright. Suguru just turns into dead weight, rag-dolling around ridiculously as Satoru drags him off the wall.
“Ugh, fine. You dance with me and we can try out the leash and collar we got a few weeks ago.”
If he were anyone else, Satoru wouldn’t have notice the minute shift in Suguru’s demeanor. But he feels it beneath his hands, the way he twitches just slightly and goosebumps rise along his skin. Suguru locks eyes with him where he’s still half-dangling in Satoru’s hold, blazing and darkening.
“Are you sure?” Suguru asks with feigned concern; Satoru knows there’s none, only excitement and anticipation bubbling at the prospect.
“If it gets you to dance with me,” Satoru says back, apologizing only slightly to his future self for what he’s roped himself into.
Suguru pauses, takes an unnecessarily long time to think about Satoru’s offer. Though he knows Suguru already made up his mind the second the word “leash” left his mouth.
“Deal,” Suguru finally says. Satoru can’t help but grin back at his boyfriend, even if Suguru’s smile borders on being predatory and not appropriate for the workplace. But neither of them are working and they’ve done much, much worse.
He pulls Suguru to his feet easily now that he’s not fighting tooth and nail against Satoru’s grip, planting him back on two feet.
“I’m gonna regret this, aren’t I?” Satoru sighs half-heartedly, trailing his hands up Suguru’s arms to rest on his broad shoulders.
“Why would you regret something you suggested. Both things, might I add,” Suguru teases, the breaths mingling as Suguru tips his head up, eyes hooded, grin sly.
“Fair point,” he sighs again, unable to resist the temptation to close the distance between them, capturing Suguru’s lips with his. Satoru doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of this, especially if every time he’s this close to Suguru feels like the first time. He just feels so much, and right now all he can do is lean closer with a satisfied hum as Suguru tips his head just right. His hands drift up to frame Suguru’s face, giving into the urge and licking across his lips.
“You keep doing this and we aren’t going to dance,” Suguru says between a satisfied groan and the breath of air he tries to take.
“But you just taste so good,” he whines, letting Suguru push him away, but not before Satoru pulls them back flush together, spinning them in circles. “You’re sweet enough to make me sick—”
“Oh my god—”
“—Think I’m addicted to your candy kiss—”
“You need to shut up—”
“—I’m gonna die if I don’t get my fix—”
“Satoru!” Suguru giggles, hair whipping around his face, flush high across his cheeks.
“—I wanna kiss—”
He does, a quick peck on the nose.
“—I wanna touch—”
He does, halting their momentum to drag his hands down Suguru’s chest to rest on his hips.
“—I wanna taste you, sugar, ooh,” Satoru sings, notes falling slightly flat because he can’t stop smiling.
“Brat,” Suguru manages through laughs, shoving Satoru away. “Go put on the music. Let’s get this over with.”
“Nope, not that simple,” he sing-songs back, but does dutifully march his ass back over to his phone. “You need to stretch before we do anything else.”
“Oh, so you’ll order anyone around to make sure they’re taking care of themselves, but the second Utahime wants you to stretch before practice, you throw a tantrum,” Suguru throws back, hair tie between his teeth as he scoops his hair up into a ponytail.
Satoru has to do everything in his power to not throw his plans out the window and shove Suguru against the mirrors, preferably with his mouth. Future Satoru can worry about that. Even if Present Satoru desperately wants to ravish every part of Suguru’s body like the one time Suguru visited him backstage, Present Satoru also wants to dance so badly with his partner to the first song they worked on together.
“Well, that’s because it’s Utahime,” he says, flicking through Melon for background music. He settles on one of the numerous pop playlists, a set list from the most recent award show, and sets it to shuffle. Humming along with the intro’s vocals, he pats the tops of his thighs to the beat of the drums as he spins around.
There, he finds Suguru sitting in the middle of the practice room floor, legs straight in front of him, toes pointed as much as they can in sneakers, torso leaned down as he stretches out his hamstrings. Most days Satoru forgets how flexible Suguru is outside of bed, hands wrapped around the arches of his feet, nose touching his knees. Instead of indulging the urge to lean against Suguru and push him farther, Satoru just watches, observes for a moment before he bends down to walk his hands along the floor, feeling the burn of the stretch, then back up to his ankles. Not much more for him to do since he’s still loose and sweaty from practice earlier.
