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1
Fuma isn’t one for sleepovers. He’s always been someone who keeps his space to himself. Growing up an only child, there was never much reason for him to share a room, much less a bed, with anyone that wasn’t family. Even as an adult going on dates, they ended before bed or at the other person’s place, whether out of respect for flatmates or pure convenience. Most dates never felt significant enough to warrant a mosey over to Fuma’s place.
Nicholas is not most dates.
They’re on Date #7—in itself a feat in Fuma’s books because most people get impatient after the third date and Fuma’s never been the type to linger if he isn’t interested. Fuma watches as Nicholas, wrapped in a spare towel after they’d caught the initial downpour, takes a sip of ginger ale. Lightning crackles outside the window next to them, casting sharp shadows on Nicholas’ features. Fuma reaches over to push wet strands of pink hair off his forehead, watching as he leans into his touch.
“Stay the night,” Fuma hears himself say. “Or at least until the rains die down. There’s no way any cabs will be out in this rain.”
Nicholas isn’t really in any state to return to the outside world. His jacket, jeans, and socks are in Fuma’s dryer. His ridiculous boots are hanging upside down in the bathroom to drain. As a result of Nicholas being a man that prioritizes fashion over anything else, the downpour left him in a cropped tank top and boxer briefs before Fuma lent him a pair of joggers (his one other, non-Pokemon printed pair). Fuma lets his eyes scan Nicholas who leans back into the sofa armrest with a lazy smile, taking in the soft skin of his waist, the dip of his shoulders, that scar on his arm. Catching his eye, Nicholas grins at him, nudging toes under Fuma’s thigh to tickle him.
“So getting me in my underlayers did it for you?” When Fuma starts to sputter in protest, Nicholas waves him off. “I’m kidding, Fuma. I appreciate it.” He moves his feet to rest on Fuma’s lap, Fuma’s hands wrapping gently around his ankle.
“It’s the least I could do. I invited you over,” Fuma mumbles, rubbing against the other man’s ankle bone. The lull in conversation is comfortable, soundtracked by Nicholas’ soft humming and their phones occasionally buzzing on the coffee table. Fuma boots up a game on the TV, shrugging when Nicholas turns down the proffered controller. Every now and then, Nicholas will ask about the game—not like there’s much to Pokemon—and Fuma will humor him, none of the childish annoyance of being spoken to while he’s gaming rising to the surface. He’ll even get in a good-natured tease when Fuma fails to catch a shiny Ponyta, to which Fuma just laughs in response.
Things are different with Nicholas. Nicholas, with his deep voice, sage perfume, and sweet smile, is different.
Eventually, the questions peter out, replaced by soft breaths. Nicholas dozes lightly against the armrest while Fuma watches his poor Sylveon get its ass handed to it by a Toxtricity. He’s in the middle of a dialogue with an NPC when he hears a snore next to him. Nicholas has his face tucked against the couch pillow, as if subconsciously hiding from the light. He’s wrapped the towel tighter around his arms, his hands are pulled in close to his chest and Fuma decides it’s time to call it a night. He saves his game and gently shakes Nicholas’ leg which is still on his lap.
“Nico. Nicholas, wake up.” Nicholas rouses, scowling at being woken up before his features smooth out to a more confused expression. Fuma decides to help him out, tenderly cradling his chin, letting his thumb stroke the pillow creases in his skin. “You fell asleep on my sofa. Come to bed. You’ll be more comfortable there.”
“No, it’s—”
“I won’t mind. Let’s go to bed, Nico.” Nicholas leans into Fuma’s hand and murmurs his thanks into his palm. Fuma leads the way back to the bedroom, suddenly very thankful he scored a bigger bed in an online betting war. There was no way they’d both fit on his old single.
Fuma is just about to hand Nicholas a spare blanket when he starts to shrug out of his tank. Nicholas must notice Fuma’s movements falter because he lets the hem fall out of his hands.
“Sorry, I… I’m used to sleeping topless. Is that okay?” Fuma nods slowly before turning back to change into his pajamas.
