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Yuma can’t sleep. It is 11 p.m., the lights are still on, Euijoo and Fuma are talking, and he is doing his absolute best not to be pissed about it.
Sure, maybe he’s one of the few members who actually gets to bed at a decent time, and maybe that’s a bit of a “downer”—Maki’s words, not his—but Yuma likes the rest. He likes waking up refreshed and energetic amongst sleep-deprived zombies. And eating breakfast in peace. And getting to the shower before everyone else. There are more than a few perks.
It’s not easy being an early-sleeper in a dorm of nine boys, and for what it’s worth, Euijoo and Fuma are far from the worst roommates he could have landed with. They’re considerate, they clean up after themselves, and they try to respect Yuma’s need for order as much as possible. At least they aren’t Maki and Nicholas, who spend the latter half of each morning griping at each other for staying up so late. Or Taki, whose room definitely violates a few health code regulations on a bad day. Yuma shudders at the thought.
No, his roommates are perfectly bearable, so he cuts them some slack. Usually, he lets their quiet conversations serve as white noise, drifting off to Euijoo’s gentle intonation and Fuma’s stifled laughter. Yuma doesn’t eavesdrop, though. Most nights, the words blend together, more sound than anything else as he settles into sleep.
But tonight—
“. . . wasn’t expecting him to pick Yuma, too.”
His name jumps out of the fluff, jolting him awake. The white paint of the wall greets him as his eyes flutter open. He strains to hear more, keeping as still as possible; he may not be an eavesdropper, but he’s more than willing to break that rule if the conversation regards him.
Euijoo laughs, and Yuma can picture the demure smile spreading across the leader’s face as he thumbs through his phone. “Really? He likes Yuma best. Everyone knows it.”
Context. What is the context? Yuma racks his sleep-addled brain, wishing he’d started listening sooner. He faintly recalls their “Weekly Idol” filming being the topic of conversation earlier, when he was more conscious. Are they still talking about it?
More importantly, who are they talking about?
“Better than Kei-hyung?” Fuma replies, surprised. “Taki always picks him.”
Ah. It all clicks into place. The self-profiles, a category dedicated to everyone’s favorite member “these days”—a specification meant to inspire diverse answers, though it didn’t stop Harua and Maki from picking each other for the umpteenth time. Typical variety show fodder. Taki was one of four members who had chosen Yuma—something he’d tried not to be too visibly embarrassed about—but Yuma had hardly given it any thought. Now that he thinks about it, Euijoo and Fuma had picked him, too. So why are they questioning Taki’s choice?
Well . . .
Yuma’s hands twist around the edge of his blanket. It is a little strange for Taki to choose him over K in anything. After all, K and Taki are a unit—unanimous, unending, inseparable. Yuma hangs out with the two of them often, but he could never come close to having their bond, and he’s okay with that. He gets it. They still mesh well as a trio, and that’s all that matters. Yuma had marked both of them down as favorites in his own profile and thought nothing more about it. But for Taki to pick him . . .
“Kei-hyung is different,” Euijoo says sagely. “They’re like family. Kei said it himself. But Taki has always favored Yuma.”
Fuma hums. “I guess you’re right.”
“What do you mean?” Yuma’s voice seems louder than usual when he speaks, echoing off the walls of their room.
The following silence is sheepish.
Yuma eases upwards, blinking the light out of his eyes before looking at them. They’re congregated on the bottom bunk, Euijoo cross-legged near the edge and Fuma reclined against the wall—both wearing the expression of children who have been caught sneaking sweets.
“Sorry, Yuma-kun,” Fuma starts. “We didn’t mean to wake you—”
“No, I want to hear, too.” Yuma’s gaze flits intently between them. “What do you mean, he’s always favored me? Taki.”
Grimacing, Euijoo and Fuma share a long, unreadable look. Yuma hates when they do that. It’s like they’ve got some sort of leader-slash-sub-leader telepathy, communicating all their thoughts in a single glance. It’s terribly exclusive.
Finally, Fuma takes the reins. His tone is cautious, like a father trying to explain a complicated concept to his child. Yuma’s not a big fan of that, either. “Taki admires you a lot, Yuma.”
Euijoo chimes in. “He has for a while. I still remember how thrilled he was that you were picked for his unit in &AUDITION.”
