Gift fic for imifumei!
Gift fic for imifumei
From kis-my-fic2
Title: Touch me, Kiss me, Love me
Pairings/Characters: Miyata/Tamamori, Nikaido/Senga, Fujigaya, Kitayama, Yokoo, Kawai
Rating: R
Warnings: None apart from an overdose of fluff
Summary: It may be a night of celebration, but visiting a brothel isn’t the number one thing on Miyata’s to-do-list. Yet that’s exactly where he finds himself, sharing a conversation with a man who has a habit of talking to frying pans.
Notes: My one big fault may have been to try and find a solution that would have answered everything that was requested, when I could have chosen only one or two things to concentrate on. This is the result. I hope you like it.
It’s like any other night when Miyata pulls up by the side of the street, parking just under the street lamp. His coworkers, drunk and loud, climb out of the car with raucous laughter and Miyata smiles as he pockets the car key and gets out to the street as well.
The area is rundown and shadowed, but then so is most of the abandoned section, also referred to in official documents as MR78. The streets are quiet and the house they are standing next to is one of the very few with lights still on behind the windows. It’s a handsome house, or once was, red and wooden and grand like the buildings of the past, much unlike the new age of sleek glass and metal; it has a historical air to it, small detailed ornaments carved into the wooden panels. It has personality.
“This way,” one of the men tugs on his sleeve and Miyata follows him with a smile. They are celebrating the success of a long term project, and while Miyata doesn’t usually drink, he does enjoy the company. Someone also has to be able to drive the car.
The door opens before they are even half way across the lawn. A man leans against the door frame, his silhouette darkened by the lights shining in the house. He is short, Miyata observes, and when they get closer he can see the funny nose and the easy-going smile, and the look in his eyes that reflects unwavering self-confidence.
“Welcome back,” the man greets them, recognition in his voice. “Fujigaya again, I assume?”
“Yes, please.”
The man lets them in, closes the door and turns to press one of the buttons on the wall. There’s a distant clink inside the house in response.
They make small talk while waiting, and eventually the man, Fujigaya, appears on top of the stairs. He regards them for a while and grins. “Oh, hello. This many, Kitayama?”
“Only if you are able to handle them,” Kitayama answers easily, but Miyata thinks he hears a hidden taunt in the man’s voice.
Fujigaya’s eyes narrow for a nanosecond. “Naturally. Besides, Fumi came over, so I think the two of us can work something out.”
“Wha-Wait, Kawai is here?”
“Yes, he climbed in through the window. Said he didn’t want to have to pay an extra fee just to talk to me.”
“Because talking is obviously the only thing you two ever do,” this time the sarcasm is laid heavy, but Fujigaya ignores him and turns to look at the rest of them instead. “Come along then, gentlemen. You know the way.”
Miyata is left alone with Kitayama as the rest of his group follow Fujigaya upstairs. Kitayama looks at him with a raised eyebrow, giving his appearance a once-over before grinning.
"Hm? Wasn't Fujigaya to your taste then? Would you prefer someone else?"
"Oh, no," Miyata shakes his head, half embarrassed. "I didn't come here to, um..."
"Ah," Kitayama realizes quickly, saving Miyata from the mortification of having to say anything. "So you're the driver this time. It's fine, you can wait in the kitchen if you want."
"Thank you.”
"Unless of course," Kitayama's grin is back in full force as he leans closer, "you'd like to spend your time with someone?" His lips are ghosting over Miyata's jaw line now, the teasing having reached not only his voice but also his eyes. Miyata can easily see how people would agree to the suggestion without thinking twice. Even up close, Kitayama is pretty.
"I'm... I'm fine, thanks," he says after a few seconds of thinking it over. It isn't strictly that he doesn't want to - Kitayama is attractive in every sense of the word - but just like drinking, prostitution isn’t really his thing.
"Well, if you say so. Kitchen's that way, the door is on the left, and my button is the second one to the right if you change your mind," Kitayama slides past him with a wink and moves to the stairs, walking up without looking back.
Miyata follows the way he has been pointed to. He walks down the hallway and turns left from the first door that he sees, hoping it is the right one. It turns out that it is, but someone else is already there.
"What should we make for supper, pan-san?"
Miyata stops at the threshold, blinking twice. A man, probably younger than him by the looks of it, is standing by the stove and looking at the frying pan in his hand thoughtfully.
"Yes, I think so too. Sausages it is." With that he man turns around, sees Miyata and freezes mid-movement. The following silence lasts only for a few seconds.
"And who might you be? This area is not open for guests. If you are looking for someone, most of us are stationed upst--"
"No, no," Miyata hurries to stop the onslaught of words, holding his hands up disarmingly. "I was told to wait here. I'm not a customer."
The man blinks and frowns before turning around and heading for the fridge in the corner. "Fine. Sit down then."
Miyata obliges, taking a seat by the long kitchen table.
"What's your name?" he decides to ask when the younger man is setting his pan on the stove.
"Tamamori Yuta," is the short, blunt answer, and the man barely looks over his shoulder. "And you?"
"Miyata Toshiya," Miyata smiles good-naturedly. "Nice to meet you."
"Right," Tamamori turns on the stove, apparently still determined to forget there is anyone else in the room at all.
Unfortunately for him, Miyata is equally determined not to be forgotten. “Do you often talk to the frying pan?”
“You-” Tamamori splutters and turns around again, eyes narrowed. “If you-“
“I think it’s cute,” Miyata shrugs, eyes crinkling. “There aren’t many people around who do that.”
Tamamori purses his lips, clearly not sure if he has been complimented or not. “I’m trying to grow out of it,” he decides to say finally, still unhappy as he returns to cooking. “But it often helps me think, so I do it unconsciously.”
“I don’t see why you should stop doing it,” Miyata muses aloud, folding his hands thoughtfully. “People talk to themselves, so why not frying pans? It’s hardly any weirder, and definitely more adorable.”
There is a short pause in the man’s movements. “Men don’t usually want to be called adorable, you know.”
“Why not?”
“It’s the same thing as calling them pretty. It’s too feminine.”
“But I think you are really pretty, too. Would saying that offend you?”
Tamamori turns to stare at him slowly, sausages forgotten. “You are an odd one, aren’t you.”
“Sometimes,” Miyata grins and silently wonders if it would be too risky to ask if the frying pan has a name.
--
It does make Miyata wonder about the efficiency of the business when it’s only ten minutes later that Fujigaya interrupts their conversation in the kitchen.
“Everything has been taken care of,” he announces loudly as he strides in, another man in tow. “They’re all packed up and ready, waiting for you in the car.”
“Oh, that was fast,” Miyata blinks.
“We are professionals,” grins the newcomer. “Kawai Fumito, at your service.”
“Trust me, you wouldn’t want him to service your anything,” says Fujigaya when Miyata reaches out to shake the man’s hand. “He’s probably one of the most disturbing bed partners you’ll ever find.”
“You just don’t know how to appreciate my art properly, Taipi,” Kawai sniffs, faking hurt.
“The art of what?” Fujigaya scoffs. “Making your partner come before you do? That’s certainly something you haven’t mastered yet.”
“Guys! Unnecessary information!” Tamamori raises his voice a notch to drown out Kawai’s answer. He turns off the stove and takes Miyata by the hand, dragging him towards the door. “Come on, we don’t need to stay here to hear this.”
They leave the room just as Kawai jumps on Fujigaya’s back, and his loud demands for Fujigaya to “Take. That. Back!” follow them all the way to the front door.
Miyata barely pays attention to any of it. Tamamori’s hand around his is soft and warm. His long and elegant fingers are only lightly wrapped around Miyata’s wrist now, to guide rather than to pull him along. The contrast between the color of Tamamori’s light skin and his tanned one is oddly fascinating, and Miyata finds he can’t look away.
“I’m sorry about that,” Tamamori says when they stop. The pressure around Miyata’s wrist disappears.
Miyata shakes his head, smiling. “It’s alright. They seem like nice people.”
“Nice,” Tamamori snorts. “Sure. Try living with them.”
Miyata laughs, pulling on his shoes and opening the door. The night air feels chilly against his face as he turns to give Tamamori one more grin.
“I guess I’ll see you around.”
“Maybe,” Tamamori answers, not promising, not denying.
With that, Miyata leaves, giving a small wave of good bye before closing the door behind him.
He is almost half way to his car when he hears the footsteps of someone running after him. He turns around just in time for Tamamori to shove a half-burnt sausage between his lips.
The man is slightly out of breath and looks a tiny bit embarrassed, but it barely shows in his voice. “It’s to thank you for keeping me company,” he mutters.
“Oh, thanks,” Miyata articulates around the sausage. The sausage is still hot and burns his lips, so he takes it into his hand and grins properly in appreciation.
He stands there until Tamamori goes into the house, the quiet thud of a closing door echoing in the silent night. His grin softens into a smile as he turns around to walk the rest of the way to his car.
“Maybe,” Tamamori had said. Miyata decides to make it a “Definitely.”
--
It takes him three days to find a suitable time to go back to the house. Kitayama opens the door and looks surprised for a moment, but soon the customary grin forms on his lips.
“Did you change your mind then?”
“Sort of,” Miyata smiles easily and steps in. “Is Tamamori available?”
“Yes, he is,” Kitayama doesn’t look very surprised, only amused as he takes Miyata’s jacket and hangs it on the clothes rack in the corner. “How long would you like to spend with him?”
"A couple of hours will do, I guess,” Miyata shrugs.
"A couple of hours?" Kitayama’s brows shoot up and he eyes Miyata up and down like he is revaluating him. There's a faint hint of worry behind the carefully constructed business façade, and when Miyata notices it he hurries to explain.
"I mean, I just want to talk to him, and nothing more than that.”
"Oh." The surprised expression doesn't disappear. "So you are paying actual money to talk to him. And that's it?"
Miyata shuffles his feet, suddenly self-conscious and uncertain. "Yes, that was the plan. I mean, I am allowed to choose how I want to spend the time I buy, right?"
"I suppose you are," Kitayama admits, but the worry is gone and there is real amusement on his face now. "I'll call him down for you."
"Thanks," Miyata grins and watches as Kitayama presses a button on the wall, the one just beside his own. The soft clink resounds further in the house, and it doesn't take long for Tamamori to appear at the top of the stairs. There he stops, and his eyes land on Miyata. His mouth forms a perfect little o.
"Oh. You."
"Hi," Miyata waves, suddenly feeling giddy.
Kitayama comes to stand behind him, looking up at Tamamori. "Will you take him?"
“Um,” Tamamori thinks for a while, tilting his head. "Sure. Why not."
"Then he's all yours," Kitayama grins and pushes Miyata towards the stairs, "Take good care of him."
Tamamori beckons him up and then steers him to the left with a quick press of his fingers. They don't talk before they reach his room, the last door at the end of the corridor with neatly written kanji reading "Tamamori Yuta" painted on the white wooden surface.
The room they enter is decorated in the traditional style, with tatami mats on the floor and a futon folded neatly in the corner. There's a disconnected TV set by the wall with a few DVDs balanced on top of it precariously, and a small metal book shelf half hidden behind a clothing rack. The room is very simplistic with only one painting of a sky hanging on the wall, but Miyata thinks it looks very much like Tamamori.
"I didn't realize you'd come back. I didn't actually imply you should when I gave you the sausage."
