Work Text:
To his credit, Madara doesn’t immediately dismiss it as a joke. He stares at Chiaki for a long moment before he asks, “Does Kanata-san know you’re here?”
“It was his idea, actually,” Chiaki says. “Well. Sort of.”
Madara raises an eyebrow. “I find that veeery difficult to believe.”
“It’s true,” Chiaki insists, scrubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “We were in the middle of…” He trails off, gesturing vaguely, but Madara understands well enough; at his nod, Chiaki continues, “...but it didn’t feel—right, somehow, so we stopped. It was like something was missing. We could both feel it. And that’s when Kanata said: ‘If the rogue were here, I bet he would know.’” Madara winces, but Chiaki continues, undeterred. “I know how it sounds—but as soon as he said it, we both knew.”
“Knew…?”
“You were there at our start, Mikejima-san. If—if not for you, who knows if we would have found our way back to each other. Found a way to understand each other. You’re an inextricable part of our relationship, whether we like it or not. I don’t mind,” he’s quick to clarify, “But you know how Kanata is.”
“All too well,” Madara says, tone lighter than his heart feels. “So I’m still not sure why he—”
“You were there at our start,” Chiaki repeats in a rush, like if he doesn’t get the words out now, he worries he never will. “So we feel like you should be there at our start for this, too. Our—our first time together.”
And there it is again, the part of this that keeps tripping Madara up. Despite everything they’ve discussed, the proposition Chiaki came to him with in the first place, this might be the thing that’s surprised Madara the most. “You’ve really never…?”
Chiaki shakes his head. “I know no one believes it, but we didn’t start dating until after graduation. It hasn’t been as long as everyone thinks. We wanted to take our time, get it right…but now I’m wondering if we took too long to get here.” He hesitates, then adds, “It’s not that we haven’t done anything! We just haven’t done—everything, y’know? So when we finally had some time to ourselves, we thought maybe…but it still didn’t feel right.
“I know that it’s selfish, and unfair, and maybe inappropriate and definitely humiliating to ask this of you, Mikejima-san, but—it’s for Kanata, and if this will help me make him happy—then I’m sorry, but none of the rest of that matters.”
Chiaki’s flushed by the time he finishes speaking, and the look Madara fixes him with isn’t helping matters. “Maybe our senses of justice aren’t so different, after all,” Madara murmurs, studying him carefully. “What?” Chiaki asks, but Madara just shakes his head. “Nothing. Just thinking how much you’ve grown from that lost kid I met by the pool a few years ago. So, tell me, Chiaki-san: is that your wish?”
It’s Chiaki’s turn to stare, knocked off-kilter by Madara’s response. It’s a phrase that would sound innocuous to most—but to them, it’s anything but. A reminder of the god Kanata once was, of the hard-fought battles it took to get here: perhaps Chiaki should take it as the warning it surely is. Perhaps he should take the out Madara is giving him, laugh it off like he hadn’t meant a word, like it was all just a joke in exceedingly poor taste—but he wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be asking in the first place, if he weren’t completely sure. His eyes are fixed on Madara’s as he responds, determined to make him see the conviction in his gaze; his reply is the one he’d never given Kanata, no matter how many times he’d asked. “Yes.”
Madara wishes his own heart were as unwavering in its resolve as Chiaki’s—but therein lies the difference between them, he knows. He might—he will regret this, but that doesn’t make him want to be a part of it any less. “Alright, then,” he agrees, and he thinks the regret might be worth it just for the hope that dawns in Chiaki’s gaze. “Really?” he asks, disbelieving, and Madara chuckles. “Don’t sound so surprised. You know Mama helps those in need, Chiaki-san.” That’s how we all ended up in this mess in the first place, he thinks, doesn’t say. “Just tell me where you want me.”
—
The room is lit only by the glow of the TV screen and Kanata’s aquarium, illuminating the three figures on the couch: Madara on one end, Kanata the other, Chiaki between them, practically radiating nervous energy. “We’re just watching a movie, Chiaki-san,” Madara reminds him; Chiaki stutters out a, “Y-yeah, of course, I know that,” in response, but Madara knows his words have fallen on deaf ears. They’d put on the movie as a pretense, a way to ease into the real reason he’s here, but now he’s starting to realize it’s just given Chiaki too much time to think.
Madara reaches for the remote, hitting ‘pause’ and turning his attention to the other two instead. Chiaki looks alarmed, but Kanata’s expression is impassive, returning Madara’s gaze silently. “First observation: Chiaki-san, this isn’t anything new, but you’re too caught up in your own head.” He directs his next words to Kanata. “Is he usually like this when you’re…?”
“Yes,” Kanata answers at the same moment Chiaki exclaims, “No!” Kanata’s response sinks in after a beat and Chiaki turns to him, worry knitting his brow. “...I am?”