Yuma remembers it, too. Slipping through the practice room door to be greeted with doggish excitement, Taki perking up the moment their eyes met. He’d seemed so young back then, all round and soft and smiling. It had chipped at Yuma’s resolve—that determination to not get attached while his debut was still on the line—more than he cared to admit.
It’s weird to think about it now. A version of themselves that seems so dated. So unfamiliar.
“Right.” Across the room, Fuma is nodding his assent. “What was it he said in that interview? Something about being overjoyed . . . ?”
“‘Over the moon,’” Euijoo corrects him, grinning. “He was practically gushing about it later.”
Sure, that’s cute, and maybe Yuma would smile too if he didn’t still feel like he was missing the point. What are they trying to say? “So? He was excited. I was too. That doesn’t mean he favors me.”
He isn’t sure why this matters to him so much. It just feels weird, to be so close to Taki and yet be told he doesn’t know the half of their relationship. They must be exaggerating, right? If the guy really liked him that much, he’d let him win at Smash Bros every once in a while.
Euijoo and Fuma just watch him quietly, the amusement in their eyes almost secretive. Yuma bristles. “What? It doesn’t.”
“Maybe,” Euijoo begins, and there’s that parental tone again. The two of them should really consider adopting. “But Taki does let you get away with a lot.”
“What are you talking about?”
Fuma chuckles shortly. “Let’s just say he doesn’t let just anybody push him around on live.”
“Or pinch his cheeks,” adds Euijoo.
“Or tease him to hell and back.”
“Or—”
“Okay,” Yuma interrupts, feeling strangely hot. “I get it. But Taki’s just like that. He’s laid back. He laughs things off. And you all tease him, too, you know.”
Euijoo hesitates. “We do, but—”
“But he doesn’t let us slide for half as much,” Fuma finishes, perfectly serious. “He’s got a soft spot for you, Yuma. Haven’t you noticed?”
“. . . No.”
Yuma hasn’t. He’d never even thought about it. But as he mentally sifts through their interactions, hours upon hours of bickering, he realizes with mild horror that he can’t recall a single time Taki pushed him away, or told him to knock it off, or even seemed slightly bothered by his antics. Yuma frowns. That’s concerning, to say the least. The kid should really learn to stand up for himself.
Or, maybe, Fuma is right. Yuma isn’t sure how to feel about that.
Euijoo seems to read his hesitance, and doesn’t press him. Disentangling his long legs to slip off the bed, he pads over to the light switch, bidding them both goodnight before plunging the room into sweet darkness at last. But it’s too late—Yuma feels restless now, far from sleep. His mind keeps replaying the same memory over and over again, like a broken record; the two minutes after he’d entered that practice room, before Maki and Hikaru had come and it had just been him and Taki, cross-legged on the wooden floors. The conversation had been brief, timid but friendly. A beginning.
Taki has always favored Yuma. Euijoo had said “always,” specifically. Yuma wonders if Taki had hoped to debut with him, even back then.
He bites his lip, shooing the thought away. Taki is nowhere to be seen, peacefully sleeping a few rooms over, but it still feels strangely intrusive to wonder about something like that. Either way, Fuma and Euijoo’s words have sparked an infuriating curiosity, one that eats away at him as he tosses and turns.
For the first night since the three of them became roommates, Yuma is the last to fall asleep.
~
Taki is up first the next morning.
Yuma knows he’s been beaten the moment he steps out of the bathroom, hair still dripping and muscles stiff from sleeping curled up all night. A pale strip of light spills down the hall from the kitchen. Distantly, Yuma hears someone shut the fridge, considerate enough to do it gently.
It’s not Euijoo, who blearily weaves past Yuma with an acknowledging mumble to claim the shower. It could be Jo, or even Harua—both are thoughtful enough to try not to wake anyone—but neither of them will be up for another half hour. Besides, Yuma’s come to know the steady sound of those footsteps. He isn’t the only morning person in the group, after all.
He slinks down the hall, turning into the kitchen.
The real Taki is much less uncertain and intimidating than the rose-colored one in Yuma’s late-night flashbacks—bumbling, boyish, and blinking the sleep from his eyes. He’s still in his pajamas, cream-colored silk that pools around his ankles as he props himself against the counter. One hand scrolls through his phone, while the other is half-wedged into a pint of matcha ice cream.