“Yeah, no problem. I, um… this is new, sorry.” Fuma feels a bit like a fool but Nicholas just smirks at him.
“Sleeping with a date without the sex?”
“Having someone over in general.” Nicholas fondly smiles at Fuma who prays to whatever being is out there that the flush he feels doesn’t show on his face. Nicholas doesn’t pry; Fuma’s thankful for that.
They go about their routines as quickly as they can, two broad men nudging each other in front of the sink. Nicholas bumps their hips while they brush their teeth, Fuma nudges him back. When Nicholas climbs into the side of the bed furthest from the door and settles back against the pillows, blinking up at Fuma, he finds himself a little touched by how domestic it all feels. He leans over Nicholas’ frame to turn the lamp off and give the other man a kiss.
“Good night,” Fuma whispers against Nicholas’ lips. That gets a laugh out of him.
“How romantic. Good night, Fuma.”
Fuma isn’t entirely sure what jolted him awake first. Lightning and thunder crackle in rapid succession outside his bedroom window, wind shaking the panes of this old building. There’s the incessant buzzing of his phone from across the room, likely from the automated storm alerts. And then there’s garbled speech followed by silence.
Fuma switches his lamp on, met by a huff and rustling of sheets. Nicholas is curled in on himself, bare back to Fuma. His brow is furrowed even in his sleep and the corner of his mouth downturned in a frown. He looks like a well-ruffled cat, much like the ones in the reels Fuma’s dance students love to show him during break time. He’s so cute.
Fuma’s ready to brush the sounds off as nothing when it happens again, right as he reaches to turn the light off. It’s clearer now, less incoherent grunting and more syllabic, but still unintelligible to Fuma.
“Nico? Are you awake?” Fuma rasps. He lightly lays a hand on Nicholas’ back, feeling the steady breaths under his palm. Nicholas mumbles in a mix of English and Mandarin and Fuma lacks the faculties in either language to fully comprehend what he’s saying.
Nicholas is a sleeptalker.
Switching the lamp off, Fuma blinks up at his ceiling, listening to Nicholas’ noises. He just lays there, trying to let the sounds soothe him back to a more restful state.
This is going to take some getting used to.
2
Nicholas is a talker. It’s one of the many things Fuma, an inveterate introvert, admires about him. As long as it isn’t the morning, Nicholas can fill almost any silence with all sorts of chatter. He’s a hit among the kids when he tags along to Fuma’s classes, entertaining them with stories when they should be running through choreography. When they meet up after work, Fuma is happy to sit and listen to him vent about the woes of dealing with suppliers or explain the ins and outs of fashion marketing while he grills their barbecue.
It also explains the sleep-talking, which Nicholas had profusely and sheepishly apologized for after that first night.
“It doesn’t happen that often. Sorry, I guess I never warned you.”
“It’s fine,” Fuma had said. It really wasn’t; he slept fitfully after being woken up and Nicholas could probably tell by how much he was yawning over brunch. It’s Date #8—Does waking up with your date and going out for noodle soup count as a new date or is it simply a continuation of the previous one? Fuma’s bad at semantics.
Nicholas still guiltily poked at his udon so Fuma sighed, nudging his foot under the table.
“Hey, Nico, it’s fine, seriously. It’s not a dealbreaker or anything. I guess I just have to get used to it,” Fuma said with a smile. Nicholas bit his lip, trying and failing to keep the corners of his mouth from lifting. A leather boot pressed against a sneaker and Fuma felt warm all over.
All that to say, Fuma does indeed get used to Nicholas talking. And now, with them literally and figuratively sleeping together more often, Fuma isn’t so bothered when he hears the occasional murmuring next to him. Fuma’s grown fond of the sleep-talking; another one of those quirks that take Nicholas away from the manicured and curated image he tries to project online. It’s like he’s unlocked a new layer to the fashionable, charming man Fuma swiped right on all those months ago.
The sleeptalking has made for more entertaining evenings too.