Miyata smiles. "I might have come anyway, even if you hadn't given me one."
"So you came because of the sausage," Tamamori says, deadpan.
Miyata chuckles. "It was a very good sausage."
Tamamori stares at him expressionlessly before shaking his head in what might be exasperation but what Miyata thinks is actually half-hidden amusement.
Then Tamamori steps forward and wraps his arms around Miyata's neck, looking at him from under his lashes. His eyes are deep and black with a soft and slow burn in them, and his voice is low when he speaks again. "How would you-"
"Oh, actually, I," Miyata unwraps the man's arms quickly and takes a step backwards to add some space between them. He feels unexpectedly cold as he does, Tamamori's body having been warm and snug against him, and for the shortest of seconds Miyata considers stepping forward again. He doesn't.
Tamamori looks a bit taken aback, like he isn't completely following anymore.
"I only came here to talk to you."
"..." Tamamori clearly doesn't know what to say.
"It's not that I don't want to- to- well, you know, spend the night with you” Miyata tries to explain and cringes at how awkward it comes out, “but more than that, I just really want to talk."
The burn in Tamamori's eyes fades away slowly, and something in his stance changes as he lets Miyata's words sink in.
"I see. I guess we can talk, too."
They sit down slowly, kneeling, and it's a bit too formal for what Miyata had in mind, but they have to start from somewhere.
"So you really only came to talk," Tamamori confirms then, breaking the short silence, expression blank.
"Yes."
"... That's a first."
Miyata grins at him widely. "There are first times to everything."
Tamamori blinks and something very close to a smile ghosts his lips. "I guess."
They sit still for a while, both observing the other. Tamamori looks absentminded, Miyata notes. His eyes, half-hidden behind the fringe of his light brown hair that has been straightened and pressed flat to frame his face, move around the room, sometimes stopping on a part of Miyata before looking away - his face, his fingers, the crook of his neck. Mimicking his moves, Miyata tries to map Tamamori in his mind.
After some minutes the silence turns from awkward to comfortable. Tamamori slouches, letting his legs slide from under him into a better sitting position. When Miyata notices this, he smiles, and Tamamori smiles back before he can stop himself.
"So," Miyata starts conversationally, breaking the silence. "Do you like anime?"
--
As it turns out, Tamamori isn't a big fan of anime, but that doesn't stop Miyata from visiting a few times every week. This amuses the other occupants of the house to great extent.
"You really are an idiot, aren't you?" Nikaido asks him one day, ignoring Senga's disapproving punch to his shoulder. The two, while they live in the house, don’t actually work there. Instead they do odd jobs outside, delivering newspapers and working night shifts in nearby restaurants. According to the snippets Miyata gathered from Kitayama, Tamamori and sometimes Fujigaya, Senga doesn't actually mind the idea of working for their living the same way the others do, but when the topic had first come up, Nikaido - and Miyata can easily see how this is possible - had point blank refused to let the boy near any of the customers.
"It's a strong case of boyfriend jealousy," Fujigaya grins at him when he asks about it.
Apart from them, there is Yokoo. Like the house, Yokoo is traditional, too. He is the most calm and rational out of the bunch, and has a wolf-like grin and a compulsive cleaning disorder that the rest of them like to take advantage of.
At first Miyata keeps his visits short - he goes when he can, taking a few hours after work to drive to the edge of the city and then returns home before midnight. After some weeks it's already become more of a habit than an exception to how he spends his evenings, and his visits turn more frequent and last longer.
However, Tamamori isn't always free. Sometimes Miyata has to wait by the stairs talking with whoever happens to be free that night until Tamamori comes down, escorting his customer out politely with softness in his expression, a small smile and an invitation to come again.
There doesn't seem to be a pattern to Tamamori's customers, not a discernible reason Tamamori chooses one over the other. Miyata knows that Tamamori doesn't sleep with everyone - nobody in the house does. Tamamori had made that very clear to him during the first week when he'd realized Miyata thought they were just normal prostitutes selling their body out in the streets for money.
"It's not like that," he'd said shortly. "We only sleep with those we want to - not with those who come to us with the most money in hand."
After the customer has been sent out, Tamamori would acknowledge Miyata's presence with a short nod, and that is Miyata's only cue to follow him upstairs.
Usually, like the first time Miyata visited, they talk. It's mostly Miyata who talks, keeping up a steady stream of questions for Tamamori to answer to stop him from drifting off into his own little world. Soon they start doing other things too - Miyata suggests a particular TV show he likes to follow, and they sit in front of the TV set to watch it. Miyata also explores Tamamori's clearly insufficient book shelf and begins to bring new books from his apartment for them to read.
And somewhere between the repeated days and unchanging patterns, friendship is born. It’s not the conventional kind where they tell each other everything on their minds - instead, it’s silent and unassuming, a companionship established on quiet moments spent close together. Miyata learns to read the true meanings behind Tamamori’s blank expressions and sometimes unintentionally thorny statements, while Tamamori learns to relax and trust him more, to enjoy the hours they spend either in silence or quietly talking.
Or well. Relatively quietly.
“Miyata, hand it over.”
“No,” Miyata retreats a few steps, arms wrapped around his torso in a protective manner.
“It’s hideous,” Tamamori says frustrated, pointing one accusing finger at the hoodie Miyata is wearing. “I can’t have you come here wearing that and scaring people away. It’s horrible, take it off.”
Miyata eyes his hoodie tragically. “But it’s comfortable.”
“It has pink ponies on it. Pink ponies, Miyata. If you must wear something with cartoon characters, at least go for robots or something that is not so absolutely girly.”
“But-“
“Hand it over!”
Seemingly heartbroken, Miyata pulls the shirt over his head and tosses it to Tamamori, who stuffs it into his closet while muttering something about stupid otakus and their nonexistent fashion sense. Then he takes out a dark grey cardigan and gives it to Miyata. The material is soft and warm between his fingers, and he pulls it on with a happy smile. It smells like Tamamori, a dark and soft smell with a hint of coffee and detergent mixed together. The sleeves are too long for him but Miyata rolls them up to his elbows.
“Thank you,” he says, and Tamamori looks to the side to avoid his eyes.
“It’s not like I can let you freeze,” he mutters to the TV set, and it makes Miyata’s skin tingle in happiness.
--
The next time Miyata returns, a new stack of books in his arms, the weather has turned even colder. Tamamori has a heater set up in his room and they camp around it with Miyata leaning against the wall and Tamamori sprawled on his stomach across the floor.
After some time Miyata looks over the edge of the book he is reading and notices the way Tamamori is shivering under the small quilt that he has wrapped around his shoulders to keep the cold away. A smile tugs on Miyata's lips, and he places his book down, drawing Tamamori's attention.
"Come here," he says, opening his arms wide in invitation.
"What?" Tamamori asks, nonplussed.
"You are cold," Miyata explains, "and the quilt is not helping. Come here."
Tamamori stares at him for a moment before slowly rising to his feet and padding over to Miyata's side of the room. He stands in front of the man uncertainly, eyeing him up and down until Miyata takes a hold of his hand and pulls him down.
For a moment they are face to face, Tamamori's eyes looking surprised into Miyata's. There's a sudden physical pull that Miyata feels, as if the scent of Tamamori's skin and the heat of his body are trying to lure him in, to make him lean closer. It's not the first time - sometimes, especially when they are sitting close to each other, Miyata has the urge - and it's strong and irrational and distracting - to place his hand into Tamamori's, or touch his face or maybe just the crook of his arm. Tamamori's skin looks soft, warm and inviting, and Miyata can't tell what it is exactly that makes him want to touch it. It just does.
Tamamori doesn't move and Miyata chuckles, shakes his head and helps the man turn around so that he is settled comfortably between Miyata's legs. He then wraps his arms around Tamamori's torso and pulls him against his chest, the warmth of his body seeping through the clothes and onto Miyata's skin.
Tamamori is taller than him so Miyata can't set his head on the top of the man's like he had originally planned to - it would have perfected the picture, in his opinion - so instead his lowers his chin on Tamamori's shoulder and intertwines his legs with Tamamori's longer ones.
"Better?" he asks, and although Tamamori is tense and surprisingly quiet, he nods. Miyata laughs, the sound tickling Tamamori's ear and sending his hair swaying in the air, brushing Miyata's nose, and Miyata doesn’t even bother to convince himself of the fact that he didn’t do it completely on purpose. Sometimes, he thinks, just sometimes, he gets to try and be alluring too.
He reaches down to pick up his book and places it so that he can still read it comfortably, chin tucked on Tamamori's shoulder and hands loosely circling his waist. He turns the page.
Tamamori doesn't move for a long time, but Miyata can distinctly feel the way his muscles relax one by one. Finally, when Miyata has read another ten pages or so, he also takes up his book, sets it gingerly down on his lap, and turns the page.
--
Miyata wakes up to find Tamamori curled up against him. The books have both fallen on the floor forgotten, one neatly closed with a bookmark between its pages, and the other one lying face down with a few pages crumpled against the mats. He isn't sure which one of them had fallen asleep first, but if the bookmark stuck in his book is any indication, it would be him. Tamamori had probably marked it for him before falling asleep himself.
They've slid down so that Miyata is half lying on the floor, shoulders still propped up against the wall, and Tamamori is resting his head against Miyata's chest, arms thrown over Miyata's stomach and feet still tangled between his. Tamamori is snoring slightly, small quiet puffs of air escaping his lips and brushing against Miyata’s chest, the warmth seeping through the thin fabric. One of his hands is clenched in Miyata's shirt as if to hold him there.
Yet no matter how much Miyata wants to stay there, he suddenly finds it impossible. The position is killing his neck and shoulders, which he notices when he tries to turn his head to the side to look at the clock. With a sigh he forces himself to move, sliding down side ways until he is lying on the floor completely with Tamamori spread over his chest in an awkward angle. As carefully as he can he sits up and lifts the man off, placing him on the floor instead.
Tamamori murmurs something incoherent, arms reaching out to look for the lost warmth. He looks displeased and unhappy, and Miyata tries to not let his own happiness show too much on his face. He looks at the clock once more (and knows he should be going, should have gone already), but then returns his eyes on Tamamori's lithe form. As silently as he can he crawls over to the man's side and settles down, worming his arm under Tamamori's head to provide him with a temporary pillow. Tamamori curls back up against him immediately, fingers closing around the hem of his shirt and face buried in the crook of his shoulder.
Miyata relaxes, places a careful arm over Tamamori's hips and sets his head down.
He may not be the first person to sleep with Tamamori, he thinks as he starts drifting off, but he just may, perhaps, be the first one to fall asleep with him.
--
“You know I am going to have to charge you for staying overnight,” Kitayama tells him first thing in the morning when he enters the kitchen together with Tamamori, both of them with sleep tousled hair and eyes squinting against the morning light.
Tamamori makes a small sound of protest, eyebrows knitting together as he tries his best to form a complete thought and put it into words. He isn’t a morning person, Miyata observes, and smiles at how the thought makes his heart feel all warm.
“That’s fine,” he tells Kitayama.
“No, it’s not,” Tamamori objects. He looks like he’s about to continue, but Kitayama turns to look at him sharply.
“Rules are rules. Planned or not, whoever you choose to have accompany you through the night is a customer and has to pay the overnight fee. We need our living, too; I am not changing the rules for you.”