Yuma grimaces at the sight. Really? For breakfast? The kid’s setting himself up for a stomachache. Even Yuma, ice cream lover that he is, would have the good sense to wait until after noon. He doesn’t have time to judge much, as the sight of Taki has another, less familiar feeling bubbling in his chest—something sheepish, flighty. The memory of last night’s conversation is all-too-fresh in his mind, along with all the confusion that had come with it. Yuma suddenly feels like he’s in grade school again, edging shyly towards a stranger in his class—which is ridiculous, of course. The last time they talked was less than 12 hours ago.
Still, he wonders. Could what Euijoo and Fuma said really be true? Does Taki really hold him in such high regard? Has Yuma underestimated the adoring light in which the younger views him all this time?
He stiffens as Taki looks up, surveying him with tired eyes. The corner of his lips twitches upwards.
“Ha,” he says. “Beat you.”
Yuma relaxes. Maybe not.
“You shouldn’t be eating that this early,” he replies, crossing the kitchen to pick up the container. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
Taki hums, unconcerned. His eyes have returned to his phone. “It motivates me.”
“. . . If you say so.” Yuma sets the ice cream down. Then, he looks back up, processing Taki as if seeing him for the first time in years. His eyes trace the curve of the younger’s profile, from the mole on his jaw to the sleep-rumpled bangs plastered against his forehead. The stylists had dyed his hair recently, from brown to an ashy silver. The fans love it, and so do the members, who had fawned and preened and teased him the entire afternoon of. Yuma has mixed feelings about the change. It makes Taki look older.
Taki notices him staring, casting a sideways glance from his screen. He lets out a long-suffering sigh. “All right. You win.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll eat something else. Something healthier.” Scooping the ice cream up, Taki deposits the tub back in the freezer. He gives Yuma a playful nudge on the way out of the kitchen. “Gonna shower first, though.”
“Euijoo-kun is in there,” Yuma says distantly, but Taki’s already gone. For a moment, he stands frozen in place. That was . . . weird. Has Taki always been this easily swayed? Normally, Yuma wouldn’t think much of it, but that was his favorite treat. And he’d just put it away because of one offhand comment. Yuma hadn’t even been that serious—he feels a little mean, to be honest.
Taki does let you get away with a lot. Euijoo’s words echo in his head, some creepy manifestation of his conscience. Yuma had shrugged the claim off before, but now he might actually have to consider it.
A quiet exchange reaches his ears, from further down the hall. One of the voices is Taki’s—still waiting for Euijoo to get out of the shower, probably—and the other is the low murmur of Nicholas, who’s just rolled out of bed by the sound of it. The older’s tone is bargaining.
“Do you still have that brown t-shirt? The one you wore in your vlog.”
“Yeah. I think so. Why?”
“Would you mind if I borrowed it? Maki and I are going to match today.”
“You don’t have a brown t-shirt?” Taki sounds incredulous. Yuma, leaning across the counter to eavesdrop, shares the sentiment.
“I do, I just . . . don’t have the right shade.”
“Well, sorry. That one’s my favorite.”
“Your favorite shirt is a plain tee?”
“Says the guy who wants it so badly.”
“What about a trade? You can borrow anything you want.” The conversation is beginning to sound like the kind Nicholas and Euijoo have at least twice a week. Unlike Euijoo, however, Taki is immovable.
“No, thanks,” he replies, in a voice that’s light but final. “Try Kei-hyung.”
The bathroom door creaks open, and fifteen seconds later Nicholas trudges into the kitchen alongside a damp-haired Euijoo, grumbling something about teenagers.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a brown t-shirt, would you?” he asks Yuma dejectedly.
He shakes his head. “Sorry.” Then he makes eye contact with Euijoo, whose expression is cryptically knowing. Yuma’s stomach twists, and he looks away.
This time, as he busies himself by rummaging through the cupboards, Fuma’s frank voice haunts him instead: He doesn’t let us slide for half as much. He’s got a soft spot for you.
There’s only one way to know if he’s right.
It’s a simple test. One that Yuma plans quickly and efficiently. Once most of the members are up and milling about, and Taki has been out of the shower for a good fifteen minutes, Yuma creeps over to his room and raps on the door frame.