Kanata lifts a hand to cup his cheek, thumb stroking gently across his skin. “It’s like Mikejima said—it isn’t anything 'new.' That’s just how you are. You care too much. It’s 'part' of what I love about you. But 'sometimes,' I think it…” He pauses, searching for the right word; Madara can’t help but volunteer, “...paralyzes him a bit?”
Kanata’s eyes narrow, but he can’t deny that Madara has it exactly right. “Mm.”
Chiaki slumps back against the couch, Kanata’s hand falling from his face to settle on his knee. “I guess I knew that, I just thought I had it under control enough that it wasn’t getting in the way.” He glances sidelong at Madara, a sheepish smile ghosting across his lips. “Guess if that were the case, you might not be here.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s entirely on you, Chiaki-san,” Madara says, and the look Kanata fixes him with is enough to chill anyone to the bone. “What’s that supposed to 'mean'?”
Madara, of course, isn’t just anyone—Kanata’s ice cold gaze and tone roll off him like the gentlest waves lapping at his heels. “That remains to be seen,” he responds, sounding cheerful as ever. “Now, why don’t we forget the movie and just get down to business? Sure, it’ll be awkward, but it’s already awkward, right? The sooner we can get past it, the better.”
He’s right, and they both know it. Kanata’s already starting to move, leaning in, his hand on Chiaki’s knee inching higher as he murmurs, “If the rogue insists…”
“Kanata-san.” Madara’s tone is sharp enough that even Kanata hesitates, glancing past Chiaki to where Madara sits, looking unimpressed. “Yes?”
“I let it slide before, but let me remind you of the ground rule I set before we started this. No—”
“No calling you 'rogue' or 'Mikejima,'” Kanata parrots back at him. “I got it…Mama.” Madara beams; Kanata rolls his eyes, and leans in to press his lips to Chiaki’s neck.
Chiaki lets out a little noise of surprise, lifting his hand to the nape of Kanata’s neck, fingers sinking into his hair, anchoring himself. Kanata’s lips are warm against his skin, his breath warmer, and it’s not long before Chiaki’s grip tightens just enough to guide Kanata to his lips instead, their mouths meeting with a sigh of satisfaction, of relief. They’ve been waiting long enough that even Chiaki seems to disregard the fact that they have an audience, relaxing visibly as soon as Kanata’s lips are on his.
Madara is here to watch. To observe, and to tell them what it is he sees—what they’re too close to see.
What he sees right now is this: the flash of Kanata’s tongue as he licks into Chiaki’s mouth; the strength in Chiaki’s grip as he pulls Kanata into his lap, Kanata’s knees settling on either side of his hips; the way Kanata grinds down against him, his intent clear, until Chiaki is pulling away from his lips with a gasp, insisting, “We shouldn’t make a mess on the couch—”
“You’re doing it again, Chiaki,” Kanata tells him in a lilting tone, pressing a quick kiss to his lips, “But, well. I 'guess' you’re right.”
“Tomoe and Amagi-senpai were nice enough to let us have the room,” Chiaki says, swallowing thickly; Kanata’s hips haven’t stopped moving, and it’s taking everything in him to concentrate on what he’s trying to say. “We should be c—considerate of the—of the shared space.” His fingers tighten on Kanata’s hips, a silent, desperate plea, and Kanata finally stops moving, a smirk that’s equal parts mischievous and fond playing across his lips.
“You’re such a good boy, Chiaki-san,” Madara chimes in, and the smile falls from Kanata’s face as he shoots Madara a glare. Madara ignores him. He’d said he would only observe, but he’d never promised to remain silent. Chiaki, meanwhile, is trying to calm the blush creeping into his cheeks at being called a good boy in this situation; Madara makes a mental note of his reaction, filing that away for later. “If we relocate,” he says instead, “Where d’you want me?”
“You can 'sit' on Kunshu-san’s bed,” Kanata tells him as he climbs off Chiaki’s lap, extending a hand to help him up. “He won’t mind.” Normally Madara would object to Kanata offering up someone else’s bed in a situation like this, but, well—from everything he knows about Amagi Rinne, he thinks that might actually be true.
Kanata pulls Chiaki close as soon as he’s on his feet, wrapping his arms around him and kissing him deeply once more. “Chiaki…” Madara hears him murmur when he pulls back, so quiet he can hardly make out the words, “You’re so 'warm'...”
Madara is reminded, suddenly, of that night on the beach two years earlier—that night when, once again, all he could do was watch—watch and hope against hope that this time, Kanata had finally found the hero who could save his heart, who could protect him in all the ways Madara had failed to.
Watching them now, he realizes that he had nothing to worry about.