Tamamori frowns deeper, but before he can say more Miyata nudges him gently.
“It’s fine. I’m happy to pay if it’s for you.”
His words seem to mollify the man, but the dissatisfaction is still there when they sit down to eat.
“Oh, overnight this time?” Fujigaya asks as he appears around the corner.
Miyata sends a cheerful grin his way, snapping open his chopsticks. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Fujigaya grins back and sits down next to Kitayama. He makes a half-hearted attempt at the pickles on the man’s plate, but receives a light slap on his fingers and retreats.
“Hungry,” he complains loudly and slumps against the table. Miyata laughs and places a couple of his own pickles on the table next to him, and Fujigaya tongues them into his mouth with a quick, sly grin.
“Disgusting,” Kitayama accuses mildly but Fujigaya pays him no mind, apparently satisfied to just lay his head back on the table and close his eyes, purring.
They continue eating undisturbed. Miyata is half-way through his meal when Tamamori slips one of his own pickles into his bowl. Miyata grins stupidly, and his fingers find Tamamori’s under the table. He intertwines them for a short moment to say thank you, and the small contact sends a dozen unexpected sensations running through Miyata’s nerves.
Tamamori’s fingers are cool against his, their skin soft to the touch, and the pulse under the man’s skin beats against Miyata’s own. Their rhythms are nothing alike, and Miyata gets distracted as he tries to distinguish which beats belong to him and which to Tamamori.
When he moves to pull his hand back, Tamamori’s fingers tighten around it. Miyata understands quickly and his arm relaxes, fingers sliding softly back into their places.
When he looks up from his bowl he meets Kitayama’s gaze, and the man grins at him like he knows.
Miyata only smiles back.
--
A few days later, Miyata receives a mail two hours before his work shift ends.
Come.
It doesn’t matter that he had originally planned to stay overtime, or that he basically had to stay late in order to finish his share of the documents in time. He emails a quick response (I’ll be there by eight), sets his shoulders and begins working faster.
When the clock strikes seven he gets up, wishes good night to everyone in the office and takes his leave.
It’s stupid, perhaps, but it’s the first time Tamamori has asked him to come instead of Miyata having to book a time to meet him, and that, he thinks, is a step forward.
He won’t let it slip through his fingers.
Kitayama is the one to open the door as per usual, wearing a tired little smile on his face.
“Is everything okay?” Miyata asks right away, stepping past Kitayama into the hall way and toeing his shoes off.
Kitayama sighs but his smile doesn’t falter even if it does turn a bit cold at the edges.
“We had a bit of a difficult customer today,” he says. “It’s been a good while since the last time.”
“Is Tamamori okay?” Miyata asks, worry bubbling up. Then he notices how he sounds and corrects himself, a bit bashful. “Is everyone okay?”
“Nobody got hurt,” Kitayama reassures him. If he notices Miyata’s slip he doesn’t mention it, but his smile is slightly warmer when he continues. “It was Fujigaya’s customer. We did get him to leave, eventually, before anything could really happen.”
“I see,” Miyata says. Kitayama turns to look at him better, scrutinizing his expression for a few quiet seconds before snorting softly and pointing a finger towards the staircase.
“He is in his room, if you want to check on his wellbeing with your own eyes.”
Miyata’s smile is sheepish as he thanks him and hurries up the stairs two steps at a time.
Tamamori is in his room when he gets there, sitting by the window and staring out into the darkening evening. Miyata watches him for a while from the doorway, follows the way the setting sun sets his face alight with warm colors of deep red and fiery orange. He moves only when Tamamori turns to look at him.
“You came.”
“You wanted me to.”
Tamamori nods and doesn’t apologize; Miyata is glad, because he doesn’t want him to.
“I finished the series you recommended.”
It’s unexpected and Miyata smiles, striding forward to sit on one of the stools.
“How did you like it?”
“It was okay, I think. Interesting.”
“Mm,” Miyata nods, content. He could continue on the subject, anime is one of the few subjects he could actually go on and on about for hours, but there is something else he is concerned about and he thinks it might be just a little bit more important. Things that have to do with Tamamori always seem a bit more important than the rest of the world, to him.
“Are you okay?”
Tamamori doesn’t answer for a long while. He returns to staring out of the window, and Miyata observes the minute changes in his expression with keen eyes. Tamamori is content, too; not maybe quite happy in the truest sense of the word, but fine, alright. It lets Miyata know he isn’t truly upset. But there is something, and Miyata is curious.
“Sometimes… people can’t tell the difference. Between whores, or sex slaves, and what we are. But there is a difference.”
“Hm,” Miyata hums, following Tamamori’s gaze out of the window. The sky is painted a deep purple.
“We aren’t prisoners, you know. None of us has a debt to hold us here. We are here because we choose to be. We could choose otherwise.”
“I know.”
Tamamori reaches his hands forward, stretches them out of the window like a cat and grasps the chilly air between his fingers. He sounds distracted as he continues.
“We don’t have to have sex with anyone if we don’t want to. Kitayama would never make us. But some people can’t see that.”
Miyata resists the urge to touch the man and instead just observes the way emotions flit across his face. Then Tamamori shakes his head, breaking his trance, and pulls his hands back in.
“Let’s watch something,” he suggests out of the blue, and it’s like their conversation had never taken place.
“Okay,” Miyata agrees, just as eager to forget.
Tamamori tires out soon and lays down on his mattress to rest. Miyata sits down next to him while the animated characters continue to flash across the TV screen, muted this time.
Instead of the TV, Miyata watches as Tamamori lies there, stretched out and relaxed and spacing out. He lets his eyes follow the curve of his neck, the way his hair curls around the nape of it, the bare line of his shoulder as it just appears from under his shirt. His skin seems soft somehow, translucent, and Miyata reaches a hand forward, just almost against his own will (but then again, he always wants to touch Tamamori so it is never against his own will), and places a finger on the man’s arm.
Tamamori starts and opens his eyes to peer at him from under his lashes, just a bit disapproving, just a bit dissatisfied, but mostly curious.
“Sorry, do you mind?” Miyata tries to smile as disarmingly as he possibly can, but he can’t help himself. He wants to touch too much.
Tamamori eyes him for a second, then opens his mouth to say what Miyata is sure is something akin to “creep”, but closes it again and lets his eyelids fall shut.
“Fine. But don’t distract me.”
Miyata’s smile stretches even wider, and he traces the curve of Tamamori’s shoulder down to his elbow. Then he scoots closer as quietly as he can in his attempt not to distract the man and takes Tamamori’s arm into his lap.
The man shifts in response and for a second Miyata fears he has changed his mind, but it’s just to adjust his position to the new arrangement.
Miyata chuckles because it’s adorable, but Tamamori frowns and he stops immediately so as not to risk his chance.
Then he focuses on the arm again and turns it around. He begins with the wrist where the veins are just visible; creating an intricate blue web that Miyata follows, drawing small little flowers around them until he feels he has memorized it all by touch. He continues upward, just brushing the skin with his knuckles and moving on to the crook of his arm. He draws up some flowers again; the skin is the softest there, paler than the rest of Tamamori’s arm. It’s also warmer, and Miyata hesitates for a while before he continues his way back to Tamamori’s shoulder, stopping right before the edge of his sleeve.
He looks up and sees Tamamori watching him, eyes narrowed and unreadable.
“You are odd, you know,” the man tells him once again.
“Yeah, sorry,” he answers and smiles without really feeling apologetic at all. He can tell that Tamamori notices this, his lips pursing. He can also tell that Tamamori doesn’t really mind; it wasn’t an accusation.
Tamamori rolls over onto his stomach and then stretches his other arm out on to the mattress, wriggling his fingers.
“This arm next,” he says, and Miyata can’t stop the happy grin from almost splitting his face in two.
“Okay,” he agrees and moves closer again to re-start his exploring.
“Without the flowers this time.”
“Okay,” Miyata obliges amicably before placing his fingertips on the veins of Tamamori’s wrist.
He stops with the flowers and starts drawing cats and birds and stupid faces instead, with Tamamori occasionally hazarding a guess at what he might be trying to say. It becomes a game, one that they play until Tamamori’s answers are only barely conscious mumbles against the mattress and Miyata is lying next to him, head propped up on a pillow while his fingers continue to shape pictures on Tamamori’s skin.
When Tamamori quiets altogether, the silence broken only by his deep, slow breathing, Miyata lets his fingers slide down the man’s arm and rests his aching arm on the space between them, fingers still in light contact with the man’s skin.
He listens to Tamamori’s breathing, feels the pulse faintly under his skin, and knows he is hopelessly in love.
--
“Miyata.”
Miyata looks up from his book, hand stilling on the pages to mark the place where he had left off, and makes a questioning sound at the back of his throat.
Tamamori chews his lip and looks like he is torn between saying and not saying what’s on his mind. Curious, Miyata lowers his book completely and sits up straighter. “What is it?”
“I was… I was just wondering.”
“Yes?”
“This,” Tamamori spreads his arms out to point at everything around them, at Miyata’s book and at him, and at them. “This is all we ever do. We talk, we read, and we watch the TV. You are paying money to just… spend time with me.”
“Yes,” Miyata smiles. “I thought that much was obvious?”
“But you never…”
“I never…?” Miyata prompts.
“Don’t you ever want anything more than that? You do know that if you, well, kissed me, for example, I wouldn’t tell you to stop.”
Tamamori is entirely serious, genuinely confused, but there’s a bit of red crawling up the back of his neck.
“Would you want me to kiss you?” Miyata asks and leans closer. There wasn’t much space between them to begin with, but now there is barely any at all. He focuses on Tamamori’s eyes and his lips, the way the younger man is suddenly blinking rapidly, his mouth slightly parted.
“I-“
Miyata presses their lips together softly, experimenting. He feels Tamamori’s tiny surprised hiccup against his tongue and brings it out for a second to trace the man’s lower lip, not to ask for entrance, only to make it something more than a meaningless little kiss between friends.
He pulls back after a few seconds with a low and quiet chuckle. “Was that what you wanted?”
“I-I never said I wanted it,” Tamamori sounds disorganized, still blinking unusually fast like he is unable to hold Miyata’s gaze for more than a handful of seconds at a time. “I just wondered why you never want to. Most do.”
It stings just a little bit, but Miyata ignores it and pulls back the rest of the way and picks up the book he left on the floor. He smiles at Tamamori before returning to reading. “I don’t kiss you because this much is enough for me, too.”
And maybe it is a bit of a lie, but Miyata wants to mean at least something to Tamamori. What they have now is way better than what they would have if he were just one of the man’s usual customers.
There’s a silence for a few moments before Tamamori finally moves, too, sits up and picks up his own book from his lap.
“What I wanted to say was just… Well. I wanted to let you know that you can kiss me whenever you want to. I don’t mind.”
Miyata glances at him from the corner of his eye, lips pressed together to hold back the laugh that threatens to spill over as he sees the man’s ear tips burning.
“Okay,” he says, struggling to sound as casual as he can, and turns a page like he doesn’t care either way. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He doesn’t bother dodging when Tamamori throws his book at him, mortified, and laughs when a pillow follows suit. It’s only when Tamamori makes a move to grab his book as new weapon that Miyata stops him, locking Tamamori’s wrists between his fingers and rolling him onto his back on the floor, head in Miyata’s lap. Tamamori flails uselessly for a few more minutes, but neither says anything when, between his attempts to calm the man down, Miyata drops a few stray kisses on his forehead and on the tip of his nose.
