Chapter Text
#24
Fuma wakes up with a start.
His alarm, a simple ringing sound coming from his phone, echoes through his dim room, and he opens his eyes, a soft breath exhaled through his nose. Today is a regular day, and he's going to do regular things — get up, go for his morning run, shower, have a quick breakfast, and then head to work. A perfectly regular day, Fuma thinks to himself.
"Good morning, sleepyhead,"
Fuma all but jerks backwards, sitting up so quickly that he nearly knocks his head into the edge of his nightstand. The voice that he wakes up to startles him — not just because of how warm and syrupy it sounds, but because, by all means, there shouldn't be a voice. Fuma lives alone.
Fuma kicks his comforter off, scrambling out of bed, barely composing himself enough to slap his glasses onto his face, patting himself with his bare palms, expecting to maybe find himself naked. That would be the only explanation. Maybe he got a little drunk and brought someone home, fooled around and then forgot all about it come sunrise. Sue him, he's twenty-eight years old, he has needs. Pat pat. Nope, Fuma realises. Still very much clothed, in his favourite sleep shirt, the white one that was a tad too big for him with Eevee printed on the front.
Upon realising his startling lack of nakedness, Fuma finally looks up and locks eyes with the person that the warm, syrupy voice belongs to. There is a man. A very beautiful, beautiful man, sitting on the edge of Fuma's bed, dressed in a crisp white shirt that hugged his toned upper body in all the right ways, with caramel brown hair that looked so soft, and if it wasn't for the sheer absurdity of it all, Fuma might've wished that this was the stranger he had brought home and fooled around with. But alas.
"Who— who are you?! What are you doing in my house? In my bed?!" Fuma sputters, nudging his glasses up his nosebridge with the panicked back of his hand. The stranger blinks slowly, which, admittedly, makes him look even prettier than he already is, and a slow, warm smile tugs on his lips.
"I'm Yudai," he starts, his voice softening just slightly, as if unfazed by Fuma's panic.
"I'm your husband, from the future,"
Fuma doesn't have the time to regret the morning run he just missed. Not when he's been pacing across the length of his room, from the foot of his bed to where his desk is, over and over and over again, all while the stranger— Yudai— stays still, sitting at the edge of the bed, where he was when Fuma found him. Yudai watches as Fuma paces, as if he's seen this before.
"This has to be some sick, twisted prank," Fuma blurts out, smoothing a hand over his mouth, under his chin, before running his fingers through his hair in exasperation. "Yuma— Yuma, he— this must be some sick prank he's pulling, isn't it? He's just pulling my leg, he's been on my back saying I've been too uptight lately, that I just need to get laid or some shit—" Fuma paces, voice fluctuating from a panicked high pitch to a, exasperated, drawn out groan. "It's Yuma isn't it? Here—" Yudai watches as Fuma finally stops pacing, to walk over to his desk where his work bag was hanging off the back of his desk chair, rummaging through his bag to fish his wallet out, yanking a couple bills out and holding them out to Yudai. "Whatever Yuma paid you to play along with this, I'll double it. Please, leave,"
There's a beat of silence as Yudai's gaze flicks slowly from Fuma's face, to the bills being handed to him in Fuma's (slightly) trembling hand. Another smile tugs on Yudai's lips, fond and amused all the same.
"Yuma didn't pay me anything. Yuma doesn't know me. Not yet, at least," Yudai says calmly, again, as if Fuma actively crashing out in front of him wasn't anything new or surprising.
"This isn't funny," Fuma huffs, an incredulous, exasperated laugh leaving him as he drops the now crumpled bills and his wallet onto the edge of his bed. "This seriously isn't funny. Who are you, really? How did you get into my house?"
Yudai looks at Fuma. Not in a scrutinising sort of way. Yudai simply, looks at Fuma. He looks at the man's face, the slight eyebags weighing beneath those brown eyes, partially hidden behind the rimless glasses Yudai knows Fuma swears look a little ugly on him. Yudai looks. He looks at the way the Eevee sleep shirt is slightly wrinkled, awkwardly ridden up Fuma's back, just slightly, because Fuma always sleeps on his back. He looks at the way Fuma's hair is slightly flattened on one side of his head, and how some strands near his crown stick up in cutely awkward angles.
"I told you," Yudai says, slightly sighing, more so out of fond resignation. "I'm your husband, from the future."
There's another beat of silence before Fuma steps towards his bedroom door, flinging the door open and gesturing for Yudai to leave.
"Leave. While I'm still asking nicely, please leave." Fuma says as firmly as he can, trying not to let his voice shake even just a little under Yudai's gaze. Yudai is watching him with that same gaze, like he sees right through Fuma, and it makes something in Fuma's gut twist and turn slightly. Yudai lets out a soft breath. "Alright," he says, "I'll go,"
Fuma feels his breath catch slightly when he realises Yudai is taller than him, watching as closely as he can as Yudai stands up, long legs covered by the fabric of his neatly pressed slacks, and walks around Fuma's bed, out the bedroom door. Yudai has the gall to give Fuma yet another slow, warm smile as he passes Fuma to finally leave, and Fuma feels that thing in his gut twist a little more. He tries to tell himself it's just the adrenaline from having a complete stranger show up in your bedroom and claim that he's your husband from the future, like this was some poorly written Interstellar dupe.