When he glances back at Suguru, he’s mildly impressed as Suguru stretches his arm across his chest. Apparently, Suguru pays more attention than he lets on if he’s doing the whole stretch routine Utahime has drilled into Satoru by heart.
Satoru hums along to the song, smiling as he watches Suguru bob his head to the beat. He wracks his brain, trying to remember the choreo as the refrain kicks in. The dance challenge was fun, a rare moment where he was actually excited to do one a the group, especially when their lead vocalist asked him so sweetly and their leader endlessly praised his songwriting. Their sound is unique, filled with guitars and drums fitting for a rock group, concept even more unheard of for a third gen performance group, even rarer now as producers switch to synths and noise. Which isn’t bad. But it’s always a breath of fresh air whenever they’re promoting.
Suguru switches stretches, rolling out his neck slowly, not tipping backward since Satoru nearly screamed at him when he caught Suguru doing it once. The refrain closes out, and just because he’s here to have fun, Satoru pops into the position he vaguely remembers, counting up on his fingers and hoping muscle memory kicks in.
One two three four
One two three
The pre-chorus is all smooth bass guitar, each beat punctuating his movements as muscle memory does reliably guide him through the counts. It’s easy enough to start, simple gestures as he pulses. Then the second half begins, clapping overlaid on top of the beats as he steps faster to keep pace.
He catches Suguru’s eyes in the mirror, how they’re locked onto him with burning curiosity. Satoru just grins back, sliding easily into the next move as the chorus winds up, though his steps are a tad hesitant. But even though he’s only danced to this a handful of times for the one relay challenge he recorded, his movements are still sharp and powerful as he dances along.
Pounding bass concludes the chorus, and Satoru rolls his heads to the side to peek at Suguru who’s still staring hungrily at him, stretching forgotten as he leans back on his hands with his legs crossed.
“Have I told you that you should post a dance challenge to this?” Satoru asks, grooving along to the rap as he shuffles over to his boyfriend. “The aesthetic they had for the MV fits you really well, on top of the sound. If I didn’t look at the song credits, I almost would’ve thought you helped produce this.” He refuses to admit how much he’s thought about Suguru in one of the performance outfits: white snapback, leather jacket, white crop top, black cargo pants, hair tied up in a messy ponytail…
“Multiple times, in fact,” Suguru hums, dragging an appreciative hand up Satoru’s calf to rest behind his knee and Satoru out of his thoughts. “But—” he cuts Satoru off just as he’s opening his mouth, “—before you can harass me into doing that, you still owe me this one.”
Satoru can’t help that he perks up instantly, spinning around to switch the music. He nearly trips over his own feet, and if it wasn’t for Suguru and his stupidly strong arms, he definitely would’ve face-planted on the floor. Wouldn’t that be a fun explanation for Yaga?
“Practicing for later?” he teases as Suguru rights him, pulling Suguru up and patting his hands against Suguru’s chest as he leans in, lashes fluttering and breath ghosting over lips.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Suguru snarks, pushing him away with an eye roll. “Put on the music, hurry up.”
“So impatient for your reward,” Satoru chastises, but he does his walk of shame back to his phone to shut off the music. “You should as least remember that we have to run through everything first before we even attempt it with music.”
Suguru groans, head rolling back with so much exasperation Satoru cackles as he pushes Suguru’s head upright. “I hate you.”
“Uh-huh. Sure,” Satoru hums, eyes skimming the floor for one of the tape markers to use as center. But of course there are five different ones littered everywhere thanks to concert rehearsals, and while he doesn’t doubt Suguru’s ability to remember which one they’re using, he misses the days where practice videos were more about fun than just another performance run. When he opens one of the wall cabinets, he’s only a little surprised to find the Cinnamoroll plush still there, the one Utahime used to beat him over the head with during practices early on turned into his first comeback practice marker.
He places it on the floor before turning to Suguru with his hand outstretched, wiggling his fingers. “Alright, c’mere, Mr. I Don’t Know How to Dance. Let’s go through this slowly first just to make sure you know the counts.”
Even though Suguru tries to speed up their pace, Satoru runs them through the chorus of Sugar slowly. There’s a lot of guidance and adjusting, helping Suguru correct his footwork and positioning as they move and sway around each other. And Suguru surprises him by also pointing out little things Satoru should be correcting himself: more emphasis here, less flair there, more emotion before this count, less dramatics after that count.