Chiaki’s eyes are blazing as he pulls Kanata back in for another kiss, hands sinking into his hair; Kanata’s hips press to Chiaki’s, kissing him back just as fiercely.
Maybe Chiaki was right, Madara considers. Maybe he has been a part of this, of them, for longer than he’s realized—always from a distance, but always there, in some form or another. Maybe it does make sense for him to be here now, as unconventional as it may be. After all, they’ve never claimed to be anything approaching normal: a former god, a hero, and the lost boy caught between them and his own sense of justice.
Still, he can’t say he ever thought they would end up here—feeling his mouth go dry as he watches them undress one another, close enough for him to reach out and touch, yet somehow still oceans away. This may not be about him, but that doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate the view: Chiaki’s toned body tangled up with Kanata’s delicate figure that belies the strength Madara knows he possesses, the hickies visible on Chiaki’s collar when he strips his shirt off, the faded fingerprint-shaped bruises that decorate Kanata’s thighs. They’ve left their mark all over each other, both physically and otherwise. Kanata trips as he’s kicking off his pants and Chiaki catches him, and the way they dissolve into giggles makes Madara feel like he’s intruding. Feeling both like he belongs here and like he’s in the way within the span of moments: he’d grown used to Kanata giving him whiplash years before, but sometimes, he still manages to make Madara’s head spin.
They leave a trail of clothes in their wake as they make their way to Kanata’s bed; Madara generously refrains from mentioning Chiaki’s earlier concern about ‘consideration’ as he follows after them, hiding a smile. He perches on the edge of Rinne’s bed as Chiaki, now down to his boxers, goes to retrieve the necessary supplies from Kanata’s bedside table, tossing them on the bed. Kanata reaches for him, and just as Chiaki joins him on the bed, Madara speaks up. “I have another observation.”
They both turn to him at once, blinking in surprise. Did they actually forget I was here? Madara wonders, baffled, but forges ahead anyway. “I know Mama prooobably shouldn’t be encouraging unsafe sex, but—” he gestures to the items beside them. “Is the condom necessary? Chiaki-san, this is your first time, and Kanata-san, you’ve only been with Shu-san, right?”
Kanata’s gaze is like ice. “How do you 'know' that, rogue?”
Madara lets the nickname slide, this time. “I knew everything about you back then, Kanata-san. It was my duty. Plus, it’s not a secret, right? At least, not from Chiaki-san.”
Chiaki shakes his head. “Kanata’s told me. I know the relationship he had with the Eccentrics was—something special.” He sounds like he knows it’s something he’ll never fully be able to understand, respect tinged with the slightest bit of sadness, and Madara doesn’t miss the way Kanata’s thumb strokes gently across the bare skin of Chiaki’s hip as he nods. “What’s your 'point,' r—Mama?” Some of the frost has melted from his tone, though he still sounds wary.
“My point is that you’re both, presumably, clean—and Kanata-san, don’t you prefer things wet?” It’s not really a question—not when the answer is so obvious.
“That’s true,” Chiaki says anyway, looking around at Kanata with wide eyes, like he’d never considered that before, simple as it is. Bless him, Madara thinks fondly, not for the first time. “Mikej—Mama has a point, Kanata. What d’you think? Maybe messier—wetter is better?”
Kanata hums contentedly, shutting his eyes and smiling to himself. “Wetter is 'always' better, Chiaki.”
Chiaki smiles and presses a kiss to his forehead, reaching past him to drop the unused foil packet back on the bedside table. “We’ll give it a try, then.”
They kiss until Madara can hardly tell where one of them ends and the other begins; by the time they part, they’re panting, and after a quick murmured exchange, Chiaki reaches for the bottle of lube as Kanata eases his boxer briefs down and off, casting them aside with the rest of their discarded clothes.
Madara’s not unaware of, not immune to, Kanata’s beauty. He’s been otherworldly, ethereal, for as long as Madara has known him; gods don’t exist, but if they did, they would surely look like Kanata. And to see him now, like this—completely bare, legs parted, one knee pushed up, errant blue locks falling into his eyes as he gazes up at Chiaki with so much trust that Madara, once again, feels like he’s intruding—he looks more vulnerable, more alive than Madara’s ever seen him.
The snap of the lid brings Madara back to himself, and he watches as Chiaki coats his fingers with lube and sets the bottle aside. He rubs soothing circles against Kanata’s inner thigh with his clean hand as he presses the other to Kanata’s entrance, starting to work him open, one finger at a time. Kanata’s expression grows a little strained, his erection wilting a bit; Chiaki’s murmuring softly to him, but it’s clear how much he hates putting Kanata through this, even if the discomfort will only be, should only be, temporary.