Fuma can hear his own heartbeat ringing in his ears and he tells himself to just take a breath and go back to his, supposedly, regular day.
He manages to power through a very cold shower and picking out a decent outfit for work, checking his phone for anything important, or any repentant messages from anyone who might've actually hired a very pretty male model to prank him or something. Nothing of the sort, Fuma realises, as he filters through his stream of notifications, sighing as he finally sets his phone down to tug a hoodie and jeans on. He doesn't put that much effort into his hair, just keeping it neat and at the very least, presentable, as presentable as an office job with a bunch of other tech nerds can be.
"Don't forget your wallet and your glasses,"
Fuma flinches, hard, when he hears the voice again. Yudai.
"Wh— I told you to leave— I swear, I'll call the police if you don't—"
Fuma doesn't get the chance to finish that threat, not when Yudai's smile widens enough to be considered a grin, ducking his head slightly as a soft, lighthearted chuckle leaves his lips. The taller man leans casually against the edge of Fuma's small dining table, leaning back on his palms.
"Today's the review day, isn't it?" Yudai starts, his previously slightly cheeky grin softening into something more fond, warm. "The game. Your game. Today you're going to reconvene with the project manager and the lead 3D animator to discuss the possible expansion of the open world in the game. You'll need your glasses since your contacts get uncomfortable when you squint to look at details for too long,"
Okay, what the fuck.
Fuma doesn't have the words, or the energy, or the braincells anymore. All his self defence, all his smart comebacks, all of it dissolves into a pile of dust in his now very empty, very alarmed head.
"No one knows about the open world expansion in the game— it's literally still in the development stages, we're only considering expansion because—"
"—the progression of the end game felt too abrupt and the storyline of the game had potential for more," the overlap of Yudai's voice and his own voice saying the exact same words at the exact same time sends Fuma stumbling a step back.
"Wh— okay, what the fuck— how do you—" Fuma's frown deepens so much it feels like a knot might permanently etch itself into the muscles of his forehead. Yudai laughs softly, casually, so lighthearted like this wasn't the most bizarre of circumstances.
"You told me this, all of this. Well, not now, but, you did, at some point," Yudai smiles calmly, tilting his head just so at Fuma. The bitter taste of giving in sits restlessly on the tip of Fuma's tongue— he hates to admit it, to throw in the towel so early on in the round, but he's starting to believe this Back to The Future crap. Yudai is there, in front of him, looking at him and watching his every move like he's seen it all before, saying things no one else but Fuma and other NDA bound geeks know.
"You'll be late for work," Yudai continues, straightening in posture and stepping a tad closer, enough for Fuma to feel the otherworldly warmth radiating off of him. "I promise I won't mess with anything or bother you when you're at work. I'll still be here when you get back, and then we can talk more, hm?"
Fuma barely makes it through work.
It's like some twisted variant of deja vu, going through his day, knowing that someone else knows about the exact events even before it happens. Fuma doesn't like the niggling feeling that keeps lingering in the back of this mind, but Yudai was right— Fuma sits through a two, almost three, hour long meeting with his project manager and some of the other 3D animators and game designers on the team, going through brainstorming sessions and discussions about expanding the game, possibly adding DLCs or extra content behind level upgrades, yada yada yada.
It's uncanny, knowing that the day played out the exact way Yudai seemed to know it would.
I'm hallucinating, Fuma tries to psyche himself out, chalking it all up to stress and sleep deprivation. He has been sleeping less lately, going home or staying up late as the game progress gets further and further into the development stages. I'm hallucinating, or that might've just been some sort of lucid dream. He's not real and I just need to relax. I'm gonna go home, take a shower, crack open a beer and play some Legends Z-A and gain back some of my sanity.
"Hey, you're home!" Jesus fucking Christ.
Yudai is there, again, now leaning over something on the kitchen counter, white sleeves rolled up to his elbows, smiling at Fuma the moment the apartment door clicks open. Fuma decides he no longer has the capacity to fight this, kicking his shoes off and setting his key card back into his wallet.
"What are you doing?"
Yudai turns briefly, eyebrows raised slightly, before his face melts into that same warm smile that's grown to be quite the fixture in Fuma's day already. What the hell?
"Making dinner. Your favourite, abura soba," Seriously, what the hell?
"Right. Right. You somehow know my favourite food," Fuma scoffs humorlessly, putting his work bag down on the edge of the couch in the living room, before stepping into the cozy kitchen area, approaching Yudai like he was some recently encountered animal.
Yudai chuckles again. Soft, melodic, homely, bobbing his head in a slight, knowing nod, as if he anticipated that Fuma would say those exact words. "Yes, I do know your favourite food. Though, you should be prepared, it'll change from abura soba to…. something else, quite soon. I'll let you think about that one," the man laughs prettily, gaze briefly meeting Fuma's before returning to the two bowls of soba that he then brings to the table, still warm.