They equally ignore the longer kiss they share as Miyata leaves for the night.
--
The next morning he wakes up to a short mail from Tamamori.
Come if you can, or whenever you have time.
He’s out of the bed before he knows it, falling over DVDs he has stacked on the floor and getting stuck in his shirt as he accidentally keeps trying to put it on the wrong way around.
This time, as he speeds through the half-empty city streets, he doesn’t drive fast because Tamamori has invited him for a visit.
This time, it’s because he is needed. Something is wrong.
They are sitting around the kitchen table when Miyata arrives, an official looking letter spread open between them. Miyata takes one look at it, then at everyone’s expression, and his heart squeezes.
“What?” He asks, heart rate accelerating as he sits down by Tamamori’s side and the man barely notices him, eyes glued on the white piece of paper.
“They are expropriating this place,” Kitayama sighs, looking grim.
“They are- they are what?”
Yokoo leans over Fujigaya to explain. “Some government officials came over early this morning for an inspection. They said someone had tipped them off about a certain group of men ‘selling their services’ around this area. Of course they didn’t find anything - we would never allow them to - but they left us with this. It’s an official order for us to move out by the end of the week.”
“Someone must have ratted on us,” Nikaido murmurs quietly, hand in Senga’s as he, too, stares at the letter like it’s been bewitched.
That silences everyone for a while until Fujigaya suddenly speaks up.
“I’m sorry. It’s probably my fault,” his lips are thin and pale, expression angry. “That customer some weeks ago - the one that came in waving cash around like it was mere trash, looking all high and important, demanding that I -“
“If you hadn’t refused him, I would have,” Kitayama stops him, suddenly angry as well. It isn’t the same kind of anger, not the dangerous kind that Fujigaya holds within - it is controlled, cold. “As long as I still have a say in this house. I won’t have any of you hurt under my watch.”
Fujigaya quiets down, looking at his fisted hands. Yokoo lowers a calming hand on his shoulder.
“So… what now?” Miyata asks with a voice barely above a whisper. Everyone hears it anyway.
“Now we move,” Kitayama sweeps a hand over his face tiredly and ruffles his hair. “Get decent lives with proper jobs somewhere out there. We should be grateful none of us were arrested.”
“But-“
“It’s not the end of the world,” Tamamori tells him quietly, looking up from the letter and straight into Miyata’s eyes. “It’s not.”
“Right,” Senga mumbles. He squeezes Nikaido’s hand. “It’s not like they’re telling us not to see each other anymore.”
“Exactly,” Kitayama smiles, and although it comes out wrong and crooked, it seems to dissolve the tension.
Miyata smiles with them and pretends he can’t see the sadness behind their smiles.
--
Tamamori sits down on the tatami mats of his room and leans his back against the wall, closing his eyes. Miyata kneels down in front of him, reaching out to interlace their fingers. The tickle of warmth as skin meets skin is the same as the first time they touched, and Miyata rubs his thumb over the back of Tamamori’s hand.
“I don’t really want to move,” Tamamori tells him quietly.
“I know,” Miyata answers and tucks a few stray strands of hair behind the man’s ear.
Tamamori is beautiful. He is not just pretty or handsome or good-looking, he’s simply beautiful, Miyata thinks as the man opens his eyes to look at him. There’s the soft burn again, the one Miyata’s seen only once or twice before. This time he doesn’t hesitate when he leans in, doesn’t step back to avoid Tamamori’s arms wrapping around his neck. Tamamori parts his lips just slightly before they meet, and then his breath is already hot against Miyata’s, tongue sliding in to explore the insides of Miyata’s mouth.
It’s slow and tentative, the way they move. Tamamori crawls into Miyata’s lap as Miyata’s hands continue to explore, touching Tamamori everywhere he can reach. Tamamori’s skin is burning under his hands, feverish and smooth, and Miyata takes his time dragging his fingers over every bump and hollow he can find. Some of them are familiar, some he knows, like the one near Tamamori’s spine and the other one just by his elbow. Some are not, like the dip just under the hem of his shirt, or the jutting bone of his hip.
Soon their shirts lie forgotten in the corner and Miyata retreats just enough to be able to plant his hands on Tamamori’s bare chest. His fingers splay out, ghosting the lines of the man’s ribs, brushing against his nipples, straying lower. That’s as far as he gets because Tamamori’s lips crash on his again, insistent and urgent, and he enjoys the feeling too much to properly concentrate. His lips, wet and just a bit chapped, press against Miyata’s. Their tongues begin yet another complex dance around each other, their kisses open-mouthed and sloppy. When Miyata finally wedges two fingers under the waistband of Tamamori’s boxers, the resulting moan reverberates through his whole being.
“Toshiya,” Tamamori whispers into his mouth. Miyata is surprised to taste the saltiness of tears on his tongue, but when he opens his eyes to look he finds nothing there. He reaches up to kiss Tamamori’s closed eyelids nevertheless, one kiss each, and smoothes his hands flat against Tamamori’s sweaty back.
“Please.”
Miyata hears the words left unspoken hanging in the air like an open plea.
Distract me.
And distract him Miyata does. He lays him on the floor as gently as he can, blowing a trail of butterfly kisses down his chin and his neck, nudging the skin of his collarbones with his teeth. With little help he slides Tamamori’s boxers off and wraps his fingers around the head of the man’s cock, massaging it gently while he whispers sweet little nothings into Tamamori’s ear.
“It’s okay,” he chants as they rock against each other, “It’s alright.”
He finds that he loves the way Tamamori arches against him, the way his fingers scrape along the skin of Miyata’s arms, the way he pushes into Miyata’s hand, the way he gasps for breath when Miyata does something exactly right. He loves the man’s voice and the way he uses it, low, quiet moans and groans whispered just by Miyata’s ear, or into his mouth, or into his shoulder. He loves the way Tamamori reacts to his every touch, and the way he fits in his embrace just so.
When Tamamori comes it’s silent and violent, and Miyata holds him tight as he shudders through his orgasm. After that Tamamori helps him finish, fingers running up and down his length. It doesn’t take long, just a few slow strokes, and Miyata comes in his hand and on his stomach with a cry.
He lets himself collapse by Tamamori’s side, slightly shaking as he extracts himself from the mess of limbs. Tamamori turns his head to give him a small peck on the nose and then lays his head down again, touching their foreheads together before closing his eyes.
Miyata watches his face as it relaxes, the frown smoothening into something more peaceful as sleep takes over. He waits until Tamamori’s breathing is steady and slow before getting up and getting dressed, and with one more longing look to the sleeping man’s direction he leaves the room and heads downstairs.
He has business to discuss.
--
“You would do what?”
“Buy the house,” Miyata repeats steadily, sitting opposite Kitayama.
“But after it’s been expropriated it’s the Government that owns it, and I don’t think they’ll just let you-“
“I have connections I can use. Strings I can pull.” It sounds much more grand that it is in reality. All he really has is a few friends in the right places who owe him a couple of favors Miyata hadn’t originally planned on ever exploiting. But well, things change. “All I really wanted to know was if you’d approve of it, and if you’d agree to move in once the deal’s done. This is a big house to occupy all on my own.”
“I don’t think I can let you do this. It’ll feel like I owe you, then.”
“Consider it an unofficial payment for Tamamori,” Miyata smiles a little.
“A payment? But you can’t-“
“I know I can’t legally buy him, it would show on the records and get every one of us arrested. However,” the smile disappears, replaced by determination, “I plan to convince Tamamori to stop taking on any more customers. Consider it a payment for the customers you lose.”
“Miyata…” Kitayama starts, then stops like he is hesitating, and finally continues. “I thought you knew. Tamamori hasn’t been with customers for weeks. Some still come, but he directs them to me, Fujigaya or Wataru.”
A slow smile appears on Miyata’s face, driven by the warmth that begins in the pit of his stomach and then expands until it has filled every corner of his body. “I didn’t know that,” he admits softly.
They sit in shared silence until Miyata decides to break it, the small smile remaining on his lips.
“So, will you accept? This is a nice house. It would be a shame to lose it.”
Kitayama sighs and looks defeated. “At least let us pay you rent.”
Miyata chuckles as he reaches out to shake Kitayama’s hand. “Only if you insist.”
--
“Taguchi? Yes, it’s me, long time no see. Hey, listen, have you heard about that house in MR78 that the government is taking over? Yes, that one. How good a chance do you think I would have in buying it?”
--
It takes some time, but eventually Miyata manages to get the ownership of the house and little by little life seems to return to normal.
“What are you doing?!”
The screech is loud enough to shatter windows and Miyata jumps up from his seat in the living room, rushing out into the hall-way and entering the kitchen only a few seconds later.
Tamamori is holding his frying pan to his chest, chin jutting out as he stares murderously at Nikaido and Senga. Nikaido steps forward, looking at least twice as stubborn.
“Give the pan back. We were practicing baseball with it.” In his hands he holds a sack of potatoes, and there’s a small mountain of them smashed on the floor and carelessly swept to the side. Miyata skirts it carefully as he joins the other three in the middle of the kitchen.
“Greg isn’t really a baseball bat, though,” he says with a hand on the small of Tamamori’s back.
“You call it Greg?” Senga asks curiously at the same time as Nikaido snorts: “Don’t tell me you’ve actually named it.”
Tamamori’s face turns a light shade of red but Miyata just smiles. “We might have.”
He reaches out to take the pan out of Tamamori’s hands and flips it over, inspecting the surface for any damage. Apart from the potato mess it seems unharmed, and he hands it back to Tamamori with a soft grin. “It’s fine.”
“What’s fine?”
Senga visibly shrinks and even Nikaido takes a few steps back, looking alarmed.
Tamamori and Miyata turn around to look and find Yokoo standing next to the potato pile, his expression smooth and ice cold.
“What, exactly, is fine about this?”
“We-“
Yokoo silences Nikaido with a wave of his hand and growls. “When I asked you to cook the dinner, I didn’t mean you could cook it on the floor.”
“I’m-“
“I don’t care whose fault this is. I want the kitchen clean and spotless and the dinner ready on the table in one hour. Can you manage at least that much without me having to intervene?”
“…Yes,” they mutter one by one and after giving each of them a long glare Yokoo leaves them to their own devices.
“This is all your fault,” Tamamori hisses under his voice to Nikaido and Senga as he moves past them to go and turn on the oven.
“Pot calling the kettle black,” Nikaido hisses back at him before heading for the cleaning closet to fetch brooms and floor cloths. Senga’s face brightens up.
“So we’re calling the kettle Black then?
Tamamori closes his eyes against what he privately calls The Wave of Stupid, and even Nikaido sighs long-sufferingly.
Miyata smiles. “Maybe, but only if the kettle agrees.”
He dodges the wash cloth Nikaido throws his way as well as the punch Tamamori aims at his shoulder. While they work, Fujigaya stops by once or twice to make fun of them, Kitayama sneaks in to steal a sausage from the pan and even Yokoo returns to help them clean.
When they settle down to eat Miyata searches for Tamamori’s fingers under the table, finds them, and squeezes them in his own. Tamamori answers his squeeze with a smile, and it sends a wave of familiar warm tingles through Miyata’s skin.
And it’s not perfect nor his ideal fairy tale, but Miyata thinks he might have found his happily ever after.