Suguru’s touches are hesitant and fleeting, and Satoru can see in his eyes that he’s second-guessing himself with each move he makes. He refuses to make eye contact while he has a hand propped under Satoru’s chin, staring at their feet.
Once they have all the movements mapped out and on beat, they run through the choreo a tempo, still without the music but Satoru mutters the counts under his breath. It doesn’t take long for them to get through the entire chorus with no mistakes, even if Suguru’s gestures and expression are still tentative and unsure. Which isn’t bad, especially after not dancing for so long, but Satoru wants more.
He knows how Suguru looks when he gets possessive, how his touch feels when he gets jealous. Is it workplace appropriate? Not in the slightest, but no one’s watching except for him.
And maybe, a small, stupid part of him wants to know what it would be like if things were different. If Satoru debuted earlier. If Suguru debuted later. If they debuted under the same label. If Satoru put all his pride and snark aside and actually debuted in a group. What would it be like to perform with Suguru, no Suguru the producer but Suguru the idol?
It will never happen, an impossibility he’ll never achieve. But the Suguru he has is enough, will give him a taste of the “what if.”
“Music?” he asks quietly, disturbing the tension that’s gathered around him. His hand rests around Suguru’s waist thanks to the small dip they’ve been practicing.
Suguru gnaws at the inside of his cheek, still leaned back and bracing his weight in Satoru’s hand. His eyes dance around as he thinks, bouncing back and forth like a metronome.
“Sure,” Suguru eventually sighs, brushing his bangs that have loosened from his ponytail out of his face. He points a menacing finger at Satoru’s nose, making him go cross-eyed. “Only one time, Satoru. That’s what we agreed to.”
“Fine,” he groans, making a half-hearted attempt at biting Suguru’s finger, which Suguru barely pulls away in time. “But you have to put more effort into it.”
“I am putting effort into it,” Suguru huffs, crossing his arms. “I told you: it’s been ages since I’ve danced, and it’s been,” he checks the invisible watch on his wrist, “never since I’ve danced with someone. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Give yourself more credit. You’re doing great. But—” Satoru cuts his boyfriend off, still holding his weight but using his free hand to grab Suguru’s floating one, pulling him into a spin. “You should act like you’re performing. It’ll help me practice better.”
Suguru gives him A Look.
“What? It’s true!” Satoru whines, tugging Suguru back toward him in an uncoordinated waltz. “Utahime likes to gaslight me into thinking each recording we take will be the one that goes up at the dance practice video. Makes us give it our all each time.”
It’s a blessing and a curse to know exactly how to get under Suguru’s skin. He doesn’t often do it in a manipulative way; only when they both get something out of the increased tension, never when either of them aren’t feeling their best. And if he’s being a hundred percent honest with himself, Jealous Suguru is really, really hot.
Suguru gnaws at the inside of his lip, hands settling on Satoru’s shoulders, grip possessive and sending warmth through his body, fire burning in his eyes. It takes too much willpower for Satoru to keep himself in check, to not dive in and completely ravish Suguru in the sticky humidity of the practice room.
“You are not recording this,” Suguru eventually says, glaring daggers at him.
“And what if I add on that I’ll bark for you tonight?” Satoru bargains, wiggling his eyebrows. While he is teasing, he does really want to record this moment between them. Not to post anywhere—he knows where Suguru draws his boundaries—but just for Satoru to watch, to have this small piece of Suguru, to remember they have danced together in the years to come.
Another flat look from Suguru as he licks his lips, still glaring with all the heat in his gaze from both frustration and want. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to fuel your puppy play or mine?”
“Who knows?” Satoru shrugs, leaning in close so his lips ghost over Suguru’s in a way that makes him shudder more noticeably as Satoru slowly chips away at Suguru’s self-restraint. “C’mon, it’ll be fun. Feel the beat, the lyrics, the movement. Put all this emotion behind it.”
“I know what you’re doing,” Suguru huffs, fingers twitching.
“Is it working?”
Suguru just stares at him, eyes darting between Satoru’s lips and eyes, hands tightening their grip on his shoulders. Satoru watches the delicious moment his partner crumbles, shoulders raising to cover where his ears have gone red, head dipping to hide flushed cheeks from view.