Nicholas is sleeping over again, no storm drenching his clothes but purely out of his own desire and sweet-talking over dinner. He’d dropped by after work with a gift for Fuma—a new sweater from some European designer whose name he’d butcher if he tried. Fuma is up late to search for choreography ideas for the next month. He’s also working on his in-game dailies but the choreography is the main goal, trust him.
He’s just completed another farming task when, from behind him, Nicholas shouts.
“STOP.”
Fuma whips his head around to stare at Nicholas who has sat up, hair wild and drool drying by the side of his mouth.
“Babe? Are you okay?”
Nicholas points at… nothing. The foot of the bed is unoccupied by nothing other than a giant Eevee plushie, but Nicholas stares blankly, agitated at the sight of something.
“有大狗 !” He’s speaking Mandarin again—more yelling than speaking, actually—so Fuma has to shush Nicholas with a hand to his warm cheek because his walls are not very thick and he’d very much like to keep the neighborhood peaceful.
“What’s wrong, Nico? Say it again.”
“不要让狗进来。” Fuma can only pick up what sounds like “go” from the panicked tones so he starts there.
“Where do you want to go?” Fuma strokes a hand through Nicholas’ hair, one of the rare times the other man won’t push him away with a smack. Nicholas shakes his head as he grabs Fuma’s arm tightly.
“不是 go. 狗,” Nicholas repeats. When Fuma doesn’t respond, Nicholas whines in annoyance and does something Fuma would have never expected him to do—he barks. Puts his hands under his chin and everything. If Fuma wasn’t confused and sleep-deprived himself, he’d snap a photo. “Gǒu.”
“…Dog?” Fuma says back in Japanese. Nicholas nods enthusiastically, patting Fuma on the stomach before flopping back down on the bed. Fuma, with his heart racing, gapes at his boyfriend who lets out a hearty snore.
“Did you dream about a dog last night?” Fuma starts the next morning, placing a mug of tea next to Nicholas’ plate of fruit. He has a small to nonexistent appetite for breakfast, but Fuma refuses to let the man subsist on protein bars alone.
It takes a beat for the words to register but when they do, Nicholas’ eyes widen in recognition.
“Oh my God, yes! I was playing badminton with my family when it appeared out of nowhere and started chasing me. It kept following me home and even tried to get into our room. It was huge, like, human-sized and had some kind of squeaky toy in its mou—” Nicholas cuts himself off mid-sentence, suddenly very conscious and aware of Fuma staring at him, so he fixes him with a frown. “Why do you ask?”
“You woke up yelling in the middle of the night. When I tried to ask you about it, you just went back to sleep.” Nicholas flushes bright red, lips pursing in embarrassment.
“You know the Mandarin word for dog?” It’s the wrong takeaway from the conversation but Fuma brushes that off in favor of watching what reaction he’ll get next.
“No, actually. I thought you said “go” but then you started barking and put your fists up like paws. It was very cute.”
“I did not!” Nicholas waves his orange peel at Fuma who doesn’t even pretend to be mildly threatened. Nicholas lobs a chunk at him anyway.
“Oh, but you did. You were so adorable too. I’ll take a video next time the dog visits you in your sleep. Maybe I’ll let it into the room,” Fuma muses, reaching over to scratch Nicholas under the chin. He almost gets his fingers bitten off in the process. “Ooh, feisty puppy.”
Pink ears glow bright under a faded pink halo. Fuma decides that the glare he gets is all worth it.
3
In the past year of dating, Fuma has discovered many facets of Nicholas. He detests anything green, going as far as to eat every part of a salad but the actual lettuce. He loves a trinket and has a growing gacha toy and collection on his desk, bookshelf, and bag keychain. And despite his athletic nature, he hates most forms of cardio with a burning passion.
Fortunately for the both of them, sex seems to be an exception to the rule.
Fuma’s plastered himself on his boyfriend’s back, careful to not crush him with his weight despite the exhaustion. Underneath him, Nicholas pants into the pillow which is now wet with sweat, spit, and God knows what else. Fuma tries not to care too much; Nicholas said he was going to change the sheets anyway.
“I’m maximizing my wash cycles,” he mumbled into Fuma’s open mouth. Whatever the fuck that meant.