--
From kis-my-fic2
Title: Touch me, Kiss me, Love me
Pairings/Characters: Miyata/Tamamori, Nikaido/Senga, Fujigaya, Kitayama, Yokoo, Kawai
Rating: R
Warnings: None apart from an overdose of fluff
Summary: It may be a night of celebration, but visiting a brothel isn’t the number one thing on Miyata’s to-do-list. Yet that’s exactly where he finds himself, sharing a conversation with a man who has a habit of talking to frying pans.
Notes: My one big fault may have been to try and find a solution that would have answered everything that was requested, when I could have chosen only one or two things to concentrate on. This is the result. I hope you like it.
It’s like any other night when Miyata pulls up by the side of the street, parking just under the street lamp. His coworkers, drunk and loud, climb out of the car with raucous laughter and Miyata smiles as he pockets the car key and gets out to the street as well.
The area is rundown and shadowed, but then so is most of the abandoned section, also referred to in official documents as MR78. The streets are quiet and the house they are standing next to is one of the very few with lights still on behind the windows. It’s a handsome house, or once was, red and wooden and grand like the buildings of the past, much unlike the new age of sleek glass and metal; it has a historical air to it, small detailed ornaments carved into the wooden panels. It has personality.
“This way,” one of the men tugs on his sleeve and Miyata follows him with a smile. They are celebrating the success of a long term project, and while Miyata doesn’t usually drink, he does enjoy the company. Someone also has to be able to drive the car.
The door opens before they are even half way across the lawn. A man leans against the door frame, his silhouette darkened by the lights shining in the house. He is short, Miyata observes, and when they get closer he can see the funny nose and the easy-going smile, and the look in his eyes that reflects unwavering self-confidence.
“Welcome back,” the man greets them, recognition in his voice. “Fujigaya again, I assume?”
“Yes, please.”
The man lets them in, closes the door and turns to press one of the buttons on the wall. There’s a distant clink inside the house in response.
They make small talk while waiting, and eventually the man, Fujigaya, appears on top of the stairs. He regards them for a while and grins. “Oh, hello. This many, Kitayama?”
“Only if you are able to handle them,” Kitayama answers easily, but Miyata thinks he hears a hidden taunt in the man’s voice.
Fujigaya’s eyes narrow for a nanosecond. “Naturally. Besides, Fumi came over, so I think the two of us can work something out.”
“Wha-Wait, Kawai is here?”
“Yes, he climbed in through the window. Said he didn’t want to have to pay an extra fee just to talk to me.”
“Because talking is obviously the only thing you two ever do,” this time the sarcasm is laid heavy, but Fujigaya ignores him and turns to look at the rest of them instead. “Come along then, gentlemen. You know the way.”
Miyata is left alone with Kitayama as the rest of his group follow Fujigaya upstairs. Kitayama looks at him with a raised eyebrow, giving his appearance a once-over before grinning.
"Hm? Wasn't Fujigaya to your taste then? Would you prefer someone else?"
"Oh, no," Miyata shakes his head, half embarrassed. "I didn't come here to, um..."
"Ah," Kitayama realizes quickly, saving Miyata from the mortification of having to say anything. "So you're the driver this time. It's fine, you can wait in the kitchen if you want."
"Thank you.”
"Unless of course," Kitayama's grin is back in full force as he leans closer, "you'd like to spend your time with someone?" His lips are ghosting over Miyata's jaw line now, the teasing having reached not only his voice but also his eyes. Miyata can easily see how people would agree to the suggestion without thinking twice. Even up close, Kitayama is pretty.
"I'm... I'm fine, thanks," he says after a few seconds of thinking it over. It isn't strictly that he doesn't want to - Kitayama is attractive in every sense of the word - but just like drinking, prostitution isn’t really his thing.
"Well, if you say so. Kitchen's that way, the door is on the left, and my button is the second one to the right if you change your mind," Kitayama slides past him with a wink and moves to the stairs, walking up without looking back.
Miyata follows the way he has been pointed to. He walks down the hallway and turns left from the first door that he sees, hoping it is the right one. It turns out that it is, but someone else is already there.
"What should we make for supper, pan-san?"
Miyata stops at the threshold, blinking twice. A man, probably younger than him by the looks of it, is standing by the stove and looking at the frying pan in his hand thoughtfully.
"Yes, I think so too. Sausages it is." With that he man turns around, sees Miyata and freezes mid-movement. The following silence lasts only for a few seconds.
"And who might you be? This area is not open for guests. If you are looking for someone, most of us are stationed upst--"
"No, no," Miyata hurries to stop the onslaught of words, holding his hands up disarmingly. "I was told to wait here. I'm not a customer."
The man blinks and frowns before turning around and heading for the fridge in the corner. "Fine. Sit down then."
Miyata obliges, taking a seat by the long kitchen table.
"What's your name?" he decides to ask when the younger man is setting his pan on the stove.
"Tamamori Yuta," is the short, blunt answer, and the man barely looks over his shoulder. "And you?"
"Miyata Toshiya," Miyata smiles good-naturedly. "Nice to meet you."
"Right," Tamamori turns on the stove, apparently still determined to forget there is anyone else in the room at all.
Unfortunately for him, Miyata is equally determined not to be forgotten. “Do you often talk to the frying pan?”
“You-” Tamamori splutters and turns around again, eyes narrowed. “If you-“
“I think it’s cute,” Miyata shrugs, eyes crinkling. “There aren’t many people around who do that.”
Tamamori purses his lips, clearly not sure if he has been complimented or not. “I’m trying to grow out of it,” he decides to say finally, still unhappy as he returns to cooking. “But it often helps me think, so I do it unconsciously.”
“I don’t see why you should stop doing it,” Miyata muses aloud, folding his hands thoughtfully. “People talk to themselves, so why not frying pans? It’s hardly any weirder, and definitely more adorable.”
There is a short pause in the man’s movements. “Men don’t usually want to be called adorable, you know.”
“Why not?”
“It’s the same thing as calling them pretty. It’s too feminine.”
“But I think you are really pretty, too. Would saying that offend you?”
Tamamori turns to stare at him slowly, sausages forgotten. “You are an odd one, aren’t you.”
“Sometimes,” Miyata grins and silently wonders if it would be too risky to ask if the frying pan has a name.
--
It does make Miyata wonder about the efficiency of the business when it’s only ten minutes later that Fujigaya interrupts their conversation in the kitchen.
“Everything has been taken care of,” he announces loudly as he strides in, another man in tow. “They’re all packed up and ready, waiting for you in the car.”
“Oh, that was fast,” Miyata blinks.
“We are professionals,” grins the newcomer. “Kawai Fumito, at your service.”
“Trust me, you wouldn’t want him to service your anything,” says Fujigaya when Miyata reaches out to shake the man’s hand. “He’s probably one of the most disturbing bed partners you’ll ever find.”
“You just don’t know how to appreciate my art properly, Taipi,” Kawai sniffs, faking hurt.
“The art of what?” Fujigaya scoffs. “Making your partner come before you do? That’s certainly something you haven’t mastered yet.”
“Guys! Unnecessary information!” Tamamori raises his voice a notch to drown out Kawai’s answer. He turns off the stove and takes Miyata by the hand, dragging him towards the door. “Come on, we don’t need to stay here to hear this.”
They leave the room just as Kawai jumps on Fujigaya’s back, and his loud demands for Fujigaya to “Take. That. Back!” follow them all the way to the front door.
Miyata barely pays attention to any of it. Tamamori’s hand around his is soft and warm. His long and elegant fingers are only lightly wrapped around Miyata’s wrist now, to guide rather than to pull him along. The contrast between the color of Tamamori’s light skin and his tanned one is oddly fascinating, and Miyata finds he can’t look away.
“I’m sorry about that,” Tamamori says when they stop. The pressure around Miyata’s wrist disappears.
Miyata shakes his head, smiling. “It’s alright. They seem like nice people.”
“Nice,” Tamamori snorts. “Sure. Try living with them.”
Miyata laughs, pulling on his shoes and opening the door. The night air feels chilly against his face as he turns to give Tamamori one more grin.
“I guess I’ll see you around.”
“Maybe,” Tamamori answers, not promising, not denying.
With that, Miyata leaves, giving a small wave of good bye before closing the door behind him.
He is almost half way to his car when he hears the footsteps of someone running after him. He turns around just in time for Tamamori to shove a half-burnt sausage between his lips.
The man is slightly out of breath and looks a tiny bit embarrassed, but it barely shows in his voice. “It’s to thank you for keeping me company,” he mutters.
“Oh, thanks,” Miyata articulates around the sausage. The sausage is still hot and burns his lips, so he takes it into his hand and grins properly in appreciation.
He stands there until Tamamori goes into the house, the quiet thud of a closing door echoing in the silent night. His grin softens into a smile as he turns around to walk the rest of the way to his car.
“Maybe,” Tamamori had said. Miyata decides to make it a “Definitely.”
--
It takes him three days to find a suitable time to go back to the house. Kitayama opens the door and looks surprised for a moment, but soon the customary grin forms on his lips.
“Did you change your mind then?”
“Sort of,” Miyata smiles easily and steps in. “Is Tamamori available?”
“Yes, he is,” Kitayama doesn’t look very surprised, only amused as he takes Miyata’s jacket and hangs it on the clothes rack in the corner. “How long would you like to spend with him?”
"A couple of hours will do, I guess,” Miyata shrugs.
"A couple of hours?" Kitayama’s brows shoot up and he eyes Miyata up and down like he is revaluating him. There's a faint hint of worry behind the carefully constructed business façade, and when Miyata notices it he hurries to explain.
"I mean, I just want to talk to him, and nothing more than that.”
"Oh." The surprised expression doesn't disappear. "So you are paying actual money to talk to him. And that's it?"
Miyata shuffles his feet, suddenly self-conscious and uncertain. "Yes, that was the plan. I mean, I am allowed to choose how I want to spend the time I buy, right?"
"I suppose you are," Kitayama admits, but the worry is gone and there is real amusement on his face now. "I'll call him down for you."
"Thanks," Miyata grins and watches as Kitayama presses a button on the wall, the one just beside his own. The soft clink resounds further in the house, and it doesn't take long for Tamamori to appear at the top of the stairs. There he stops, and his eyes land on Miyata. His mouth forms a perfect little o.
"Oh. You."
"Hi," Miyata waves, suddenly feeling giddy.
Kitayama comes to stand behind him, looking up at Tamamori. "Will you take him?"
“Um,” Tamamori thinks for a while, tilting his head. "Sure. Why not."
"Then he's all yours," Kitayama grins and pushes Miyata towards the stairs, "Take good care of him."
Tamamori beckons him up and then steers him to the left with a quick press of his fingers. They don't talk before they reach his room, the last door at the end of the corridor with neatly written kanji reading "Tamamori Yuta" painted on the white wooden surface.
The room they enter is decorated in the traditional style, with tatami mats on the floor and a futon folded neatly in the corner. There's a disconnected TV set by the wall with a few DVDs balanced on top of it precariously, and a small metal book shelf half hidden behind a clothing rack. The room is very simplistic with only one painting of a sky hanging on the wall, but Miyata thinks it looks very much like Tamamori.
"I didn't realize you'd come back. I didn't actually imply you should when I gave you the sausage."
Miyata smiles. "I might have come anyway, even if you hadn't given me one."