“Come in,” Taki calls, and he does.
Taki’s room is what the other members would call “messy,” what Maki frequently calls “appalling,” and what Taki himself likes to deem “misunderstood.” Yuma, who lies somewhere on the neutral area of the spectrum, can only admit it looks better than last time he visited. Clothes, dirty and clean, are strewn across the floor and hanging off his dresser. His bedside table is mostly occupied by crumpled snack wrappers and one lone, half-empty, plastic waterbottle. The bed is unmade.
Sitting on the mattress’s edge is Taki, now comfortably clothed in a gray jacket and sweatpants. Nothing flashy. He’s never been one to dress up for rehearsals; that’s more Nicholas’s field. He’s bent over, pulling on a pair of white socks, but still twists to catch a glimpse of Yuma.
“Hey. Time to go?”
“Not yet.” Yuma rocks awkwardly on his feet, just inside the doorway. He’s been in Taki’s room thousands of times by now, but something about this time specifically has his heart racing. Weird. “I just wanted to ask a favor.”
“Oh, yeah?” Taki snaps to attention, silver tufts of hair bouncing as his head pops up. “Shoot.”
Yuma’s mouth twitches slightly at the sight. Cute. Not important. Trying to sound both casual and purposeful, he replies. “You have that brown shirt, right? I was wondering if I could steal it for practice today. I need something loose, and—”
“Sure.”
Yuma falters, his scripted spiel not even half-over. “Sure?”
“Yeah. Not like I’m wearing it.” Fetching the shirt in question, dangling precariously off of a dresser drawer, he wads it up and tosses it over. “Here you go.”
Yuma continues to stare at him. Taki frowns.
“What? It’s clean.”
“You said Nicholas couldn’t borrow it,” Yuma says, forgoing his secrecy out of pure bewilderment.
Taki’s confusion morphs into understanding. His mouth parts in a silent oh. A moment passes before he shrugs, giving a simple reply: “You’re not Nicholas.”
“. . . Oh.”
How is he supposed to argue with that?
Yuma ends up wearing it to practice. What else can he do? This, of course, leads to Nicholas sulking and Euijoo staring, the latter’s eyebrows shooting up at the sight of Yuma draped in a brown, one-size-too-big t-shirt that suspiciously matches the one Nicholas had been refused. Cheeks burning, Yuma chooses to ignore them both.
~
The second test is much more straightforward.
It takes place in the living room, dimly lit and unoccupied. The dorms are sleeping; everyone has retreated to their own rooms to either go to bed or spend the next few hours quietly on their phones. All, that is, except Taki and Yuma. As usual.
The TV is on, Smash Bros washing the room in vibrant colors. Yuma watches the endless loop of Yoshi posing in victory and Captain Falcon applauding politely from his little window in the corner. A big, blue number 2 marks his placement. It’s a humbling sight.
They’ve long stopped playing. Yuma’s controller had died in the final act of the last match (which, he claimed, was the only reason Taki had earned his sixth victory in a row), bringing their tournament to a screeching halt. Grinning at his excuses, Taki plugged it in and opted for waiting around until it had enough battery for a few more rounds. But now, as they lay boneless on the couch, staring at their phones, that plan seems to have been all but forgotten. Yuma figures the controller was probably done charging ten minutes ago.
Their hands are tangled together—at some point, Taki’s had inched over to grab Yuma’s, and he now plays idly with the older’s fingers. This is normal, a habit of his. Usually, Yuma would object to it. Letting Taki touch your hands is dangerous; you never know when he’ll pop a joint or two. But tonight, Yuma isn’t worried about pain or mischief. All he can think about is the warmth of the younger’s skin. The way his callused fingertips trace over each knuckle.
Maybe what Euijoo had said goes more ways than one. Maybe Yuma also lets Taki get away with more than he should.
He thinks he’s probably just too lazy to move his hand.
Still, their closeness feels different tonight. Supercharged. Everytime Taki shifts closer, heat radiates off him, that same heat creeping through Yuma’s fingers, up his neck. Something is different.
Yuma is probably just imagining things. As far as Taki knows, tonight is just like any other. Which it is.