“One time,” Suguru mumbles into Satoru’s chest before he peeks back up to glare at him. “That’s all you’re getting. Then we’re going home and I’m getting my half of whatever this plan of yours is.”
“Deal.” Satoru grins, righting Suguru onto his feet before smushing his cheeks together and dragging Suguru into a ridiculously uncoordinated kiss. Somehow Suguru manages to scoff while Satoru’s trying to lick past the seam of his lips, can vividly see the eye roll that’s being thrown at him despite his own eyes squeezed shut. But Satoru can still feel the predatory smile beneath his own, teeth sharp as they bite down on his bottom lip and tugs.
“Put on the music then,” Suguru purrs, hands trailing down from Satoru’s shoulders, squeezing his chest once, hard and bruising, before pushing Satoru toward his phone.
“Yes sir,” Satoru teases, giving Suguru a little salute before he spins around. It doesn’t take him long to set everything up. He steals Suguru’s phone from his jacket piled in the corner, holding it up to Suguru’s face to unlock before he navigates to Melon while he connects it to the speakers. Starting Sugar is easy since it’s one of the top songs on Satoru’s artist page. The sultry intro starts playing, hips swaying to the beat as he props his phone against the mirror. He makes sure Suguru is centered, Cinnamoroll’s head just peeking into frame as he starts recording.
Satisfied and buzzing with excitement, he saunters over to Suguru, trailing a hand around his waist before he gets into position facing the mirrors. “Ready?”
Suguru sighs, hands clenching and unclenching beside him. “One time,” he repeats, turning so his back faces the camera.
“Don’t fuck up then,” he huffs back lightly, rolling out his shoulders.
For a moment, they’re left waiting in anticipation, pre-chorus building with a steadily increasing rhythm Satoru slightly bops his head to, counting the beats in his head. They make a stunning picture in the mirror: Suguru in his loose long-sleeve shirt, cargo pants, and converse, all black with his hair swaying in his ponytail while Satoru stands there in bright pops of blue and white, a slightly cropped tee and straight bleach-washed jeans. Opposites constantly pulled together by each other’s gravity.
The final eight-count before the chorus thrums in his ears as he takes a deep breath in. He looks back at Suguru, prepared to still see the nervousness and hesitation in his eyes.
What he isn’t prepared for is Suguru looking up at Satoru through his lashes, eyelids hooded and expression carefully blank. But there is so much heat in Suguru’s gaze that it almost turns Satoru into a puddle on the spot.
But the last four beats thump in his ears along with his heartbeat so he forces on that carefully crafted idol mask so he can get through this.
Dance first. Everything else can come later.
They pop away from each other, movements opposite as Satoru mouths along with the lyrics. Suguru reaches an arm out, fingers just barely brushing his chest before the invisible string tugs them back toward each other. Satoru focuses on rolling his head back, on getting his arms and legs in the correct positions and face making the appropriate expressions as Suguru’s touch paints fire across his shoulder. Suguru crouches down in front of him, eye contact intense from the little can see out of the corner of his eye before he walks his fingers up Satoru’s chest.
The hands stop at his neck, not squeezing in the original choreo, but Suguru presses down with just enough pressure that Satoru’s sure he can feel the way his pulse is racing beneath his fingertips. Satoru’s own hand trails up Suguru’s thighs to rest on his waist for support as Suguru rolls backward in a slight dip, hair billowing out in a gorgeous arc.
Satoru spins them slightly, their profiles facing the camera. In reality, just like theater performers, he should never look away from the camera. But he doesn’t look now. His eyes are completely locked with Suguru’s. It’s tantalizing how well Suguru works with him, silent communication passing between them as the song progresses.
He dips Suguru further as he traces a hand up his chest in return, Suguru leaning into him as he hooks a leg around Satoru’s. Fingers trail over his cheek, head tipped to the side as Suguru leans in ever so close, breaths mingling for a split second before Satoru has to pull him up and spin him out and away.
The distance doesn’t last long, their intertwined fingers letting go just for Satoru to wind a hand around Suguru’s neck to drag them back together, heads tilted to the side as he peeks at the camera over Suguru’s shoulder, smirk tugging at his lips. He doesn’t expect the brief dance of fingers along the bare skin of his waist, but he can keep his dick in his pants for more than thirty seconds.