"So you came because of the sausage," Tamamori says, deadpan.
Miyata chuckles. "It was a very good sausage."
Tamamori stares at him expressionlessly before shaking his head in what might be exasperation but what Miyata thinks is actually half-hidden amusement.
Then Tamamori steps forward and wraps his arms around Miyata's neck, looking at him from under his lashes. His eyes are deep and black with a soft and slow burn in them, and his voice is low when he speaks again. "How would you-"
"Oh, actually, I," Miyata unwraps the man's arms quickly and takes a step backwards to add some space between them. He feels unexpectedly cold as he does, Tamamori's body having been warm and snug against him, and for the shortest of seconds Miyata considers stepping forward again. He doesn't.
Tamamori looks a bit taken aback, like he isn't completely following anymore.
"I only came here to talk to you."
"..." Tamamori clearly doesn't know what to say.
"It's not that I don't want to- to- well, you know, spend the night with you” Miyata tries to explain and cringes at how awkward it comes out, “but more than that, I just really want to talk."
The burn in Tamamori's eyes fades away slowly, and something in his stance changes as he lets Miyata's words sink in.
"I see. I guess we can talk, too."
They sit down slowly, kneeling, and it's a bit too formal for what Miyata had in mind, but they have to start from somewhere.
"So you really only came to talk," Tamamori confirms then, breaking the short silence, expression blank.
"Yes."
"... That's a first."
Miyata grins at him widely. "There are first times to everything."
Tamamori blinks and something very close to a smile ghosts his lips. "I guess."
They sit still for a while, both observing the other. Tamamori looks absentminded, Miyata notes. His eyes, half-hidden behind the fringe of his light brown hair that has been straightened and pressed flat to frame his face, move around the room, sometimes stopping on a part of Miyata before looking away - his face, his fingers, the crook of his neck. Mimicking his moves, Miyata tries to map Tamamori in his mind.
After some minutes the silence turns from awkward to comfortable. Tamamori slouches, letting his legs slide from under him into a better sitting position. When Miyata notices this, he smiles, and Tamamori smiles back before he can stop himself.
"So," Miyata starts conversationally, breaking the silence. "Do you like anime?"
--
As it turns out, Tamamori isn't a big fan of anime, but that doesn't stop Miyata from visiting a few times every week. This amuses the other occupants of the house to great extent.
"You really are an idiot, aren't you?" Nikaido asks him one day, ignoring Senga's disapproving punch to his shoulder. The two, while they live in the house, don’t actually work there. Instead they do odd jobs outside, delivering newspapers and working night shifts in nearby restaurants. According to the snippets Miyata gathered from Kitayama, Tamamori and sometimes Fujigaya, Senga doesn't actually mind the idea of working for their living the same way the others do, but when the topic had first come up, Nikaido - and Miyata can easily see how this is possible - had point blank refused to let the boy near any of the customers.
"It's a strong case of boyfriend jealousy," Fujigaya grins at him when he asks about it.
Apart from them, there is Yokoo. Like the house, Yokoo is traditional, too. He is the most calm and rational out of the bunch, and has a wolf-like grin and a compulsive cleaning disorder that the rest of them like to take advantage of.
At first Miyata keeps his visits short - he goes when he can, taking a few hours after work to drive to the edge of the city and then returns home before midnight. After some weeks it's already become more of a habit than an exception to how he spends his evenings, and his visits turn more frequent and last longer.
However, Tamamori isn't always free. Sometimes Miyata has to wait by the stairs talking with whoever happens to be free that night until Tamamori comes down, escorting his customer out politely with softness in his expression, a small smile and an invitation to come again.
There doesn't seem to be a pattern to Tamamori's customers, not a discernible reason Tamamori chooses one over the other. Miyata knows that Tamamori doesn't sleep with everyone - nobody in the house does. Tamamori had made that very clear to him during the first week when he'd realized Miyata thought they were just normal prostitutes selling their body out in the streets for money.
"It's not like that," he'd said shortly. "We only sleep with those we want to - not with those who come to us with the most money in hand."
After the customer has been sent out, Tamamori would acknowledge Miyata's presence with a short nod, and that is Miyata's only cue to follow him upstairs.
Usually, like the first time Miyata visited, they talk. It's mostly Miyata who talks, keeping up a steady stream of questions for Tamamori to answer to stop him from drifting off into his own little world. Soon they start doing other things too - Miyata suggests a particular TV show he likes to follow, and they sit in front of the TV set to watch it. Miyata also explores Tamamori's clearly insufficient book shelf and begins to bring new books from his apartment for them to read.
And somewhere between the repeated days and unchanging patterns, friendship is born. It’s not the conventional kind where they tell each other everything on their minds - instead, it’s silent and unassuming, a companionship established on quiet moments spent close together. Miyata learns to read the true meanings behind Tamamori’s blank expressions and sometimes unintentionally thorny statements, while Tamamori learns to relax and trust him more, to enjoy the hours they spend either in silence or quietly talking.
Or well. Relatively quietly.
“Miyata, hand it over.”
“No,” Miyata retreats a few steps, arms wrapped around his torso in a protective manner.
“It’s hideous,” Tamamori says frustrated, pointing one accusing finger at the hoodie Miyata is wearing. “I can’t have you come here wearing that and scaring people away. It’s horrible, take it off.”
Miyata eyes his hoodie tragically. “But it’s comfortable.”
“It has pink ponies on it. Pink ponies, Miyata. If you must wear something with cartoon characters, at least go for robots or something that is not so absolutely girly.”
“But-“
“Hand it over!”
Seemingly heartbroken, Miyata pulls the shirt over his head and tosses it to Tamamori, who stuffs it into his closet while muttering something about stupid otakus and their nonexistent fashion sense. Then he takes out a dark grey cardigan and gives it to Miyata. The material is soft and warm between his fingers, and he pulls it on with a happy smile. It smells like Tamamori, a dark and soft smell with a hint of coffee and detergent mixed together. The sleeves are too long for him but Miyata rolls them up to his elbows.
“Thank you,” he says, and Tamamori looks to the side to avoid his eyes.
“It’s not like I can let you freeze,” he mutters to the TV set, and it makes Miyata’s skin tingle in happiness.
--
The next time Miyata returns, a new stack of books in his arms, the weather has turned even colder. Tamamori has a heater set up in his room and they camp around it with Miyata leaning against the wall and Tamamori sprawled on his stomach across the floor.
After some time Miyata looks over the edge of the book he is reading and notices the way Tamamori is shivering under the small quilt that he has wrapped around his shoulders to keep the cold away. A smile tugs on Miyata's lips, and he places his book down, drawing Tamamori's attention.
"Come here," he says, opening his arms wide in invitation.
"What?" Tamamori asks, nonplussed.
"You are cold," Miyata explains, "and the quilt is not helping. Come here."
Tamamori stares at him for a moment before slowly rising to his feet and padding over to Miyata's side of the room. He stands in front of the man uncertainly, eyeing him up and down until Miyata takes a hold of his hand and pulls him down.
For a moment they are face to face, Tamamori's eyes looking surprised into Miyata's. There's a sudden physical pull that Miyata feels, as if the scent of Tamamori's skin and the heat of his body are trying to lure him in, to make him lean closer. It's not the first time - sometimes, especially when they are sitting close to each other, Miyata has the urge - and it's strong and irrational and distracting - to place his hand into Tamamori's, or touch his face or maybe just the crook of his arm. Tamamori's skin looks soft, warm and inviting, and Miyata can't tell what it is exactly that makes him want to touch it. It just does.
Tamamori doesn't move and Miyata chuckles, shakes his head and helps the man turn around so that he is settled comfortably between Miyata's legs. He then wraps his arms around Tamamori's torso and pulls him against his chest, the warmth of his body seeping through the clothes and onto Miyata's skin.
Tamamori is taller than him so Miyata can't set his head on the top of the man's like he had originally planned to - it would have perfected the picture, in his opinion - so instead his lowers his chin on Tamamori's shoulder and intertwines his legs with Tamamori's longer ones.
"Better?" he asks, and although Tamamori is tense and surprisingly quiet, he nods. Miyata laughs, the sound tickling Tamamori's ear and sending his hair swaying in the air, brushing Miyata's nose, and Miyata doesn’t even bother to convince himself of the fact that he didn’t do it completely on purpose. Sometimes, he thinks, just sometimes, he gets to try and be alluring too.
He reaches down to pick up his book and places it so that he can still read it comfortably, chin tucked on Tamamori's shoulder and hands loosely circling his waist. He turns the page.
Tamamori doesn't move for a long time, but Miyata can distinctly feel the way his muscles relax one by one. Finally, when Miyata has read another ten pages or so, he also takes up his book, sets it gingerly down on his lap, and turns the page.
--
Miyata wakes up to find Tamamori curled up against him. The books have both fallen on the floor forgotten, one neatly closed with a bookmark between its pages, and the other one lying face down with a few pages crumpled against the mats. He isn't sure which one of them had fallen asleep first, but if the bookmark stuck in his book is any indication, it would be him. Tamamori had probably marked it for him before falling asleep himself.
They've slid down so that Miyata is half lying on the floor, shoulders still propped up against the wall, and Tamamori is resting his head against Miyata's chest, arms thrown over Miyata's stomach and feet still tangled between his. Tamamori is snoring slightly, small quiet puffs of air escaping his lips and brushing against Miyata’s chest, the warmth seeping through the thin fabric. One of his hands is clenched in Miyata's shirt as if to hold him there.
Yet no matter how much Miyata wants to stay there, he suddenly finds it impossible. The position is killing his neck and shoulders, which he notices when he tries to turn his head to the side to look at the clock. With a sigh he forces himself to move, sliding down side ways until he is lying on the floor completely with Tamamori spread over his chest in an awkward angle. As carefully as he can he sits up and lifts the man off, placing him on the floor instead.
Tamamori murmurs something incoherent, arms reaching out to look for the lost warmth. He looks displeased and unhappy, and Miyata tries to not let his own happiness show too much on his face. He looks at the clock once more (and knows he should be going, should have gone already), but then returns his eyes on Tamamori's lithe form. As silently as he can he crawls over to the man's side and settles down, worming his arm under Tamamori's head to provide him with a temporary pillow. Tamamori curls back up against him immediately, fingers closing around the hem of his shirt and face buried in the crook of his shoulder.
Miyata relaxes, places a careful arm over Tamamori's hips and sets his head down.
He may not be the first person to sleep with Tamamori, he thinks as he starts drifting off, but he just may, perhaps, be the first one to fall asleep with him.
--
“You know I am going to have to charge you for staying overnight,” Kitayama tells him first thing in the morning when he enters the kitchen together with Tamamori, both of them with sleep tousled hair and eyes squinting against the morning light.
Tamamori makes a small sound of protest, eyebrows knitting together as he tries his best to form a complete thought and put it into words. He isn’t a morning person, Miyata observes, and smiles at how the thought makes his heart feel all warm.
“That’s fine,” he tells Kitayama.
“No, it’s not,” Tamamori objects. He looks like he’s about to continue, but Kitayama turns to look at him sharply.
“Rules are rules. Planned or not, whoever you choose to have accompany you through the night is a customer and has to pay the overnight fee. We need our living, too; I am not changing the rules for you.”
Tamamori frowns deeper, but before he can say more Miyata nudges him gently.