This, Madara can tell, is what they’re hung up on, what they’ve struggled to get past—the real reason he’s here. “It’s normal for this part to be uncomfortable,” he offers, though he’s sure that’s nothing they don’t already know; it’s common sense, and they’re clearly not struggling with the mechanics of any of this. “It does start to feel better, I’ve heard, but also…” and here he hesitates, trying to figure out how best to tread lightly—not his strongest suit—in a situation such as this. Kanata’s chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, Chiaki two fingers deep inside him, both of their attention focused on him: Madara isn’t easily affected, but this is a bit much even for him, heat rising in his cheeks as he forces himself not to avert his gaze. “I do have another…observation.” It’s not an observation so much as a suggestion. “What if Kanata-san topped instead?”
Again, the simplest of solutions; again, it’s like they’d just needed someone else to voice it, to give them permission to consider an alternative. They stare at him, and then at each other, for a long moment, until Chiaki is withdrawing his fingers, apologizing repeatedly as Kanata winces. Chiaki sits up, attempting to put the slightest bit of distance between them, to let them both think more clearly. Madara continues, “Honestly, when you first suggested this…I thought that’s where this was heading.”
“Why?” Kanata asks, regarding Madara warily. Because I know you both, better than you realize, he doesn’t say. “Let me ask you a question,” he says instead. “Not to keep dredging up the past, but—when it was you and Shu-san, who was on top?”
“'I' was,” Kanata says. “It was the only way Shu could 'relax' enough to—oh.” Kanata’s eyes widen as his gaze returns to Chiaki. “I’ve never thought of Shu and Chiaki as…'similar,' before.” He tilts his head, considering, and Madara takes his silence as his cue to keep talking. “There’s also you yourself to consider, Kanata-san,” and he knows no amount of ‘treading lightly’ will help him here. He forges ahead before Kanata can interject. “There’s the question of how much ‘power,’ for lack of a better term, you’re willing to concede to Chiaki-san.” He sees a flash of something dangerous in Kanata’s gaze but continues nonetheless. “I know you trust him. That’s not what this is about. This is about you and how you grew up perceiving the world. You’ve come so much further than I thought you would, than I thought you could, in such a short time, and a lot of that is thanks to Chiaki-san, but—there are still things you need to unlearn. To allow yourself to unlearn. You can work your way up to this. And that goes for you, too, Chiaki-san.” He turns his attention to an uncharacteristically quiet Chiaki, who looks like he can’t even begin to sort through his spiraling thoughts. He glances up at Madara, admitting, “I just…never thought that’s the role I’d take, that’s all.”
Honestly, Madara gets it. “Maybe that’s because it isn’t what’s right for you. Maybe there’s a conversation to be had here about, I dunno, societal expectations and gender roles, but that’s not why I’m here. Maybe you should tell me to fuck off and ignore everything I’ve said. But let me just say this: bottoming doesn’t make you any less of a man—or any less of a hero. Deep down, you know that. If it did, you wouldn’t ask that of Kanata-san either, would you?”
He’s right; Chiaki knows he’s right the moment the words leave his lips. He shakes his head, stunned and a bit ashamed of himself. For all his overthinking, this was one thing he’d approached too simplistically, as though it were a given, without taking into consideration everything Madara had managed to see and lay bare for them in a matter of minutes. “Thank you…Mama,” he says before turning to Kanata, barely able to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice low. “I’d never even given it a second thought—never asked you what you wanted, I just assumed on my own…”
Kanata makes a small noise of disagreement. “I was also 'going along' with what I thought was 'right.' I would have said something, otherwise. But…maybe Mama is right. Maybe I need to 'work' up to it.” Chiaki nods, no hesitation or equivocation whatsoever, and leans in to press a quick kiss to his lips. “You know I’ll wait as long as you need.” Now, he knows—that leaves the question of himself.
“As I said, Chiaki-san: just because the idea’s now in your head, that doesn’t mean you have to do anything about it. It might be just the thing you need to let go enough for you to both enjoy yourselves—but it doesn’t have to be tonight.” Next to Chiaki, Kanata is nodding solemnly. “Put everything else aside,” Madara advises. “How do you, yourself, feel about the idea of bottoming for Kanata-san?”
Chiaki takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes, and lets himself imagine it. Kanata stretching him open, those long fingers seeking that spot inside; Kanata’s body blanketing his, arms around him, cock sinking deeper than his fingers could reach; the noises Kanata would make as he bottomed out; feeling so full, being closer to Kanata, to his warmth, than he ever could have dreamed—
Chiaki feels his whole body go hot, and as his eyes open to the sight of Kanata’s face, close and curious and so, so beautiful, any remaining doubts vanish from his mind. His erection, which had flagged in the midst of their earlier discussion, is once again straining in his boxers, leaking precome at the mere thought of Kanata inside of him. “I—I think I want to try it,” he says, and he would do anything at all if it meant he could see that spark of wonder in Kanata’s gaze every day for the rest of his life.
