30 Kisses, (19) Yellow Gold (Wear It As Your Crown)

Title: Yellow Gold (Wear It As Your Crown) [Miyata/Tamamori]
Rating/Warnings: R, I suppose, or close enough
Summary: Just because Tamamori can see Miyata’s colors, that doesn’t mean there aren’t any mysteries left.
AN: 30 kisses, day 19. On the JE wish meme, someone asked for a sequel to The Color of Happiness’s Rainbow, the fic where Tamamori can see everybody’s auras as colors. You should probably read the original first, if you haven’t. Anyway, that’s one of my favorite fics too, so here you are, anon-san.

Yellow Gold (Wear It As Your Crown)

“Do you think it’s funny?” Miyata asks. “How it already feels so normal to sleep together?”

Tamamori cracks an eye to check for teasing, but Miyata’s purple is steady, bordering on indigo in his contentment and sleepiness. Just normal weirdness then, just Miyata talking idly about them as he often does when they’re lying in bed, satiated for the moment and limbs tangled together.

“It’s been weeks and weeks,” Tamamori points out, raising an eyebrow. “Months, even. You don’t think it’s normal to try that after confessing?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Miyata says. “I mean how fast it happened. Like we were so nervous and all a mess at first, and now you just crawl into bed with me without even asking, and both of us are okay with that.”

“Are you calling me easy?” Tamamori asks, just to be difficult, sitting up on one elbow and narrowing his eyes. Miyata just laughs, comfortable with Tamamori’s abuse. Stretched out on his back and looking up at Tamamori with open affection, little whorls of amused lavender eddying here and there through the indigo.

Despite the showy face he’s making at Miyata, Tamamori is every bit as content and amused, and he wonders if his yellows are doing the same thing. Does he have those same silly whorls? What color are they? Lately, Tamamori often wishes he could see his own colors, ever since he began to watch Miyata’s from so close up, with such regularity.

Because it’s not just what’s between them that’s changed; since Miyata’s confession, his colors, still usually a mix of blues and pinks even a few weeks ago, have settled into a true purple. It leans blue sometimes, and it hasn’t been long enough for Tamamori to be certain, but he’s seen other people change over before, and even though Miyata’s a bit old for a full-spectrum shift like that, Tamamori has come to wonder if it might be permanent.

“Are they doing something weird?” Miyata asks, and Tamamori realizes he’s been staring. Miyata asks him about the colors sometimes, although Tamamori can’t tell whether he’s genuinely interested or just likes listening to Tamamori talk.

Tamamori hesitates; he hasn’t mentioned the change to Miyata yet. Miyata waits, gaze steady and smile affectionate. “Not weird,” Tamamori decides just to tell him. “At least, not weird anymore. Your blues changed to purple. I think for good?”

Miyata tilts his head. “I thought you said I was only purple because the pink covers up the blue some? Can that happen?”

“Sometimes it does. People change.” Tamamori shrugs. “But since we…since you confessed, I haven’t seen you be just blue hardly at all. Not even once in the last couple weeks. I could see it before if you didn’t know I was watching or were concentrating or sleeping or whatever, but now…the pink just kind of…settled.”

“It got comfortable,” Miyata concludes, looking delighted enough that Tamamori clicks his tongue in annoyance. “When we did, that makes sense. The pink was because of how I feel about you, right? But it isn’t like I stop loving you when I’m not looking at you or when I’m asleep…hm,” Miyata closes his eyes, smile getting wider, “actually when I sleep, sometimes I’m thinking about doing all kinds of stuff with you…”

Tamamori opens his mouth to call Miyata an idiot, but then stops short when there’s a weird crackle of color, like a tiny firework, in the midst of Miyata’s purple. It’s too fast for Tamamori to make it out clearly what it was about, or even what color. Maybe gold?

He doesn’t dwell on it because just then Miyata opens his eyes and drags Tamamori down against him, murmuring in his ear that since Tamamori’s right here, just thinking about it seems kind of silly.

Rolled over onto his back, Tamamori loves having Miyata over top of him best of all, because Miyata always presses him down with his weight, as close as he can get, his purple spilling over Tamamori’s skin in all the places where they aren’t already touching. The pinks used to make him feel silly, sort of drunk, but the purples are more complex, richer; completely surrounded by them he feels safe and treasured, like Miyata is the wine-dark of the ocean washing over him and pulling him down, making Tamamori want to drown in it.

He tries to keep his eyes open, to see the way Miyata is looking down at him, the vibrant streaks of magenta crackling through the passion-darkened plum, but in the end the rush of Tamamori’s pleasure always forces them shut at the critical point. By the time he can see clearly again, Miyata is nearly back to normal, save for some flickering around the edges, like heat lightening distant on the horizon after a summer thunderstorm has gone past.

Next time, he thinks as he presses his face against Miyata’s shoulder and sinks heavily into sleep, he’ll just have to make Miyata lose it first.