“It’s fine. I’m happy to pay if it’s for you.”
His words seem to mollify the man, but the dissatisfaction is still there when they sit down to eat.
“Oh, overnight this time?” Fujigaya asks as he appears around the corner.
Miyata sends a cheerful grin his way, snapping open his chopsticks. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Fujigaya grins back and sits down next to Kitayama. He makes a half-hearted attempt at the pickles on the man’s plate, but receives a light slap on his fingers and retreats.
“Hungry,” he complains loudly and slumps against the table. Miyata laughs and places a couple of his own pickles on the table next to him, and Fujigaya tongues them into his mouth with a quick, sly grin.
“Disgusting,” Kitayama accuses mildly but Fujigaya pays him no mind, apparently satisfied to just lay his head back on the table and close his eyes, purring.
They continue eating undisturbed. Miyata is half-way through his meal when Tamamori slips one of his own pickles into his bowl. Miyata grins stupidly, and his fingers find Tamamori’s under the table. He intertwines them for a short moment to say thank you, and the small contact sends a dozen unexpected sensations running through Miyata’s nerves.
Tamamori’s fingers are cool against his, their skin soft to the touch, and the pulse under the man’s skin beats against Miyata’s own. Their rhythms are nothing alike, and Miyata gets distracted as he tries to distinguish which beats belong to him and which to Tamamori.
When he moves to pull his hand back, Tamamori’s fingers tighten around it. Miyata understands quickly and his arm relaxes, fingers sliding softly back into their places.
When he looks up from his bowl he meets Kitayama’s gaze, and the man grins at him like he knows.
Miyata only smiles back.
--
A few days later, Miyata receives a mail two hours before his work shift ends.
Come.
It doesn’t matter that he had originally planned to stay overtime, or that he basically had to stay late in order to finish his share of the documents in time. He emails a quick response (I’ll be there by eight), sets his shoulders and begins working faster.
When the clock strikes seven he gets up, wishes good night to everyone in the office and takes his leave.
It’s stupid, perhaps, but it’s the first time Tamamori has asked him to come instead of Miyata having to book a time to meet him, and that, he thinks, is a step forward.
He won’t let it slip through his fingers.
Kitayama is the one to open the door as per usual, wearing a tired little smile on his face.
“Is everything okay?” Miyata asks right away, stepping past Kitayama into the hall way and toeing his shoes off.
Kitayama sighs but his smile doesn’t falter even if it does turn a bit cold at the edges.
“We had a bit of a difficult customer today,” he says. “It’s been a good while since the last time.”
“Is Tamamori okay?” Miyata asks, worry bubbling up. Then he notices how he sounds and corrects himself, a bit bashful. “Is everyone okay?”
“Nobody got hurt,” Kitayama reassures him. If he notices Miyata’s slip he doesn’t mention it, but his smile is slightly warmer when he continues. “It was Fujigaya’s customer. We did get him to leave, eventually, before anything could really happen.”
“I see,” Miyata says. Kitayama turns to look at him better, scrutinizing his expression for a few quiet seconds before snorting softly and pointing a finger towards the staircase.
“He is in his room, if you want to check on his wellbeing with your own eyes.”
Miyata’s smile is sheepish as he thanks him and hurries up the stairs two steps at a time.
Tamamori is in his room when he gets there, sitting by the window and staring out into the darkening evening. Miyata watches him for a while from the doorway, follows the way the setting sun sets his face alight with warm colors of deep red and fiery orange. He moves only when Tamamori turns to look at him.
“You came.”
“You wanted me to.”
Tamamori nods and doesn’t apologize; Miyata is glad, because he doesn’t want him to.
“I finished the series you recommended.”
It’s unexpected and Miyata smiles, striding forward to sit on one of the stools.
“How did you like it?”
“It was okay, I think. Interesting.”
“Mm,” Miyata nods, content. He could continue on the subject, anime is one of the few subjects he could actually go on and on about for hours, but there is something else he is concerned about and he thinks it might be just a little bit more important. Things that have to do with Tamamori always seem a bit more important than the rest of the world, to him.
“Are you okay?”
Tamamori doesn’t answer for a long while. He returns to staring out of the window, and Miyata observes the minute changes in his expression with keen eyes. Tamamori is content, too; not maybe quite happy in the truest sense of the word, but fine, alright. It lets Miyata know he isn’t truly upset. But there is something, and Miyata is curious.
“Sometimes… people can’t tell the difference. Between whores, or sex slaves, and what we are. But there is a difference.”
“Hm,” Miyata hums, following Tamamori’s gaze out of the window. The sky is painted a deep purple.
“We aren’t prisoners, you know. None of us has a debt to hold us here. We are here because we choose to be. We could choose otherwise.”
“I know.”
Tamamori reaches his hands forward, stretches them out of the window like a cat and grasps the chilly air between his fingers. He sounds distracted as he continues.
“We don’t have to have sex with anyone if we don’t want to. Kitayama would never make us. But some people can’t see that.”
Miyata resists the urge to touch the man and instead just observes the way emotions flit across his face. Then Tamamori shakes his head, breaking his trance, and pulls his hands back in.
“Let’s watch something,” he suggests out of the blue, and it’s like their conversation had never taken place.
“Okay,” Miyata agrees, just as eager to forget.
Tamamori tires out soon and lays down on his mattress to rest. Miyata sits down next to him while the animated characters continue to flash across the TV screen, muted this time.
Instead of the TV, Miyata watches as Tamamori lies there, stretched out and relaxed and spacing out. He lets his eyes follow the curve of his neck, the way his hair curls around the nape of it, the bare line of his shoulder as it just appears from under his shirt. His skin seems soft somehow, translucent, and Miyata reaches a hand forward, just almost against his own will (but then again, he always wants to touch Tamamori so it is never against his own will), and places a finger on the man’s arm.
Tamamori starts and opens his eyes to peer at him from under his lashes, just a bit disapproving, just a bit dissatisfied, but mostly curious.
“Sorry, do you mind?” Miyata tries to smile as disarmingly as he possibly can, but he can’t help himself. He wants to touch too much.
Tamamori eyes him for a second, then opens his mouth to say what Miyata is sure is something akin to “creep”, but closes it again and lets his eyelids fall shut.
“Fine. But don’t distract me.”
Miyata’s smile stretches even wider, and he traces the curve of Tamamori’s shoulder down to his elbow. Then he scoots closer as quietly as he can in his attempt not to distract the man and takes Tamamori’s arm into his lap.
The man shifts in response and for a second Miyata fears he has changed his mind, but it’s just to adjust his position to the new arrangement.
Miyata chuckles because it’s adorable, but Tamamori frowns and he stops immediately so as not to risk his chance.
Then he focuses on the arm again and turns it around. He begins with the wrist where the veins are just visible; creating an intricate blue web that Miyata follows, drawing small little flowers around them until he feels he has memorized it all by touch. He continues upward, just brushing the skin with his knuckles and moving on to the crook of his arm. He draws up some flowers again; the skin is the softest there, paler than the rest of Tamamori’s arm. It’s also warmer, and Miyata hesitates for a while before he continues his way back to Tamamori’s shoulder, stopping right before the edge of his sleeve.
He looks up and sees Tamamori watching him, eyes narrowed and unreadable.
“You are odd, you know,” the man tells him once again.
“Yeah, sorry,” he answers and smiles without really feeling apologetic at all. He can tell that Tamamori notices this, his lips pursing. He can also tell that Tamamori doesn’t really mind; it wasn’t an accusation.
Tamamori rolls over onto his stomach and then stretches his other arm out on to the mattress, wriggling his fingers.
“This arm next,” he says, and Miyata can’t stop the happy grin from almost splitting his face in two.
“Okay,” he agrees and moves closer again to re-start his exploring.
“Without the flowers this time.”
“Okay,” Miyata obliges amicably before placing his fingertips on the veins of Tamamori’s wrist.
He stops with the flowers and starts drawing cats and birds and stupid faces instead, with Tamamori occasionally hazarding a guess at what he might be trying to say. It becomes a game, one that they play until Tamamori’s answers are only barely conscious mumbles against the mattress and Miyata is lying next to him, head propped up on a pillow while his fingers continue to shape pictures on Tamamori’s skin.
When Tamamori quiets altogether, the silence broken only by his deep, slow breathing, Miyata lets his fingers slide down the man’s arm and rests his aching arm on the space between them, fingers still in light contact with the man’s skin.
He listens to Tamamori’s breathing, feels the pulse faintly under his skin, and knows he is hopelessly in love.
--
“Miyata.”
Miyata looks up from his book, hand stilling on the pages to mark the place where he had left off, and makes a questioning sound at the back of his throat.
Tamamori chews his lip and looks like he is torn between saying and not saying what’s on his mind. Curious, Miyata lowers his book completely and sits up straighter. “What is it?”
“I was… I was just wondering.”
“Yes?”
“This,” Tamamori spreads his arms out to point at everything around them, at Miyata’s book and at him, and at them. “This is all we ever do. We talk, we read, and we watch the TV. You are paying money to just… spend time with me.”
“Yes,” Miyata smiles. “I thought that much was obvious?”
“But you never…”
“I never…?” Miyata prompts.
“Don’t you ever want anything more than that? You do know that if you, well, kissed me, for example, I wouldn’t tell you to stop.”
Tamamori is entirely serious, genuinely confused, but there’s a bit of red crawling up the back of his neck.
“Would you want me to kiss you?” Miyata asks and leans closer. There wasn’t much space between them to begin with, but now there is barely any at all. He focuses on Tamamori’s eyes and his lips, the way the younger man is suddenly blinking rapidly, his mouth slightly parted.
“I-“
Miyata presses their lips together softly, experimenting. He feels Tamamori’s tiny surprised hiccup against his tongue and brings it out for a second to trace the man’s lower lip, not to ask for entrance, only to make it something more than a meaningless little kiss between friends.
He pulls back after a few seconds with a low and quiet chuckle. “Was that what you wanted?”
“I-I never said I wanted it,” Tamamori sounds disorganized, still blinking unusually fast like he is unable to hold Miyata’s gaze for more than a handful of seconds at a time. “I just wondered why you never want to. Most do.”
It stings just a little bit, but Miyata ignores it and pulls back the rest of the way and picks up the book he left on the floor. He smiles at Tamamori before returning to reading. “I don’t kiss you because this much is enough for me, too.”
And maybe it is a bit of a lie, but Miyata wants to mean at least something to Tamamori. What they have now is way better than what they would have if he were just one of the man’s usual customers.
There’s a silence for a few moments before Tamamori finally moves, too, sits up and picks up his own book from his lap.
“What I wanted to say was just… Well. I wanted to let you know that you can kiss me whenever you want to. I don’t mind.”
Miyata glances at him from the corner of his eye, lips pressed together to hold back the laugh that threatens to spill over as he sees the man’s ear tips burning.
“Okay,” he says, struggling to sound as casual as he can, and turns a page like he doesn’t care either way. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He doesn’t bother dodging when Tamamori throws his book at him, mortified, and laughs when a pillow follows suit. It’s only when Tamamori makes a move to grab his book as new weapon that Miyata stops him, locking Tamamori’s wrists between his fingers and rolling him onto his back on the floor, head in Miyata’s lap. Tamamori flails uselessly for a few more minutes, but neither says anything when, between his attempts to calm the man down, Miyata drops a few stray kisses on his forehead and on the tip of his nose.