Madara watches Kanata reach for Chiaki, watches them kiss, ignoring the way his heart twists in his chest—somewhere between wistfulness and envy, though he couldn’t say precisely which of them he’s more envious of. He watches as Kanata’s hips roll up against Chiaki’s, as Chiaki pulls Kanata closer with his clean hand, as the two of them break their kiss and gaze at one another like they have eyes for nothing and no one else, matching smiles on their faces like the idiots in love that they are.
Madara loves them both—can’t stand them—would kill for them—and wishes he were anywhere but here.
He speaks up once more when Chiaki goes to reach for the tissues beside the bed, correctly guessing that he intends to wipe his hand clean. “Chiaki-san…wet is good, remember? Don’t worry about getting a little messy.” Chiaki hesitates for only a moment before he obliges, his fingers leaving slick trails across Kanata’s hip as he pulls him back in for another kiss, Kanata making delighted noises against his lips.
Madara has no idea how much time passes next. It could be half the night, or a matter of mere minutes; when he thinks back on it later, it returns to him only in a series of snapshots. Chiaki clutching the sheets as Kanata opens him up with his fingers and a genuinely excessive amount of lube; Kanata watching his fingers move inside Chiaki with a fascination Madara recognizes, remembers all too well, though never quite like this; Chiaki going down on Kanata to get him nice and wet, surfacing with his chin smeared with spit and precome, and Kanata dragging him into an enthusiastic kiss; the head of Kanata’s cock pressed to Chiaki’s entrance, pushing in as Madara reminds Chiaki to relax, to breathe.
Throughout it all, Madara hardly takes his own advice—grip white-knuckled on the sheets of Rinne’s bed, on his own thigh, digging his fingers in to keep from palming himself through his jeans, cock aching with every whimper from Chiaki’s lips, every moan from Kanata’s. As Kanata’s hips meet Chiaki’s, finally bottoming out, Madara hears Chiaki curse and can’t help but chuckle—he didn’t even know Chiaki was capable of that. “That good, huh, Chiaki-san?” Madara comments, to keep himself sane as much as anything else, because if he has to act like he isn’t here, keep quiet and do nothing but listen to the sounds of them fucking—no, making love—he thinks he might never recover. Chiaki’s already flushed face turns an even deeper shade of red, and Kanata scolds Madara: “Do not 'tease' Chiaki, rogue,” but Madara sees the fond smile on Kanata’s face as he leans down to kiss Chiaki and knows he finds it just as endearing.
Madara doesn’t bother to correct Kanata’s use of his nickname. He knows the words would only fall on deaf ears, particularly as Kanata starts to move, hips drawing back and thrusting in, hesitant at first but quickly growing more confident. It’s not long before Chiaki is moaning into Kanata’s mouth with each thrust, fingers digging fresh bruises into Kanata’s hips, his bare back. Madara glances toward the door warily, thinking how lucky it is that the Seisoukan rooms are soundproofed. Chiaki is loud under even the most innocent of circumstances; in this situation that’s decidedly not, even with Kanata’s lips muffling the noises that fall from his own, he’s no different.
Neither of them lasts long, once Kanata finds his rhythm. Madara can tell Chiaki is close when he starts reaching out blindly, arching his hips up, trying desperately to get even closer, though they’re already as close as two people can be. Kanata’s hips stutter for only a moment as he reaches back, grip tight as he laces his fingers between Chiaki’s, three years’ worth of dedication and anticipation and longing wrapped up into that singular touch. Madara’s gaze is fixed on their hands, their intertwined fingers, as Chiaki comes; streaks of white paint his abs as his cock pulses untouched between their bodies, his lips parted on a silent moan, his sweat-damp hair in disarray. Kanata isn’t far behind, drawn over the edge alongside him, and Madara knows: the way Kanata gasps Chiaki’s name as he comes will haunt him for the rest of his life.
The feeling of Kanata filling him up has Chiaki wrapping a leg around the back of Kanata’s thigh to pull him even closer, hold him even deeper; they’re too overwhelmed, exhausted, to kiss properly, panting into each other’s mouths as they attempt to catch their breath. Only once Kanata gives up on holding himself up, collapsing atop Chiaki and pressing his face into his neck, does Chiaki start to protest, shoving at him half-heartedly. “C’mon, Kanata—you’re heavy—well, no, you’re not, but—at least pull out first—” and that’s what it takes for Kanata to stir, looking around in interest as though he’s just been reminded of something. He moves to oblige Chiaki’s request; Chiaki winces at the loss, the emptiness a hollower feeling than he anticipated. Still, Kanata’s fingers linger at his entrance—not pressing in, just waiting, his gaze fixed between Chiaki’s legs. Chiaki flushes, sitting up on his elbows to see what it is Kanata seeks—and as Kanata’s come starts to spill out, Chiaki understands.
