Kis-My-Ft2, Something To Think About

Title: Something To Think About [Tamamori/Miyata]
Rating/Warnings: R for the fact that this is really Tamamori/self.
Summary: Countdown is days away, and Tamamori has to keep himself occupied.
AN: snowqueenofhoth has been making noises about Tamamori/self fic, and I lost all will to resist. This will probably make more sense if you’ve read Dating Is Not A Spectator’s Sport and Neither Is What Comes After.

Something To Think About

“Yeah,” Tamamori waits a second just to see the panic on Miyata’s face before he finishes, “I can spend the night.”

Miyata grabs Tamamori in a tight hug, and Tamamori squeezes him back for just a second before pushing him back, softening the push by repeating that he can stay over after Countdown.

It’s not just the paparazzi that makes Tamamori hurry to escape onto his own train home. After a whole day of Miyata staring at Tamamori like he wants to strip him naked and tie him to the nearest costume rack, Tamamori has a little problem, and after being squeezed tight against Miyata’s dance-muscled arms, it’s not exactly that little anymore.

Tamamori dashes into the house, calling that he’s getting a shower before dinner as he strips off his coat as quickly as he can, and then takes the stairs two at a time, slamming the bathroom door behind him.

The shower water is barely warming up before he’s got one hand on his cock and the other bracing himself against the wall. He thinks about Miyata’s eyes on him as he strokes himself, Miyata’s gaze heavy and sharp against his skin. He thinks about Miyata’s muscles hard under his hands, about the smell of sweat in the curve of Miyata’s neck, and he comes without even really getting started on the serious fantasies, fingers curling against the tile.

He lingers under the water and dawdles toweling himself off until his mother calls him for dinner, feeling unsettled and wishing that it weren’t his own hands on his skin. He’s been feeling that way a lot recently, like the more he touches himself, the more it’s plain that just getting off isn’t what he’s after at all.

Miyata’s romantic sap must be rubbing off on him, he muses to himself while his mother fusses over the way he picks at his food at dinner. He endures having his forehead felt and his face examined, forces himself to eat enough that he won’t pass out during dance practice, and then escapes to his room with the token excuse of homework and exhaustion.

He does make an attempt at his homework, but his eyes keep straying to his bed and then to his phone. Lately he’s even thought about combining the two, getting comfortable against his pillows and calling Miyata’s number, asking him where he ought to put his hands. Miyata would totally go for it, if Tamamori asked, but after a few moment’s thought about it, Tamamori sets the idea aside again; he doesn’t want their first time to be over the phone.

Technically it won’t even be their first time, Tamamori’s brain corrects him, but Tamamori shoves that aside too. He refuses to count five minutes with a bunch of tambourines their first time.

After another half-hour full of barely comprehending the math problems that he’s staring at, Tamamori throws his pencil down and picks up his phone. He stays at his desk though, while he thumbs the speed dial, so that he won’t be tempted.

“Hey,” Miyata’s voice is sleepy and happy when he answers. “What’s up?”

“Oh damn,” Tamamori says, masking the way his heart skips with feigned annoyance. “I meant to call the League of Trigonometry Plagiarizers.”

“They’re certainly number one on my speed dial,” Miyata deadpans. “But since we share some interests, I’d be happy to talk math at you instead.” Miyata drops his voice half an octave. “What color is your textbook, baby?”

“Miyacchi!” Tamamori barks a laugh, then claps a hand over his mouth as he glances at the clock and realizes that it’s gotten late. He squirms a little at how close to his earlier thoughts Miyata’s teasing hits. “Ne, so…what’s up?”

“You called me, you know,” Miyata reminds, and there’s the sound of blankets shifting, and Tamamori realizes with a renewed blush that Miyata’s in bed.

“Oh, did I wake you?” Tamamori struggles to rid his brain of the image of Miyata tangled up in his sheets, sleepy-eyed and hair mussed. “Sorry, I’ll…”

“It’s fine,” Miyata interrupts with a yawn. “I was reading, but I fell asleep. Just wanted to chat?”

“Yeah.” Tamamori runs a hand through his hair and feels tired himself. “Don’t worry about it, go back to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You sure?” Miyata asks, then yawns again, and Tamamori chuckles and says he’s sure. Just before he hangs up, Miyata says, “Tama-chan?”