They equally ignore the longer kiss they share as Miyata leaves for the night.
--
The next morning he wakes up to a short mail from Tamamori.
Come if you can, or whenever you have time.
He’s out of the bed before he knows it, falling over DVDs he has stacked on the floor and getting stuck in his shirt as he accidentally keeps trying to put it on the wrong way around.
This time, as he speeds through the half-empty city streets, he doesn’t drive fast because Tamamori has invited him for a visit.
This time, it’s because he is needed. Something is wrong.
They are sitting around the kitchen table when Miyata arrives, an official looking letter spread open between them. Miyata takes one look at it, then at everyone’s expression, and his heart squeezes.
“What?” He asks, heart rate accelerating as he sits down by Tamamori’s side and the man barely notices him, eyes glued on the white piece of paper.
“They are expropriating this place,” Kitayama sighs, looking grim.
“They are- they are what?”
Yokoo leans over Fujigaya to explain. “Some government officials came over early this morning for an inspection. They said someone had tipped them off about a certain group of men ‘selling their services’ around this area. Of course they didn’t find anything - we would never allow them to - but they left us with this. It’s an official order for us to move out by the end of the week.”
“Someone must have ratted on us,” Nikaido murmurs quietly, hand in Senga’s as he, too, stares at the letter like it’s been bewitched.
That silences everyone for a while until Fujigaya suddenly speaks up.
“I’m sorry. It’s probably my fault,” his lips are thin and pale, expression angry. “That customer some weeks ago - the one that came in waving cash around like it was mere trash, looking all high and important, demanding that I -“
“If you hadn’t refused him, I would have,” Kitayama stops him, suddenly angry as well. It isn’t the same kind of anger, not the dangerous kind that Fujigaya holds within - it is controlled, cold. “As long as I still have a say in this house. I won’t have any of you hurt under my watch.”
Fujigaya quiets down, looking at his fisted hands. Yokoo lowers a calming hand on his shoulder.
“So… what now?” Miyata asks with a voice barely above a whisper. Everyone hears it anyway.
“Now we move,” Kitayama sweeps a hand over his face tiredly and ruffles his hair. “Get decent lives with proper jobs somewhere out there. We should be grateful none of us were arrested.”
“But-“
“It’s not the end of the world,” Tamamori tells him quietly, looking up from the letter and straight into Miyata’s eyes. “It’s not.”
“Right,” Senga mumbles. He squeezes Nikaido’s hand. “It’s not like they’re telling us not to see each other anymore.”
“Exactly,” Kitayama smiles, and although it comes out wrong and crooked, it seems to dissolve the tension.
Miyata smiles with them and pretends he can’t see the sadness behind their smiles.
--
Tamamori sits down on the tatami mats of his room and leans his back against the wall, closing his eyes. Miyata kneels down in front of him, reaching out to interlace their fingers. The tickle of warmth as skin meets skin is the same as the first time they touched, and Miyata rubs his thumb over the back of Tamamori’s hand.
“I don’t really want to move,” Tamamori tells him quietly.
“I know,” Miyata answers and tucks a few stray strands of hair behind the man’s ear.
Tamamori is beautiful. He is not just pretty or handsome or good-looking, he’s simply beautiful, Miyata thinks as the man opens his eyes to look at him. There’s the soft burn again, the one Miyata’s seen only once or twice before. This time he doesn’t hesitate when he leans in, doesn’t step back to avoid Tamamori’s arms wrapping around his neck. Tamamori parts his lips just slightly before they meet, and then his breath is already hot against Miyata’s, tongue sliding in to explore the insides of Miyata’s mouth.
It’s slow and tentative, the way they move. Tamamori crawls into Miyata’s lap as Miyata’s hands continue to explore, touching Tamamori everywhere he can reach. Tamamori’s skin is burning under his hands, feverish and smooth, and Miyata takes his time dragging his fingers over every bump and hollow he can find. Some of them are familiar, some he knows, like the one near Tamamori’s spine and the other one just by his elbow. Some are not, like the dip just under the hem of his shirt, or the jutting bone of his hip.
Soon their shirts lie forgotten in the corner and Miyata retreats just enough to be able to plant his hands on Tamamori’s bare chest. His fingers splay out, ghosting the lines of the man’s ribs, brushing against his nipples, straying lower. That’s as far as he gets because Tamamori’s lips crash on his again, insistent and urgent, and he enjoys the feeling too much to properly concentrate. His lips, wet and just a bit chapped, press against Miyata’s. Their tongues begin yet another complex dance around each other, their kisses open-mouthed and sloppy. When Miyata finally wedges two fingers under the waistband of Tamamori’s boxers, the resulting moan reverberates through his whole being.
“Toshiya,” Tamamori whispers into his mouth. Miyata is surprised to taste the saltiness of tears on his tongue, but when he opens his eyes to look he finds nothing there. He reaches up to kiss Tamamori’s closed eyelids nevertheless, one kiss each, and smoothes his hands flat against Tamamori’s sweaty back.
“Please.”
Miyata hears the words left unspoken hanging in the air like an open plea.
Distract me.
And distract him Miyata does. He lays him on the floor as gently as he can, blowing a trail of butterfly kisses down his chin and his neck, nudging the skin of his collarbones with his teeth. With little help he slides Tamamori’s boxers off and wraps his fingers around the head of the man’s cock, massaging it gently while he whispers sweet little nothings into Tamamori’s ear.
“It’s okay,” he chants as they rock against each other, “It’s alright.”
He finds that he loves the way Tamamori arches against him, the way his fingers scrape along the skin of Miyata’s arms, the way he pushes into Miyata’s hand, the way he gasps for breath when Miyata does something exactly right. He loves the man’s voice and the way he uses it, low, quiet moans and groans whispered just by Miyata’s ear, or into his mouth, or into his shoulder. He loves the way Tamamori reacts to his every touch, and the way he fits in his embrace just so.
When Tamamori comes it’s silent and violent, and Miyata holds him tight as he shudders through his orgasm. After that Tamamori helps him finish, fingers running up and down his length. It doesn’t take long, just a few slow strokes, and Miyata comes in his hand and on his stomach with a cry.
He lets himself collapse by Tamamori’s side, slightly shaking as he extracts himself from the mess of limbs. Tamamori turns his head to give him a small peck on the nose and then lays his head down again, touching their foreheads together before closing his eyes.
Miyata watches his face as it relaxes, the frown smoothening into something more peaceful as sleep takes over. He waits until Tamamori’s breathing is steady and slow before getting up and getting dressed, and with one more longing look to the sleeping man’s direction he leaves the room and heads downstairs.
He has business to discuss.
--
“You would do what?”
“Buy the house,” Miyata repeats steadily, sitting opposite Kitayama.
“But after it’s been expropriated it’s the Government that owns it, and I don’t think they’ll just let you-“
“I have connections I can use. Strings I can pull.” It sounds much more grand that it is in reality. All he really has is a few friends in the right places who owe him a couple of favors Miyata hadn’t originally planned on ever exploiting. But well, things change. “All I really wanted to know was if you’d approve of it, and if you’d agree to move in once the deal’s done. This is a big house to occupy all on my own.”
“I don’t think I can let you do this. It’ll feel like I owe you, then.”
“Consider it an unofficial payment for Tamamori,” Miyata smiles a little.
“A payment? But you can’t-“
“I know I can’t legally buy him, it would show on the records and get every one of us arrested. However,” the smile disappears, replaced by determination, “I plan to convince Tamamori to stop taking on any more customers. Consider it a payment for the customers you lose.”
“Miyata…” Kitayama starts, then stops like he is hesitating, and finally continues. “I thought you knew. Tamamori hasn’t been with customers for weeks. Some still come, but he directs them to me, Fujigaya or Wataru.”
A slow smile appears on Miyata’s face, driven by the warmth that begins in the pit of his stomach and then expands until it has filled every corner of his body. “I didn’t know that,” he admits softly.
They sit in shared silence until Miyata decides to break it, the small smile remaining on his lips.
“So, will you accept? This is a nice house. It would be a shame to lose it.”
Kitayama sighs and looks defeated. “At least let us pay you rent.”
Miyata chuckles as he reaches out to shake Kitayama’s hand. “Only if you insist.”
--
“Taguchi? Yes, it’s me, long time no see. Hey, listen, have you heard about that house in MR78 that the government is taking over? Yes, that one. How good a chance do you think I would have in buying it?”
--
It takes some time, but eventually Miyata manages to get the ownership of the house and little by little life seems to return to normal.
“What are you doing?!”
The screech is loud enough to shatter windows and Miyata jumps up from his seat in the living room, rushing out into the hall-way and entering the kitchen only a few seconds later.
Tamamori is holding his frying pan to his chest, chin jutting out as he stares murderously at Nikaido and Senga. Nikaido steps forward, looking at least twice as stubborn.
“Give the pan back. We were practicing baseball with it.” In his hands he holds a sack of potatoes, and there’s a small mountain of them smashed on the floor and carelessly swept to the side. Miyata skirts it carefully as he joins the other three in the middle of the kitchen.
“Greg isn’t really a baseball bat, though,” he says with a hand on the small of Tamamori’s back.
“You call it Greg?” Senga asks curiously at the same time as Nikaido snorts: “Don’t tell me you’ve actually named it.”
Tamamori’s face turns a light shade of red but Miyata just smiles. “We might have.”
He reaches out to take the pan out of Tamamori’s hands and flips it over, inspecting the surface for any damage. Apart from the potato mess it seems unharmed, and he hands it back to Tamamori with a soft grin. “It’s fine.”
“What’s fine?”
Senga visibly shrinks and even Nikaido takes a few steps back, looking alarmed.
Tamamori and Miyata turn around to look and find Yokoo standing next to the potato pile, his expression smooth and ice cold.
“What, exactly, is fine about this?”
“We-“
Yokoo silences Nikaido with a wave of his hand and growls. “When I asked you to cook the dinner, I didn’t mean you could cook it on the floor.”
“I’m-“
“I don’t care whose fault this is. I want the kitchen clean and spotless and the dinner ready on the table in one hour. Can you manage at least that much without me having to intervene?”
“…Yes,” they mutter one by one and after giving each of them a long glare Yokoo leaves them to their own devices.
“This is all your fault,” Tamamori hisses under his voice to Nikaido and Senga as he moves past them to go and turn on the oven.
“Pot calling the kettle black,” Nikaido hisses back at him before heading for the cleaning closet to fetch brooms and floor cloths. Senga’s face brightens up.
“So we’re calling the kettle Black then?
Tamamori closes his eyes against what he privately calls The Wave of Stupid, and even Nikaido sighs long-sufferingly.
Miyata smiles. “Maybe, but only if the kettle agrees.”
He dodges the wash cloth Nikaido throws his way as well as the punch Tamamori aims at his shoulder. While they work, Fujigaya stops by once or twice to make fun of them, Kitayama sneaks in to steal a sausage from the pan and even Yokoo returns to help them clean.
When they settle down to eat Miyata searches for Tamamori’s fingers under the table, finds them, and squeezes them in his own. Tamamori answers his squeeze with a smile, and it sends a wave of familiar warm tingles through Miyata’s skin.
And it’s not perfect nor his ideal fairy tale, but Miyata thinks he might have found his happily ever after.
--