*****

The weird fireworks (they are gold, Tamamori sees for sure when he watches carefully), happen from time to time. Sometimes they’re quick and singular, other times a few go off in sequence. When Miyata takes a catnap in Tamamori’s lap as they wait their turn for solo shots, there’s a slow string of them that bloom and fade almost like flowers, like the chrysanthemum fireworks in summer whose after-image lingers before fading into smoke.

“Mm,” Miyata stirs and tilts his face up to smile at Tamamori, still half-asleep, the last of the gold bursts melting away. “Hi there.”

“What were you dreaming about?” Tamamori asks, curious. Miyata’s smile stretches even wider, and his eyes slip shut again.

“I can’t remember,” he says carelessly. “But it was really nice, I think.”

*****

With no one to ask about it really, aside from his mother and that seems…too much like giving her amazing blackmail material, Tamamori puzzles over the meaning of the golden fireworks over the next few days. He wonders if they ever happen when he’s not there, but obviously has no way to confirm or deny that, and since Miyata can’t see them himself, it’s difficult to even know what to ask him.

Then Tamamori has an epiphany. Or more like, he witnesses some key evidence accidentally.

It’s during a morning of meetings about their schedule, which none of them would enjoy even if they were fully awake. They aren’t morning people, and there’s a particular staff member who always drones on and on until it’s plain that even Kitayama is struggling to focus on the here and now.

Even the guy’s colors are boring, Tamamori grumbles to himself, a vague, soporific green like a classroom chalkboard that hasn’t been washed in days, just erased and written on over and over. It makes Tamamori want to sneeze.

Beside him, Senga is struggling to keep his eyes open, looking like he’s had something of a rough night, chin propped up on his hand. As Chalkboard-san drones on about proper distribution of short-enough kouhai, Senga’s eyes glaze the whole way over and his breathing evens out. He’s not asleep, or at least not the whole way, but he is definitely caught up in some sort of daydream that has nothing to do with skate-to-boot height ratios.

After a little bit, something interesting happens.

Senga’s sky blue, duller than usual from tiredness and boredom like on a foggy morning, brighten back up. They even deepen a little, but that’s not what catches Tamamori’s eye; it’s the tiny burst of green that lights up just above his shoulder. Tamamori recognizes it immediately as the same kind of firework that he’s been brooding over because of Miyata, even though Senga’s are more like starbursts, sharper-edged. Another one pops up as Tamamori watches, more deeply green, then another, winking in and out like Christmas tree lights here and there.

Senga makes a soft noise, a breathy ohh that turns Tamamori’s cheeks pink, and suddenly he knows exactly what the little fireworks are. A glance across the table to double-check his theory finds Nikaido’s eyes just as dark-ringed.

“Senga!” Tamamori hisses quietly, kicking at him under the table. Senga startles out of his daze, the little green starbursts disappearing so quickly Tamamori is surprised he can’t hear them go pop. Senga blinks at him, befuddled, and Tamamori whispers quickly, “You were making a noise…” He flicks his eyes down.

Senga flushes bright red and tugs his hoodie off the back of his chair and into his lap. He keeps his eyes low for the rest of the meeting, except to shoot Tamamori a grateful look, and he definitely doesn’t dare to glance across at Nikaido.

For a little while, Tamamori is pleased with himself for working out the mystery, even giggling when they’re at the photoshoot watching staff debate Kitayama’s level of shirtlessness, and a little pom-pom of red pops up in the curve of Fujigaya’s neck. Fujigaya reaches up to scratch his neck idly, like it itches, and Tamamori snorts loud enough that Yokoo asks if he needs some anti-histamine.

But then a thought breaks through Tamamori’s amusement that makes him frown. If Senga’s starbursts were green…why are Miyata’s fireworks gold and not yellow?

When Miyata sneaks up behind Tamamori for a ninja hug attack, Tamamori leans back against his chest and doesn’t protest.

“Tama-chan?” Miyata asks, even as he loops arms firmly around Tamamori’s waist. “You feeling all right?”

“Yeah.” Tamamori lets his eyes fall shut, imagines Miyata’s purples washing over him in a soothing stream, sinking into his skin. He doesn’t have to worry about Miyata, he knows through and through that he doesn’t, can feel it even in the brush of Miyata’s thumb over his forearm.

“You sure?” Tamamori hums a vague yes, and Miyata squeezes him. “Okay, if Tama-chan says so. Hey…I love you~.”

“Gross,” Tamamori murmurs in response to Miyata’s showy confession. He leans back more heavily against Miyata when Miyata’s grip loosens even a little. “Don’t move.”

*****

“So, Miyata-kun’s colors, hm?” Tamamori-san asks over breakfast, late morning sunshine slanting in through the window and warming Tamamori’s toes like his mug of tea is warming his hands. Miyata himself is in the shower, his mug of tea waiting for him to emerge.

Tamamori ducks his head a little, because even without his mother being able to see, she would have figured him out right away. “Yeah.”

“It’s a nice change,” Tamamori-san says, setting down a bowl of rice in front of Tamamori. She pauses, stroking his hair idly. “It suits him, don’t you think?”