“Hmm?” Tamamori asks.

“You’re staying the night after Countdown,” he says, and something about the plain way Miyata says it sends a bolt of want down Tamamori’s spine.

“Yeah,” he agrees, wondering if Miyata can hear the shiver in his voice.

“Hmm,” Miyata says, voice low, and Tamamori hopes that he feels the same want, hopes that Miyata wishes that Tamamori could just crawl through the phone and be there already, hopes that the waiting is driving him crazy too.

By the time he gets off the phone, Tamamori knows the homework is a lost cause, and strips down his boxers before crawling into bed.

He’s already half-hard from the sleepy sound of Miyata’s voice over the phone, and Tamamori slides a hand into his boxers and thinks in passing that maybe it isn’t healthy to do this so much, but the thought’s replaced by more pressing things as he starts stroking slowly.

Like the soft noises Miyata made in Tamamori’s ear when Tamamori touched him in the prop closet. Tamamori thinks about the heat of Miyata’s bare skin under his hands, the weight of Miyata’s cock in his hand. It had felt different than how Tamamori’s cock feels in his hand now, shorter and thicker, and Tamamori bites his lip when he startles himself with a little groan.

After a pause, ears perked for noises from his family, he throws his arm over his mouth in case he makes any other embarrassing noises. The last thing he needs is them coming in while he jerks off to thoughts of his bandmate and a closetful of tambourines.

Now that he thinks about it, Tamamori has the sinking suspicion that the next time Kis-My-Ft2 backdances for one of Taguchi-kun’s solos, he’s going to spend a lot of it with his tambourine held in front of his completely inappropriate response to the sound of the instruments jingling.

He’d better get a new fantasy then, he figures, and Tamamori starts in on one that’s been gelling in his head since that afternoon, since he noticed the way Miyata’d been darting glances between the scarves in his hands and Tamamori’s wrists. Miyata’s not a hard read, after all, Tamamori smiles to himself.

He closes his eyes again and thinks about Miyata crouched over him, both of them naked. He’s seen Miyata change enough times to be able to picture it, the strong curve of his shoulders and his brow scrunched in concentration as he knots a slick piece of fabric around Tamamori’s wrist. Tamamori imagines Miyata’s weight heavy on his stomach, imagines rocking up against him but not being able to touch him.

Even though it’s all in his head, Tamamori feels the sweet frustration of it powerfully, because right now he can’t touch Miyata no matter how badly he wants to. So he imagines Miyata touching him instead, exploring his chest with slow hands, imagines Miyata watching his every shiver with the same sharp gaze he’d had focused on Tamamori all day.

Tamamori gets as far as imagining Miyata leaning down to lick one of his nipples before he comes. He muffles his gasp against his arm and shudders himself out, then goes limp against his sheets, leaving his hand in a loose curl around his cock for a minute while he catches his breath.

He hopes, with a touch of embarrassment, that Miyata doesn’t mind that, if Tamamori comes in a few minutes from just the thought of sex with him, he’s not likely to be any slower during the reality of it.

His hand is starting to get tacky by the time he fumbles over the edge of the bed for a tissue with his clean hand, and he wipes himself off, feeling a touch strung-out rather than satisfied. It’s loneliness, he realizes as he thinks about it, and when he gets up to toss the tissue in his trash bin, he snags his cell phone off his desk.

When Tamamori’s settled back in his bed, curled up in his warm sheets, he flips the phone open and taps a message for Miyata to see in the morning, and hopes that he’ll still be in bed when he does read it, since the message will make the most sense that way.

After Countdown, I’ll be right there.

He pictures Miyata’s face as he reads it, and grins to himself as he tucks himself in a comfortable curl on his side, phone set to vibrate in his hand in case Miyata does have some pithy reply to that, and drifts off to sleep.

The next day at practice, Miyata drags Tamamori into a hidden corner at the first opportunity, calls him a jerk and kisses him hotly. Tamamori laughs against Miyata’s mouth and slides his hands under Miyata’s tank top to touch as much of his skin as he can.

Countdown isn’t for days, and Tamamori will want something to think about later.