Well, sort of. Yuma is still confused. His little t-shirt test, meant to close a case, had only raised even more questions. Since then, he’s gotten no closer to figuring anything out. Taki’s inexplicable soft spot for him, the silent meaning behind Fuma and Euijoo’s words, his own feelings on the matter—it’s all a mystery.
A small, rational part of him begs him to give up. To forget it all and move on. After all, Taki isn’t acting any differently than he normally does. But that only bothers him more. Taki makes exceptions for him and Yuma has no idea why.
He’d waited for a moment like this for his next experiment—them alone, sleepy. Loose-lipped. This might have not worked otherwise. He opens his mouth to speak.
Taki beats him to it. The younger’s head turns, angling towards him again. “It’s probably charged now. Want to go another round?”
Yuma’s mouth snaps shut, recalculating. His eyes flit down to their hands, still joined. They’re similar in size, but contrasting otherwise—Yuma’s slim and pale, Taki’s tan and sturdy.
His reply is snarky. Safe. “What, and let you beat me again?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Taki’s lips purse in a slight pout. Sleek, silver curls obscure his eyes. Yuma thinks he’s finally gotten used to the color now, though a part of him still longs for that mousy brown hue that saw them through their debut. “I thought you liked losing.”
“Oh, I love it. But I can feel myself expiring.”
“Yeah.” A yawn. “Me too.”
Seconds pass, then a minute. Taki’s fingers remain curled around his wrist. Yuma goes for it.
“So,” he begins, voice taut and teasing. “I’m your favorite, huh?”
A beat. Taki’s grip slackens, ever so slightly, and Yuma’s heart plummets. But then the response comes, as nonplussed as it could possibly be. “Mhm.”
Chancing a glance, Yuma sees Taki scrolling through Twitter again and feels a stab of irritation. How dare he act so casual about the whole thing? Like they’re discussing the weather or something. “Be serious,” he grumbles.
“I am.”
“What about Kei-hyung?”
“That’s different.”
“How?” Yuma challenges, though he has a sinking feeling he already knows the answer.
Kei-hyung is different. They’re like family.
“. . . Isn’t it obvious?”
But Taki has always favored Yuma.
Yuma’s palms are sweaty. Nervously, he flexes his fingers, spreading them apart. Taki’s fingers slot through the spaces seamlessly, as if it’s the obvious response. As if they belong there.
Something in Yuma’s chest trips. He looks back up.
Taki’s eyes are no longer on his phone, or the screen across the room. They’re meeting his, dark and wide and imploring. The moment passes in a flash. Hastily, the younger lets go, withdrawing the warmth of his hand, clutching it to his chest like an injury. Before Yuma can even blink, the game is closed, the TV switched off. Taki, on his feet.
“I’m going to bed,” he says quietly. Gently. Disappointed? Yuma isn’t sure. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And then, Yuma is alone, curled into the corner of the couch and staring at his reflection in the dim TV screen.
Another failure.
~
“All right, what did he do this time?”
K’s room is nice for a few reasons. It’s spacious, relatively tidy, and most importantly, empty. Except for K himself, that is. But Yuma doesn’t mind his company. The only drawback is that, with each visit, it begins to feel a bit more like a psychiatrist’s office.
Stretched flat across the foot of the bed, Yuma’s words come out muffled in the covers. “Who?”
“You know who,” K replies impatiently—unlike Euijoo and Fuma’s parental guidance, his tone tends to border more on wine aunt. “Taki. You’ve been acting weird around him all week. Did you two fight again?”
Yuma withers, sinking deeper into the bed. So it has been noticeable. He hadn’t meant to let his persisting confusion distance the two of them, but he can’t help it—not when every little touch sends goosebumps up his arms, and every shared look sucks the air from his lungs. Being around Taki used to be easy; now it makes Yuma feel like he’s running a marathon.
“Yuma.” A socked foot nudges against his ribs at the lack of a response. K sounds concerned now. “Is it really that bad?”
Slowly, Yuma rolls onto his side, looking at him through lopsided sheets of hair. “Do you think Taki favors me?”
“What?”
“He said I was his favorite. Do you think he meant it?”