“Look how wet you are, Chiaki,” Kanata murmurs, his tone verging on reverential, fingers coated with his own come.
“Yeah,” Chiaki breathes, lying back on the bed, and the way he gazes at Kanata even when Kanata isn’t looking back makes something ache deep within Madara’s chest. “That’s how wet you made me, Kanata,” Chiaki starts to say, before he has to bite back another curse as Kanata dips his head to lap at the come spattered across Chiaki’s stomach. He licks him clean as his own come continues to trickle over his fingers, until Chiaki’s cock has started to stir with interest once more, until Chiaki is pushing feebly at his head, warning him, “If you keep doing that, I’m gonna be ready to go again…and we still have an audience…” His cheeks are burning once more as his eyes lock with Madara’s.
Kanata reluctantly ceases his ministrations and pulls back, sitting up and studying his own hand before turning his gaze to Madara instead. The room is quiet for a long, tense moment—until the last person Madara expects breaks the silence. “Thank you…Mama,” Kanata offers, none of the poison Madara had anticipated in his tone, only a sincerity that he once knew all too well. Beside him, Chiaki is nodding. “We were so caught up in the way we thought things should be that we didn’t see the simplest solution staring us right in the face,” he says. It’s far from the first time Madara has guided them as such; he somehow doubts it’ll be the last.
“Now,” Chiaki says, gaze traveling deliberately from Madara’s face to where he has his hands carefully folded in his lap, obscuring the bulge in his jeans, “Will you let us do something for you?”
He isn’t subtle. “I didn’t agree to this because I expected anything in return,” Madara says, and even as he says it, he’s unsure whether or not he’s lying.
“That’s not what Chiaki 'asked,'” Kanata says. “It doesn’t matter what you expected. 'None' of this is what we expected. The question is if you will let us 'thank' you properly.”
Once again, Madara is being presented with a choice. Once again, he knows there is a right answer; he knows there is a wrong answer. He knows which is which. And still, still, he chooses incorrectly. “What’d you have in mind?”
Minutes later, Madara is seated on the edge of Kanata’s bed as a hastily cleaned-up Chiaki sinks to his knees before him, wincing at the unfamiliar ache as he settles into place. He urges Madara’s hips off the bed just long enough to tug his pants and boxers down, freeing his cock, and Madara would be lying if he said it weren’t a relief. Chiaki swallows visibly at the sight of Madara’s cock: Kanata isn’t small, but Madara, well. Madara is big everywhere, it seems.
“You should be careful what you wish for, Chiaki-san,” Madara tells him as he threads a hand into his hair: a warning vague enough that it could be dismissed as nothing, or perhaps the best advice he’s given Chiaki all night.
“I trust you, Mikejima-san—Mama,” Chiaki says, gazing up at him with such guileless eyes that Madara has to shut his own. “You shouldn’t,” he says, but even as the words leave his lips, he knows—he’ll never deliberately hurt either of them, will never breathe a word of what’s happened in this room to anyone else, will never stop protecting them, even when it wounds him in turn. He’s grateful when Chiaki doesn’t dignify that with a response, opting instead to lean in and take Madara’s cock between his lips; Madara’s hand tightens in his hair, swallowing down a shuddering moan as the head of his cock hits the back of Chiaki’s throat. Chiaki may not be the most experienced, but it hardly matters: his enthusiasm, combined with the night’s activities and how long Madara has been aching to be touched, is more than enough. Not to mention—
Madara can hear Kanata shifting on the bed behind him, though he doesn’t turn to look; hears him take a drink from the water bottle beside the bed and internally praises him for contenting himself with drinking it rather than upending it over his head. You’ve come so far, Kanata-san. He stares down at Chiaki’s head in his lap, struggling to keep his hips still as Chiaki hollows his cheeks, sinking down as far as he can go; as he pulls back, tongue tracing the underside of his cock, Madara’s fingers card through his sweat-damp hair, murmuring praise. “You’re doing so well, Chiaki-san. That feels so good—” and he watches with satisfaction, his earlier suspicions confirmed, as Chiaki’s ears turn pink, redoubling his efforts. He’s got a praise kink. It’s hardly surprising, but endearing nonetheless. He wonders if Kanata knows—if he should tell him. Kanata is startlingly observant about some things and utterly oblivious about others, and he’s unsure which category this falls into. He decides to risk facing Kanata’s wrath. “Kanata-san, did you kn—”
The words die in his throat as Kanata, still entirely naked, drapes himself over Madara’s back. He slings an arm over one of Madara’s shoulders, peering over the other to gaze down at Chiaki. His face is close to Madara’s, so close, when he speaks next. “It looks like Chiaki is 'worshipping' you.” He tilts his head as though trying to make sense of his own observation while Madara tries to make sense of any of this—Kanata voluntarily clinging to him, Kanata agreeing to this in the first place even though Madara knows full well how jealous he can get, Kanata’s bare body so close that Madara can feel the heat of his skin through his own shirt, the warmth of his breath against his cheek. “You should be so lucky…Mama,” Kanata concludes. With that, he laces a hand into Madara’s hair, urging Madara to turn toward him; the moment he does, Kanata kisses him, and all Madara can do is drown in it.