When Fuma moves to pull out, Nicholas hisses and his walls tighten, making Fuma groan at the sensation.
“Baby, let me pull out.” Fuma begs, pressing kisses down the divots of Nicholas’ spine, over his shoulders, on top of the bite mark by his nape. “Let me clean you up and we can shower, hmm?”
It takes a few more soothing rubs on Nicholas’ belly before the overstimulation fades enough for Fuma to move. He sits back on his haunches, watching Nicholas’ hole clench around nothing while cum trickles out and down his thighs. Unable to help himself, Fuma uses a thumb to push the liquid back in, met by an exhausted groan and a waving hand.
“What happened to cleaning me up, you asshole,” Nicholas arches his hips back toward Fuma’s finger. Fuma breathes out an airy chuckle before leaning in to kiss Nicholas’ lower back before retreating to Nicholas’ bathroom. Fuma returns after a few minutes dressed in fresh boxers and wielding a cool, damp towel for Nicholas. He wipes Nicholas’ thighs and ass as best as he can, brushing his lips on the ticklish bend of his knees and humming quietly to himself. Fuma has Nicholas turn over to wipe his stomach. He sighs softly, nuzzling his cheek into the pillow.
Nicholas grumbles when Fuma shoves the curtains back, letting the morning sunlight into the room. Fuma regards him for a moment, taking in the smattering of fresh red bites and fading purplish marks across Nicholas’ torso. His now-blonde bangs cling to his forehead and poke down to his eyes. Fuma leans down to kiss him on the mouth, slow, languid, and sleepy.
“Oi, don’t fall asleep on me. You have to pee,” Fuma says once he’s pulled away—but not far enough that Nicholas can’t wrap his arms around his neck. The blond meets his eyes, half-lidded and sultry, before leaning back in.
“You shouldn’t have woken me up then,” Nicholas remarks as Fuma extracts himself from his arms. He lets out a truly magnificent stretch, back arching off the mattress before finally getting up. Fuma thwacks Nicholas’ slender waist with the towel as he walks by.
“You were rutting my thigh and talking in your sleep.” Nicholas simply puts his hands up, sauntering his way into the bathroom, leaving Fuma to strip the bedcovers by himself. Fuma can hear the toilet flush followed by the faucet running, along with the sound of Nicholas cracking open a new tube of toothpaste.
“You don’t even know what I was saying,” Nicholas says, leaning against the bathroom doorframe before popping his toothbrush into his mouth. From his place on the bed, Fuma cocks an eyebrow at him in challenge.
“I think I have a good guess.”
“Try me,” Nicholas gurgles. Fuma, having gathered all the linens, walks toward the bathroom where Nicholas keeps his laundry hamper. He leans in to Nicholas, taking in the weird strawberry-mint flavored toothpaste he impulse bought one night and those wicked eyes going all over his arms.
“Fuma-ge, hao shuang a,” Fuma repeats in a breathy imitation of Nicholas, likely butchering the words and turning them into nonsense. Yet, Nicholas still chokes on his toothpaste and rushes to the sink. He flips his boyfriend off as Fuma cackles his ass off by the door.
4
Taipei is warmer than Tokyo in late April, humid and damp as the monsoon slowly creeps its way back over the sea. Heavy air makes Fuma’s shirts cling to his chest and the ends of his hair flick upwards from the humidity. He fiddles with his tie and collar. Not for the first time since they arrived, Fuma mentally thanks Nicholas’ mother for giving him a portable hand-fan.
But Fuma can’t bring himself to fuss too much about the heat when he enters the beautiful garden where Nicholas’ sister's wedding reception is to be held. Behind him, Nicholas whistles lowly.
“The designers did amazing. It looks just like her Pinterest boards.”
Trellis decorated with shrubbery and creeping vines line the aisle, dainty flowers peeking out of the green. Soft cream chiffon artistically drapes over each seat to complement the sunset flower arrangements on every table. Crystal glasses sparkle in the late afternoon sun. Industrial fans blow cool air around the venue, occasionally making wind chimes sing.