“He said . . .” K, arms crossed over a baggy t-shirt, squints at him a moment longer before realization dawns on him. “Oh, the Weekly Idol thing. When I went through all that trouble to spare his feelings only for him to choose you anyways. That brat.” He says the word fondly, as a pet name rather than an insult. His gaze sobers as it returns to Yuma. “Of course he meant it. Why wouldn’t he?”
“I don’t know. I . . . Fuma says he’s got a soft spot for me.”
“Fuma did,” K says thoughtfully, more a statement than a question. “Well, he’s definitely not wrong. Taki likes your company. He might even prefer it to mine.”
Yuma’s head snaps up. “Really? Why?”
K gives him an odd look. “Because you’re fun to be around? And closer to his age than me. It’s not rocket science, Yuma.”
“I guess,” Yuma mumbles. He feels stupid. There’s something he’s trying to crack here—something deeper—but he’s not sure what it even is, much less how to put it into words. Frowning, he gradually sits up as K continues.
“I mean, you chose Taki as one of your favorites, didn’t you?”
“That’s different.” Yuma cringes at the sentence as it leaves his mouth. It’s exactly what Taki had said that night on the couch. Hardly an answer.
“Is it, though?” K shoots back, cocking an eyebrow. “I mean, you treat the kid like a giant puppy. Always poking and prodding at him, giggling when he does something silly . . . And you’re faulting him for being fond of you?”
His words are merciless, revealing, sending heat rushing into Yuma’s face. Suddenly, those interactions feel a lot less excusable than they’ve always been. “I’m not faulting him,” is the only response he can come up with.
“Well, whatever’s going on, the two of you are too crazy about each other to stop talking. And I can’t be the mediator. You’re grown up. So is he.”
“So . . .”
“So talk about it.” K reaches out, jabbing Yuma’s chest with a pointer finger. “Preferably soon. You’re bumming me out.”
And with that, he slumps back against the headboard, turning his phone on. The faint music emanating from YouTube Shorts marks the end of another haphazard therapy session.
Yuma knows he’s right. K usually is. But it still takes him a few days to come to grips with it. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to talk to Taki—it’s that finding the right moment feels near impossible. It’d be much easier to spring the subject on him if he didn’t seem to have amnesia about the last night they spent together. Yuma still remembers the torn expression on his face, illuminated by synthetic TV colors, and how it had vanished completely the next day. Just like that, everything had gone back to normal. He hates how Taki does that. Moving on without ever unpacking anything.
Yuma can’t afford to be that carefree. He wants things to go back to normal, sure. He wants it more than anything. But it can’t be superficial. He needs whatever this creeping feeling is, trapped inside of him, out. And if closure will help with that, then he’ll just have to get Taki alone.
Ironically, Smash Bros serves as yet another gateway to opportunity. Yuma had been plucking up the courage to ask for a while, but Taki had beaten him to it. They couldn’t grab the TV this time—the older members had wanted to watch a movie—so instead they now sit cross-legged on Taki’s bed, frantically mashing the Joy-Cons and groaning whenever the tiny tablet topples over on the mattress. It’s so close to normal—Taki’s whoops of victory, Yuma’s increasingly loud complaints each time he loses. A muffled stomping noise from the room over (Nicholas or K telling them to shut up, probably) finally subdues them into sheepish silence. Defeated, Yuma collapses backwards onto the pillows.
“Hey,” Taki’s voice comes indignantly from his right, “don’t quit. I made my bed for this.”
“What’s the point? I’ll never win.”
“Aw, don’t be like that. You can pick my character this round.”
“There’s no way this can be fun,” Yuma grumbles, stretching. “Beating me every time. It can’t be that entertaining.”
“I beg to differ.” Taki flops down next to him, propping his head up with a fist. “You always put up a good fight. And besides,” a smarmy grin unfurls on his face, “you’re cute when you’re being a sore loser.”
That same stumbling feeling, like he’s missed a step or two on the stairs, fills Yuma again. Warm and nervous. This would probably be a good time to bring things up. Things like favoritism and that night in the living room and the fact that Taki still hasn’t asked for his shirt back.
Instead, Yuma retreats to the safety of his usual response—violence.
Taki is smart, an experienced roughhouser, and swiftly lurches out of the way to avoid being grabbed. Jerking to an upright position, Yuma pursues him. Heeding Taki’s panicked cry of “the Joy-Cons,” he sweeps the controllers aside before latching onto one of the younger’s legs, preventing an escape. A beginner’s mistake, he soon realizes, as he nearly gets kicked in the face twice.