Embarrassingly, that’s all it takes for him to come—not even enough time to pull away from Kanata’s lips to gasp out a warning before he’s spilling down Chiaki’s throat, though he couldn’t honestly say he would have broken their kiss even if he did have the presence of mind. After all, Kanata is kissing him—Kanata. This is something he hasn’t allowed himself to dream of in years, something he doubts will ever happen again. He’ll be damned if he lets it end on his own account.
He’s grateful that any noises he makes are muffled by Kanata’s mouth on his own, tongue between his lips, still tinged with the taste of Chiaki’s come. Kanata swallows each of his moans, and by the time he pulls back, the corners of his lips are turned up in a knowing smile. “Fufufu, did you 'come' when I kissed you?” It’s Madara’s turn to flush; Kanata’s tone isn’t malicious, but he still feels guilty as he glances down at Chiaki, who had managed to swallow everything Madara had to give without choking. Chiaki wipes his mouth as he sits back on his heels and shrugs up at Madara, commenting, “Can’t blame you there.”
Madara watches Kanata pull Chiaki into a kiss, watches as Kanata kisses the taste of his come from Chiaki’s tongue, and all he can think is how much he needs to get out of here. After all these years, he’s learned to rely on his fight or flight instinct, to listen when it’s screaming at him to do one or the other—and right now, as the post-coital clarity sets in, flight is the only option.
Chiaki offers some token protests, but Kanata recognizes Madara’s desire to escape as the necessity it is. “Let him 'go,' Chiaki,” he says, his eyes not leaving Madara’s, his hands not leaving Chiaki’s. “He’s done enough. More than enough.” Madara isn’t sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but as he bids them farewell, there’s a softness and a sadness in Kanata’s eyes he hasn’t seen since they were children, and he thinks—maybe it’s better if that question remains unanswered.
The door clicks shut behind him, and the silence in its wake is deafening. He’s plenty used to feeling lost, like he needs to keep moving at any cost; like if he stops, everything he’s running from will catch up to him. This time, though, he feels paralyzed, rooted to the spot, his body as heavy as the heart thudding uselessly within his chest. He could return to his own room, he knows, but he spends so little time there that it hardly feels like his space, like anything resembling a home—not to mention that Wataru and Sora would see through him in an instant, as dangerously observant as they tend to be. He reaches for his phone just for something to do with his hands, as though it will offer him an answer—and surprisingly, it does.
Three unread messages blink up at him from the screen. One is from Leo, an excited, half-coherent message about a new song he’s written for him; his eagerness is enough to set a smile tugging at Madara’s lips, and Madara thinks (not for the first time; not for the millionth time) how grateful he is for Leo’s existence. He sends off a few emojis in reply, just appreciative enough but carefully noncommittal. He adores the songs Leo writes for him—always has, always will—but he’s cautious to temper his enthusiasm so that Leo never fears that’s all Madara wants from him.
The other two messages are from Kohaku.
the members want me to invite you over next time you’re around
i think rinne-han and himeru-han want to interrogate you but p sure niki-han just wants to feed you
Madara stares down at the messages for a long moment. He knows Kohaku doesn’t mean now, knows full well it’s not an open invitation, and yet—he finds himself moving before he’s even made the conscious decision to do so, his feet carrying him to the stairs, down to the first floor, leading him right to Kohaku’s door. He stands there for a beat too long, at war with himself though unsure why; if he’s come this far, he reasons, he may as well see it through. He lifts a hand, knocks, lets his arm fall back to his side, waits, waits—
—and just as he’s about to give up, turn away and retreat to his own room, the door opens, revealing a perplexed-looking Kohaku. “Madara-han? I didn’t even know you were in the country. What’re you doin’ here?”
Madara chuckles, lifting a hand to the back of his head, face scrunched up in embarrassment: he hadn’t thought this through, hadn’t even bothered to come up with a plausible-sounding excuse. “I was in the neighborhood, and it’s been a while, so I thought I’d drop by…” He’s rambling, but it’s not like that’s out of character for him. Kohaku eyes him skeptically, but Madara is saved from his questions by a voice calling from the room behind him, “Sakura-kun, who is it?”