“Has she always wanted a garden wedding?” Fuma asks as he pulls Nicholas’ chair out for him and self-indulgently watches his back ripple under his suit shirt.
“Oh yeah. You know Twilight? She loved the wedding scene in the last movie.” Fuma has not seen the film but he nods anyway. “Mama collected wedding magazines and Jie loved looking through them even when we were kids.”
Nicholas trails off, running a finger along the charger plate. Fuma spent much of the wedding watching Nicholas. He didn’t cry during the ceremony, at least not in the way his mom did, fat tears rolling down her cheeks since she walked down the aisle. Nicholas furiously blinked the tears away as he stood next to his now-brother-in-law’s groomsmen as his sister read her vows. He cheered and applauded loudly when her groom dropped her into a sweeping kiss after the officiant declared them husband and wife. Fuma watched from the side as Nicholas’ sister—now someone’s wife—pulled him into a tight hug as the photographers snapped away, Nicholas’ cheeks puffed up with air in a very valiant attempt at keeping it together.
“I’m happy. I’m so glad she finally gets the fairytale wedding she’s always wanted,” Nicholas continues after clearing his throat. Fuma rests a hand on his with a squeeze. Nicholas briefly leans against his side before they’re broken apart by a waiter finally coming to lay their appetizers down.
Nicholas leans in periodically throughout the reception to translate guest speeches, his warm breath hitting Fuma’s sweaty cheek. When Nicholas has to go up to make his own speech, Fuma pulls up a translated version, painstakingly annotated by Nicholas’ own hand in his adorable katakana.
Nicholas’ wedding speech is by far the longest Fuma’s heard him speak in his mother tongue. Unlike his sleep talking or the one-sided phone conversations which are short and choppy, Nicholas’ words flow out of his mouth like a gentle stream. In Mandarin, his voice runs over syllables and curls around tones without hesitation. It breaks on emotion like the water meeting rocks along its path but continues on until there isn’t a dry eye in the room. He ends with a sentence he’d taught Fuma while he rehearsed last night.
Be happy. I love you, jie.
The reception stretches on until the early morning, way later than what Fuma is used to, but he still enjoys himself thoroughly. By the time the party starts to die down, Fuma’s danced with Nicholas’ mom, his sister, Nicholas himself; and consumed half his body weight in desserts and craft beer. His feet throbbing and back begging for rest, Fuma is more than ready for bed.
Nicholas is not faring any better. In fact, he’s slumped in a chair when Fuma finally returns with their jackets and is barely conscious when Fuma and Nicholas’ father haul him into the car back to the hotel. By the time they arrive, he’s practically unconscious so Fuma takes it upon himself to carry Nicholas on his back through the lobby and up the elevator, using the toe on the other man’s shoe to punch the button for their floor. Nicholas lets out a displeased groan when Fuma basically throws him on the bed unsexily, but barely lifts a finger of assistance as he gets undressed. Their suits end up in a pile on the desk chair, belts somewhere by the foot of the bed, and Nicholas, stripped down to just his boxers, is splayed out like a starfish while Fuma blearily washes up.
When Fuma plops into bed and he’s a few seconds away from the clutches of sleep, he hears Nicholas mumble.
“Fuma-ge…” he whispers, turning his head to lean against the older man’s chest. A heavy arm wraps around his back.
“Love you. I love you.”
Fuma smiles through the exhaustion. He doesn’t need a translation for those words.
+1
Fuma is standing in what looks like a government office. An elderly woman speaks to him in a language he does not understand but when he replies, it seems like the woman does as she begins to lead him through a series of hallways. They pass nondescript rooms and people who are laughing and each celebrating something. Fuma can feel the weight of his glasses on him so why is everything so blurry? Where is he going?
The woman is a few meters ahead of him now and Fuma has to jog to keep up with her pace. When they approach two gargantuan doors, she finally turns back to him and gestures for him to hurry. The doors open to another room, white walls and big windows that let in a blinding amount of light. Standing at the desk are the elderly woman, now dressed in robes, and across from her, widely smiling at Fuma and dressed in the dark suit he was wearing last Saturday is Nicholas. Fuma reaches a hand out for Nicholas to ask what on earth is going on when Nicholas’ hand goes past his and down toward—
“Ow!”