Sometimes, fighting Taki feels easier than talking to him. Maki often says that Yuma gets “cute aggression.” Yuma thinks that Maki gives Taki way too much credit.
They’re both giggling now, a flailing mass of limbs and claws. Taki is younger but taller, and quite a bit broader, too. He could easily win this, and they both know it. And yet, tonight he hardly puts up a fight. His hands plant on Yuma’s chest, attempting to shove him off the bed, only for the latter to seize his wrists and force him backwards. Taki crashes into the mattress with a screech that earns them another chorus of stomps from the living room. Knowing he can’t hold him down with his arms alone, Yuma resorts to the game-ender, planting one knee on each side of Taki’s torso.
Finally, he stills. Yuma looks down.
The sight is laughable: Taki pinned underneath him, arms flailed, his silver hair clinging to the covers and fanned out like he’s been electrocuted. His shirt collar is askew, one sleeve bunched up and nearly hooked over his shoulder—how did that happen?
He looks so ridiculous, Yuma could laugh. Should laugh. Normally, he would. But he doesn’t. Maybe it has something to do with the look on Taki’s face, calm and complacent. Like there’s nowhere he’d rather be.
Yuma is suddenly overtly aware of the fact that he is straddling him.
“You let me win,” he says, breathless.
Taki shrugs. “Maybe.”
Yuma swallows. Beneath him, Taki’s chest rises in slow, steady movements. Yuma’s fingers, still trapping his wrists, brush over his pulse—a rapid pitter-patter that betrays his stillness. Yuma can feel his own heart hammering against his ribcage. It’s probably from the exercise. But maybe not.
Taki doesn’t struggle. He doesn’t show any desire to, either. He just keeps looking up at Yuma, sipping in shallow, inaudible breaths. Maybe this is what draws Yuma’s attention down to his lips—plump and parted and as familiarly foreign as the rest of him.
Something in the air shifts. It’s silent enough to hear a pin drop now. Taki’s throat bobs, and Yuma feels like he’s on the crest of a roller coaster—heart in his throat, stomach steeled for the fall.
What would it take to beat Taki at something for once? To shake him the way he’s shaken Yuma?
There are probably a few different methods he could come up with. Yuma chooses the stupid one. Before he can think better of it, before he can really think about it at all, he darts forward, kissing the corner of Taki’s mouth. Not full-on—even now, he’s not that brave—but close enough. It lasts a second, maybe two. Too quick to process much besides the tickle of Taki’s bangs and the hot air puffing between his lips. The way his entire body seems to tense at the contact.
Pulling away is terrifying. Looking is even more so. In a way, Yuma seems to have succeeded. Taki looks properly shaken, his eyebrows suspended upwards and his mouth frozen in a silent gape. But he doesn’t say a word. His eyes, wide as they may be, hold no horror.
Yuma is frozen, too, staring back down at him. What is he supposed to say after doing something like that?
“Yuma-kun.” Finally, something manages to escape Taki—his name, perfectly neutral. Not a question nor an accusation. A statement, weak and wonderstruck.
He’s not mad. He’s not even trying to move.
Heat blooms in Yuma’s cheeks spreading rapidly through the rest of his body. The squeezing in his chest has dulled to an ache. “You let me do that too,” he says, flushed and frustrated and perplexed. “Why . . . ?”
Taki doesn’t answer right away. He’s blushing too—a dusty pink that creeps across his features, spreading from his face to his ears. Yuma wonders, with another pang of horrified disbelief, if he’s always been so handsome. There’s no way that happened in the past few seconds, right?
The silence feels eternal. Taki’s reply is gentle, timid. So unlike him.
“Because I like you.”
Oh. Oh.
How had Yuma never considered that?
Suddenly, it all makes sense. Alleged “soft spots” and freely lent t-shirts and holding hands on the couch. The seemingly endless patience Taki has had for him since debut. And, back even further, blinding lights and audience cheering and the blur of Taki speeding across the stage, pulling Yuma into his arms like he’d been waiting.
He speaks, and it comes out in a whisper. “Since . . .”