Tamamori fidgets a little, vaguely embarrassed that his mother must be perfectly aware of the source of the change in Miyata. “So you think it’s permanent too?”

“Hm, I think so. As best I can tell.” Tamamori-san is silent a moment, fingers steady and gentle, then she sighs. “Ah, can’t you boys stop becoming adults so quickly? The both of you…”

“Both of us?” Tamamori looks up, nose scrunched.

“Your colors too,” Tamamori-san nods. “You couldn’t tell? You can’t see your own, I suppose. But don’t you feel the difference?”

“What are they doing?” Tamamori demands, alarmed. He’s always been yellow, and although he can’t see it himself, he feels fiercely attached to his color, betrayed that it might be changing to god knows what without him knowing anything about it.

“You’re turning gold, Yuu-chan,” his mother tells him. Tamamori opens his mouth, but gets interrupted by Miyata stumbling into the kitchen and calling a good morning, his hair in damp curls and his worn T-shirt low enough to show off sharp collarbones, and Tamamori forgets entirely what he was about to say as he shoves Miyata’s tea towards him.

Tamamori-san wishes Miyata a good morning too, then turns back to the sink, smiling quietly to herself.

*****

“Hey, Miyacchi,” Tamamori says when they’re back in his room, deciding suddenly just to try something, “close your eyes?” Miyata eyes him a second, then shrugs and complies. “Think about your favorite thing we do, okay? Us, together.”

Miyata scrunches his brow a little and hums thoughtfully, and then grins. “Yeah, it’s definitely that.” A scatter of the fireworks trail from Miyata’s shoulder down, bright against his darkening purple.

“And it’s me, right? Definitely me?”

“Of course it’s you, who else would it be?” Miyata opens his eyes to ask, then adds, “Oof!” when Tamamori tackles him down to the bed.

“What was it?” Tamamori wants to know. “Your favorite thing? Tell me.”

“I’d rather show you,” Miyata offers. He leans up to press their mouths together, but more than that, he wraps one arm tight over the small of Tamamori’s back, and works the other hand up into his hair, until they’re pressed together as close as they can be. When the kiss breaks, they’re both breathless, Tamamori’s cheeks hot.

“Just that?” Tamamori asks, curious. Miyata nods, looking a bit shy and his colors turning a charming violet around the edges. “Don’t move, I’m gonna do something.”

Giving Miyata another quick, firm kiss as incentive, Tamamori wriggles down until he’s eye level with Miyata’s waistband.

“Tama-chan?” Miyata asks, surprised, but then cuts off with a squeak when Tamamori squeezes him through his sweatpants.

Usually Miyata does all the work, but this time he only watches with wide eyes as Tamamori tugs his sweatpants out of the way and strokes him hard. When Tamamori licks at his tip, Miyata shudders and the red that flushes his cheeks spreads into his colors as well, turning it sweet plum.

Miyata tries to tug Tamamori up eventually, but Tamamori shakes his head. “I want to make you feel good,” he tries to explain, but that’s not it so much. “I want to see you, I want to watch.” Miyata shivers head to foot and quits struggling, twisting fingers in the blankets and panting Tamamori’s name.

“Oh,” Miyata finally says, hips bucking against Tamamori’s hands, “wait, wait, oh–”

Correctly guessing that Miyata is at his limit, Tamamori lifts his head and finishes Miyata with a few sharp, tight strokes, so that he has a perfect view of Miyata coming unraveled, shuddering and spilling over Tamamori’s hand, before going slack.

For just a second or two, in the aftermath, Miyata is entirely edged in gold, all along his bare skin, not the quick flickers that Tamamori’s been trying to catch like fireflies, but a glow wide and sustained enough for Tamamori to finally get his wish.

“Yuta?” Miyata whispers when he opens his eyes and sees Tamamori’s expression. The gold is already fading away, all but melted back into Miyata’s satiated indigo, but it was more than enough, the best surprise present Miyata could have ever given him.

“I saw it,” Tamamori meets his eyes, amazed and deeply touched, “my own color, you finally showed me it.”

“Did I?” Miyata is still blinking, but he drags Tamamori up with shaking arms to cuddle him close, to smooth hands over his hair and cheeks. “Can I do that? Yellow, right?”

Tamamori shakes his head. “It’s gold, now. I changed too. Toshiya–” Past words, he seizes Miyata’s mouth and kisses him like he’s trying to crawl inside of him, like he can never be close enough.

Miyata kisses him back every bit as fiercely, and even with his eyes closed, Tamamori can still feel the little gold fireworks bursting against his skin, Miyata’s wine-dark waves lapping over the scorched marks left in their wake.

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  By ri, 2012.08.22 @ 7:03 pm

  i have so many feelings about this series. i love color themes and so this is probably one of my favorite things ever. i love how tama figures out what the fireworks are and has miyata show him what his color is. and the nisen and the tiny tiny hint of fujikita.

  so much love, really. for all the colors of the wind.

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