Fuma jolts awake thanks to a sharp pain in his thigh. He blinks past the fog of disorientation to take in the unfamiliar surroundings. Yellowed posters hang on the wall opposite him next to a framed family photo of four. A basketball sits on top of badminton rackets and a shuttle rests precariously on top of the ball. There are two open suitcases in the corner by the door and Nicholas is staring at him, mouth agape and blonde hair sticking out in every direction.
“What?” Fuma says, rubbing a hand over his face. The windows are open to let a crisp breeze in through the curtains and there is a cat meowing somewhere below them. Nicholas’ childhood bed creaks as he shifts his weight.
“You… you were sleep-talking. In Mandarin.”
“Huh. That’s new. What did I s—”
“You said my name… then jià. Do you know what that means?”
Fuma blinks once, twice, thrice even, to try and make sense of the word. They were watching one of those low-budget Mandarin dramas before bed, one where the male lead dramatically declares his undying love for the main character that’s an heiress-in-middle-class-disguise, much to the displeasure of his family. It’s cliche, overdone, and honestly, not of much interest to Fuma. He dropped off around the time the angry mother started yelling at her son, only to be awoken by Nicholas pinching him.
“It means marry, Fuma-kun.” Nicholas repeats the word in Mandarin and Japanese, wide-eyed and wild.
Oh.
Fuma could easily blame it on the drama. Brush it off like it’s not a big deal. Nicholas has probably said worse things in his sleep; not that Fuma has it in him to repeat the words. But the shock on Nicholas’ face has morphed into hesitation. His lower lip is tucked into his teeth and he’s fidgeting slightly under Fuma’s gaze and he can only bring himself to say—
“Yeah.”
Nicholas stares at him bewildered.
“What the fuck are do you mean “Yeah”? Did you just pick that up from the drama?”
Fuma cracks his right hand, rotating his wrist slowly to work out a mild strain, while Nicholas picks at loose threads on the blanket.
“No, I… Kind of? I guess I subconsciously picked it up from being here for your sister’s wedding, the drama we watched, the random conversations you’d have about last weekend.” Fuma smartly omits the fact that he also repeatedly heard it out of Nicholas’ aunts’ mouths during dinner conversation last night. Maybe his 150-day language learning streak is actually shaping up to something.
Fuma watches Nicholas deflate, either in defeat or relief, leaning back against his headboard. That’s when Fuma notes the time—
“How are you awake before 10am?” Nicholas snorts and shakes his head.
“My mom and aunts put me to work in the kitchen. Called it survival training like I didn’t go to the military for a spell.” Even as he cracks jokes, Nicholas still looks off-kilter, like he’s still bothered by Fuma speaking Mandarin—and saying that of all things. Fuma takes his hands in his, turning them over to look at the wrinkles around his fingertips, the dips and grooves from all his accessories, the faint shine of his buffed nails.
“How do you say it again? Kekkon,” Fuma asks and Nicholas meets his eyes briefly before taking his hand back to trace the Chinese characters on Fuma’s palm.
“Jià.” Fuma nods solemnly before tilting Nicholas’ chin up to look at him. Sweet boy, with his heart on his sleeve and tender eyes and loving mouth.
“Wǒ xiǎng jià nǐ,” Fuma recites a little stiltedly. He’s fucking up the pronunciation and likely the grammar too, the new word too unfamiliar for his rudimentary, boyfriend-learned Mandarin skills, but Nicholas still smiles that devastating grin. “Not yet, but one day,” Fuma says in Japanese now.
Nicholas leans forward to bump their foreheads together so Fuma can feel him nodding.
“我们结婚吧,” Nicholas mumbles before pulling Fuma in before he can even get the chance to ask for a translation. But even then, as he pulls Nicholas closer into his lap, squeaky childhood bed be damned, Fuma thinks he understands the gist.