“Since always,” Taki replies, raw and honest, like he means it, means it in a way Yuma couldn’t fully comprehend until now. He sits up, pressing their chests flush and bringing their faces dangerously close. There’s nothing ashamed in his expression, no regret or reproach. But there is hesitance. Worry. “. . . You?”
Yuma’s mouth feels dry. Faintly, he remembers what K had said about fondness. All those instances of pestering he’d reflected on come rushing back—only this time, it’s him he’s focusing on. Clinging onto Taki, grinning at his slip-ups, smoothing his hands over a new haircut or rubbing his cheek absentmindedly on live. Taki, who never fights. Who never complains. Steadiness embodied, warmth personified. Who was seventeen when they met and yet always seemed leaps and bounds older. Who pulls Yuma in despite all of his active efforts to deny it.
Maybe he’s been the one with the soft spot all along.
“Yeah,” he finally replies, shakily. “For a while, I think.”
The air between them feels fragile, carrying the confession carefully. Taki nods, just as cautiously. He’s blank-faced, but his eyes speak volumes, filled with so much relief it puts a lump in Yuma’s throat.
“Can I—” he begins and Yuma nods, so quickly it surprises him.
As terrifying as the thought of a real kiss had been before, from Taki it feels disturbingly right. When feverish hands slip around him, cradling him by the neck, by the back, something finally clicks into place. Yuma melts into the touch, letting his hands settle onto warm shoulders. He wills his face to cool down, begging himself to get a grip. This is new, he tries to reason, but it’s fine. It’s just Taki.
His heart skips a beat. Oh God, it’s Taki. Taki, kissing him like he already knows all the steps. Like it’s something he’s rehearsed in his head—something he’s wanted to do for ages. And maybe he has.
Yuma hadn’t got as much of a head start. He’s clumsy, inexperienced, nearly dying of embarrassment everytime Taki’s hands shift and he squeaks. But he’s also the first to chase the other’s lips when they break for air, intoxicated, intrigued. His hands have slid to Taki’s collar now, fiddling with the cotton, brushing against the skin underneath. Shivering, Taki pulls away, resting their foreheads together, eyes still half-shut.
“God, I’m sorry,” he mumbles, and Yuma manages a brittle laugh.
“For what? I kissed you first.”
“Not telling you sooner. I didn’t know—I guess I just thought it was stupid.”
“You’re not the stupid one, I am. I should have realized sooner.”
Taki gives his own, broken variation of a chuckle. “You are pretty oblivious. Maybe we’re both kind of stupid.”
“Yeah,” Yuma agrees, grinning. “Idiotic. I mean, did you really think holding my hand out of the blue was going to work?”
“Hey.” Taki frowns, something defensive slipping into his voice. “I hold your hand all the time. I wasn’t trying to, like, come onto you or anything.”
“Right. I’m sure.”
“All right, that’s enough.” Taki’s fingers pinch at Yuma’s ribs in retaliation, making him yelp and leading to another scuffle that sends them flying across the bed. This version, however, involves a lot less kicking and a lot more kissing. Yuma’s not fond of this new method of cheating. What has he gotten himself into?
Eventually, they lose energy, collapsing in a panting heap and declaring a truce. Long after the movie has ended and the other members have shuffled to bed, the two of them lie side-by-side, too tired to move. Their hands have gotten caught somewhere in the middle, threaded loosely together on the covers. Yuma’s thumb traces over Taki’s lightly.
“I’m your favorite,” he murmurs, and the statement has a weight to it. New meaning.
Taki, messy-haired and sleepy, hums in agreement. “Definitely.” A split second passes, a moment of steady breathing. Then, softly, “And I’m yours.”
Yuma nods, glad the darkness hides his smile—he’s still got some pride intact. His knee bumps gently against Taki’s. “Yeah. You could say that.”
“What about Kei-hyung?” The question comes in a poor but familiar imitation, and there he is, the boy Yuma knows and grudgingly loves—playful and sweet, dressed in honeys and browns. Annoying, but cute enough to get away with it.
Yuma’s reply carries its usual biting mischief, though fondness warms it. “That’s different.”
“Yeah. I guess so.” This time, when Taki’s fingers slide between his, there’s intention to it. A commitment. Through the darkness, his eyes are crinkled. “I’ll have to start working for first place.”