Suguru turns in his hold, back pressed to front, their hands folded together before leaning forward, rolling their hips around in a circle in what’s supposed to be a fake grind. But Suguru doesn’t step forward enough and Satoru doesn’t leave enough room, so Suguru definitely feels how much their entire time in the practice room has affected him, especially when Suguru add in an extra wiggle of his hips.
If not for his mastered idol professionalism, Satoru’s sure his moan would’ve been louder than the music. But he’s able to keep his slowly melting cool, spinning Suguru back around to face him before they’re both crouching down in a lunge.
A hand tucks itself under Satoru’s chin, tipping it up so they’re staring at each other again. Suguru’s pupils are blown wide, lips red from gnawing at them, breaths shuddering in his chest. Satoru’s sure he doesn’t look any better as he wraps a hand around Suguru’s wrist as they slowly rise with the final beats of the chorus.
Sugar keeps playing, his own voice and Suguru’s backtrack quiet in his ears as they both refuse to move for a moment. They’re both panting, Satoru’s mouth dry as he stares at Suguru with so much pride and affection and burning desire.
It’s the simplest twitch of Suguru’s fingers still beneath Satoru’s chin that snaps the tension between them. He’s not sure who leans in first, but he knows Suguru’s hand tightens and suddenly they’re pressed together. Satoru’s hands dig into the soft flesh between Suguru’s ribs and hips beneath his shirt, probably leaving markings and maybe even bruising from how tightly he’s grasping.
They nearly clash teeth with how intense they kiss, sending liquid fire down Satoru’s spine as Suguru winds his free arm around his shoulders. Each lick of Suguru’s tongue makes their noses bump and squish together. It would be uncomfortable if Satoru wasn’t extremely turned on right now.
Like all good things, Sugar ends, the switch between songs jarring enough for them to pull away, panting for a whole other reason now. Every point Suguru touches him at tingles as they stare silently at each other.
“I think you need to come on tour with me,” Satoru murmurs eventually, burying his face in Suguru’s neck and laving his thrumming pulse point with bites and licks.
“That bad, huh?” Suguru manages through a moan, hand drifting to Satoru’s hair and pulling him away.
“Fine, maybe not on tour, but fuck the backup dancers I’m supposed to be practicing with,” Satoru huffs. “I think you lied to me and you can, in fact, dance.”
“Pretty sure that’s just your horny brain talking,” Suguru groans, hiding his face in Satoru’s chest, though Satoru just manages to see the embarrassed flush on his cheeks that’s, quite frankly, adorable. If Suguru didn’t tuck away, he’d bite at them.
“It could be, but I seriously doubt it,” Satoru hums, pulling Suguru close and rocking them back and forth, nosing his way into Suguru’s hair and smelling his shampoo and sweat. “But we unfortunately can’t get a second opinion since I’m positive you would find a way to kill me in my sleep if I did.”
“I do, in fact, know where you sleep,” Suguru mutters threateningly with a squeeze around the base of his neck, making Satoru shudder from everything but fear.
“But in all seriousness, you did really good. I’m really impressed, and you should be proud of yourself.”
“Shut up. I didn’t do it because I wanted to. You did bribe me into this, and I expect what I’m owed.”
“Eager beaver,” Satoru chastises, but he knows if he had ears and a tail, they would perk up and wag fast enough to send him to outer space. He gives Suguru’s ass a not-so-gentle smack and a bruising kiss before he pulls away. “Get your stuff then. I’m not gonna go back on my word.”
Sneakers squeak behind him, and Satoru can’t help but chuckle, bending down for his phone to stop the recording and disconnecting Suguru’s phone from the speakers. By the time he turns around, Suguru’s somehow managed to pull his hoodie back on, slip his snapback over his head, and push his mask on his face.
“Not a word,” Suguru grumbles, holding his hand out.
Satoru weaves their fingers together, slipping Suguru’s phone into his pocket. “I wasn’t gonna say anything!” he whines, but he still tugs Suguru close and finds his lips over his mask. The barrier between them forces him to be chaste, but Suguru still shoves his face away, tips of his ears red as he drags Satoru out of the practice room as he cackles, flicking the lights off before the door shuts on his hand.