Fuma feels like his body was operating on autopilot when he pulls his chair out, the old wooden legs scraping against the tiles with a very sad, tired sound. He sits, and only then does Yudai sit too, right in front of him, resting his chin in his palm as he waits for Fuma to take the first bite.
"You would always say I accidentally made the noodles a little salty sometimes, so I hope I finally got it right today. Go on, try it," Yudai says, and Fuma hesitantly brings his chopsticks to his lips, only remembering that maybe he should be a little more wary of eating food a stranger is giving him, only after said food has already entered his mouth. Oh. Too late, Fuma realises, because, well, it's good. The soba is good. Yudai's cooking is good, and it must show on Fuma's face, because Yudai grins a little wider from across the table.
"Good?" he asks, to which Fuma just makes a soft, noncommittal sound in response.
Yudai picks his own chopsticks up, digging in with the comfort of someone who already lives in that space. They eat in complete silence for a while, and maybe for Yudai it's a comfortable silence, but for Fuma, he's sizing the man up with every bite of the soupless noodles.
"You can ask me anything," Yudai says softly, halfway through his own bowl of noodles. "You can ask me anything, about you, if that would help you believe me better,"
Fuma is quiet, thinking for a moment.
"What elementary school did I go to?"
Yudai smiles, picking up another chunk of noodles with his chopsticks, the utensils sitting comfortably between long, lanky fingers.
"Fuji Municipal," he answers confidently, smiling as he catches the flicker of shock in Fuma's eyes from across the table. "Your grandpa sent you to school most of the time," Fuma was still hanging onto the last sliver of hope he had, that he could call Yudai's bluff, but then Yudai adds that little bit about Fuma's grandfather and all words just fall dead before Fuma can say them.
"What number class was I in?"
"Four. Easy to remember because you said you somehow ended up in the same number class throughout each grade,"
"Wha— okay, what number class was my— my little brother in?"
Yudai stills, eyes flicking up to meet Fuma's over his chopsticks, his hand hovering midway before he can take another bite of the soba. Yudai holds Fuma's gaze right there, for a drawn out moment, letting Fuma hang on to the tiniest, most pathetic little sliver of hope he had left.
"You're an only child, Fuma-kun,"
Fuma finds himself begrudgingly throwing in the towel, watching as Yudai gathers their now empty bowls and bringing them to the sink to clean up after them both.
"Do you believe me now, Fuma-kun?" Yudai hums thoughtfully, focused on the dishes, as Fuma stood helplessly by the kitchen counter, the fluorescent light casting a tired shadow over his features.
"Wh— I—" he sighs, trying to find his words, to string them together into a proper question, any question, to ask Yudai. "Why… why did you come here? If you're from the future, why— why come here, now?"
He watches as Yudai takes his time washing the dishes, humming softly under his breath, not so much in thought, more so… just because, like he was drawing the moment out on purpose.
"To fix some things. From you, from me. Between us," he finally says, his voice soft, Fuma almost doesn't catch it over the sound of running water from the faucet.
"Fix things?" Fuma manages a small scoff, slightly incredulous, more so confused. "What's there to fix? I— I mean, if you're really my husband from the future, I thought— hell, I thought it's good enough that I even found someone who wanted to marry me," he says dryly, "I mean, I'm already 28, I thought— I thought I'd end up the token single uncle of the family or something,"
Yudai cracks a small laugh at that, turning the faucet off and drying his hands off on the purple hand towel hanging from a hook next to the sink— the towel that had an Espeon plush head attached to it that Fuma had gotten from a Family Mart some time ago.
"You and me both," Yudai says, "We met and settled down a little later in life, at least compared to other people our age. But… yes. There's… there's some things I came back here to fix. To change. Make better," Yudai sighs softly, the way someone would after going through a routine and ending off a day the way every other day ended. He glances as the clock mounted on the wall.
"What things?" Fuma asks, shoulders finally, unbeknownst to him, relaxing slightly.
Yudai doesn't say anything for another brief, slightly less drawn out moment. He simply leans back, leaning easily on the edge of the kitchen sink, a deep, thoughtful breath exhaled through his nose. He looks at Fuma— the way Fuma's hair is slightly mussed, like he had run his fingers through the inky strands one too many times. The way his simple grey hoodie sat on his shoulders, fabric stretching just slightly taut over broad chest muscles. Yudai mentally notes that Fuma looks the same in this very moment as he has in a previous memory, filing that bit of thought away.
"We'll figure that out together. You and me," Yudai finally says, holding Fuma's gaze. "I just need you to trust me, that's all I ask,"
Fuma watches the way Yudai is looking at him, no longer quite studying him or observing his reactions like this morning, no. Yudai is just standing there, and there's something oddly open and vulnerable about the way he's asking, almost pleading, for Fuma to trust him. That in itself, should probably set off some alarm bells in Fuma's mind— he's never been one to trust that easily, especially not someone who quite literally just dropped into his life seemingly out of nowhere.
And yet.
"Alright," Fuma finds himself saying, "We'll figure it out,"