“Madara-han,” Kohaku calls back, before lowering his voice to address Madara once more. “D’you wanna come in?”
“You sure?”
Now Kohaku looks suspicious. “’Course. What’s up with you? Normally you would’ve barreled your way in here by now, with or without permission.” Still, he steps aside to let Madara in; Madara crosses the threshold, eyes gradually adjusting to the darkness of the room. He catches sight of Jun, seated on the couch in front of the TV; Madara raises a hand, offering up a greeting and an apology for intruding, and as he does so, he notices Hiyori is there as well, peering over the edge of the couch with narrowed eyes. He’d clearly had his head in Jun’s lap and sat up just enough to assess Madara. He looks knowing, but says nothing. Madara doubts Kanata told him the exact reason he was exiled tonight, or at least the fact that Madara was involved, but then again—with Kanata, all bets are off.
“We were just watchin’ a movie,” Kohaku says, shutting the door and making his way to Madara’s side. “You wanna join? Or did you need something?”
With a pang, Madara remembers how this evening had started—the pretense they’d attempted, quickly abandoned. “Mm,” he agrees through gritted teeth. “I’ll join you. But…could I use your shower first?”
Kohaku and Jun exchange a glance; Madara is grateful that neither of them asks why he doesn’t just use his own, only a few doors down. Jun nods, and Kohaku turns to Madara, making a noise of agreement. “C’mere. You can borrow a towel.”
Madara trails after him, waiting patiently as Kohaku retrieves a towel and holds it out to him. He reaches out to grasp it, but Kohaku doesn’t let go, tugging it a little closer to himself so that Madara glances up, finally meeting his eye. “D’you wanna talk about it?” Kohaku asks, voice low; Madara offers him a smile that he’s sure doesn’t reach his eyes and a small shake of his head. “It’s nothing to worry about, Kohaku-san.” Kohaku doesn’t look reassured, but he drops it—for now, at least. They’ve always respected each other’s silence and secrets, after all; they have more need for them than most.
Madara retreats to the bathroom, towel in hand, feeling their eyes on him until the door shuts; he turns on the water, strips off his clothes, steps under the spray and does his best not to think.
It’s easier than he expects. He feels empty already; it’s only one step further to empty his mind, too.
He does feel the slightest bit better as he steps out of the shower, a few of his sins washed away, even as he changes back into the same clothes—nothing of Kohaku’s or Jun’s would fit him, after all. He gazes at himself in the mirror, considering his hair, hanging loose around his face; he decides to leave it, exiting the bathroom in a cloud of steam to join the others.
Jun pauses the TV once more as he approaches, dutifully ignoring Hiyori’s exasperated sigh; Kohaku is staring at him so intently that Madara can’t help but ask, “What is it?”
Kohaku shakes his head. “Just…never seen you with your hair down, that’s all.” It’s then that he seems to realize something and moves to stand, to offer Madara his seat, as there isn’t enough room for all of them on the couch, but Madara shakes his head and sits himself down on the floor near Kohaku’s feet. “I’m fine right here.”
“If you’re sure…” Kohaku says, shoving the bowl of popcorn in his hands into Madara’s before settling back against the couch. “Shall we continue?” Hiyori asks, his head settled in Jun’s lap once more, and with noises of agreement all around, Jun hits ‘play.’
The movie itself is nothing special, but this, Madara thinks, isn’t bad: Hiyori and Jun’s occasional biting commentary, Kohaku’s soft laughter, the odd handful of popcorn. It feels—normal, in a way his life rarely does.
About ten minutes have passed when Madara feels a hand on his shoulder, pressing insistently. He glances back at Kohaku, who gestures vaguely, coaxing him back against the couch. “C’mere.” Madara obliges, confused but curious, and as his back settles against the edge of the couch, he feels Kohaku’s fingers sink into his hair. He freezes, and Kohaku does too. He glances back over his shoulder once more, and Kohaku holds up his hands, asking, “Is this okay? I braid my sisters’ hair, sometimes.”
Madara feels a pang somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. “Mm.” He nods, settling back against the couch again as Kohaku’s fingers run through his hair once more.
He’s not idealistic enough to think I could get used to this, to believe that such peace could ever last for them. He’s fully aware that isn’t the life he—or Kohaku—has chosen to lead, after all, no matter how little of it began as a choice for either of them. For now, though: he loses himself in the feeling of Kohaku’s small hands carding their way through his hair, braiding it precisely, as though Madara himself is someone precious, something to be handled with care. He leans back into Kohaku’s touch, feeling a spark of warmth he just barely recognizes, and allows himself—just this once, just for a moment—to surrender to it.