Rating/Warnings: NC-17, but not because of Usain Bolt (sorry Clare D:)
Summary: It's Summary, the Olympics are on, and Tamamori doesn't need a cheesy line to get Miyata into his bedroom.
AN: for snowqueenofhoth, who rightfully demanded fic in exchange for mailing me a retarded amount of photos, including what is likely the hottest picture of Tamamori of all time.
Miyata didn’t mean to keep staring, but it was hard not to. He wasn’t sure when Tamamori had gone from cute to pretty to knock the air out of your lungs gorgeous, but he knew that it had sure happened before Summary started, because there hadn’t been a show yet without Miyata nearly falling flat on his face, unable to tear his eyes away from Tamamori in motion even long enough to watch his own feet.
And if he couldn’t keep from doing it on-stage, the dressing room certainly wasn’t any better.
“Can’t you knock it off long enough to at least put your pants on?” Nikaido demanded irritably, shoving his stuff into his bag next to where Miyata was sitting, staring again. Nikaido glanced over his shoulder. “I don’t understand what he sees in you, anyhow.”
Across the room, Tamamori was on his knees beside his own bag, still shirtless and digging through his stuff. After a second he yanked out his deodorant with a grunt of triumph and a “Ah, deodorant-san! It’s been a while, ne?”
Just then he noticed Miyata and Nikaido’s gazes and scrunched up his nose, giving them an embarrassed wave.
“Me either,” Miyata sighed, waving back with a wiggle of his fingers.
“God, I’m going to puke,” Nikaido declared, giving up on his bag and stomping off. “Kitamitsu, let go of Senga and get over here, I need to punch something before my testicles shrivel up and drop off!”
Miyata and Tamamori both ignored him in favor of grinning at each other some more, neither one of them exhibiting any success in either deodorizing or putting feet through pant legs. The fail would have likely continued endlessly if Fujigaya hadn’t reminded both of them pointedly that if they didn’t manage to get dressed, they probably weren’t going to be allowed on the subway to go back to Tamamori’s house to watch the Olympics like they were supposed to.
After that, things picked up. At least enough that the others could shove Miyata and Tamamori out into the hallway to be sickening someplace else.
“And don’t make out in the hallway!” Yokoo reminded, “Again!” and then he shut the dressing room door firmly.
“Do you think we’re overdoing it, maybe?” Miyata asked sheepishly.
Tamamori looked down at their hands, their fingers twisted together and Miyata’s thumb stroking his idly.
“Nope,” he answered, and then he shoved Miyata up against the wall. Miyata put up no resistance, especially not when Tamamori leaned in to crush their mouths together, hands finding their way under Miyata’s T-shirt with no trouble after all the practice negotiating their complicated, swooshy costumes.
“HEY,” a voice interrupted, and Miyata pushed Tamamori back just far enough to see that it was Morimoto Shintarou making a face at them. “What are you doing?”
“Practicing for our drama,” Tamamori said quickly, pinching Miyata’s waist when Miyata made a suspicious noise.
“You’re holding hands,” Shintarou pointed out.
“It’s a love drama!” Miyata threw in helpfully, and then the door behind them was yanked open again and Kitayama demanded to know what Yokoo had just told them about that.
“You really did want to watch the Olympics!” Miyata said, laughing and making Tamamori’s bed shake.
“Yeah, what’s funny about that?” Tamamori demanded, cheeks turning pink. He put a hand down to steady the snack tray his mother had brought in before Miyata’s hilarity ended with them both covered in peach water. “I like the Olympics!”
“I just thought it was cheesy line to get me into your room,” Miyata admitted, still snickering, but recovered enough to pick up one of the sandwiches Tamamori’s mother had made for them and shove half of it into his mouth.
“I don’t need a cheesy line to get you into my room,” Tamamori said stiffly, turning back to the television, where currently a lot of practically naked men were hugging each other. “I just tell you to come over and here you are. Sometimes you even show up on your own.”
“It wasn’t me grabbing you outside the dressing room,” Miyata reminded, pushing the snack tray out of the way so he could scoot closer.
“For once,” Tamamori snorted, but the corner of his mouth twitched, and he didn’t push Miyata away when Miyata rested his chin on Tamamori’s shoulder and wrapped arms around his waist.
Miyata didn’t mind humoring Tamamori, although he didn’t find the Olympics particularly entertaining himself. He occupied himself eating more than his share of the sandwiches and coaxing Tamamori eating something too, since Tamamori was liable to be distracted by anything from figuring out what country each flag was for to the new Lawsons commercial.
“So that’s why people keep giving Koyama-kun those bags,” Tamamori murmured, and Miyata didn’t bother trying to restrain himself from kissing Tamamori while he was bright with sudden understanding. Tamamori shivered under the attention for a few moments, his fingers teasing at the ends of Miyata’s hair, before pushing Miyata back with the protest that the Men’s Diving was back on.
It was just as well, since Tamamori’s mother came in a few minutes later to collect the tray and tell Tamamori everyone else was going to bed and that they shouldn’t stay up too late. She stayed a minute longer to inspect both of them and to fuss over how their faces were getting thin again.
“It’s Summary!” Tamamori protested as if that explained everything, trying to dodge his mother’s grip and leaning this way and that to try and see the television around her. “Mooom, get out of the way, Usain Bolt’s on!”
“Don’t worry, Tamamori-san!” Miyata said brightly, drawing her attention and keeping half an eye on how Tamamori flailed his hands as the race started. “We all take care of each other. Ne, are you coming to see us? My mother went last week.”
“Tell her whose uchiwa your mother bought,” Tamamori said distractedly, and Miyata’s face darkened.
“Yabu-kun’s,” Miyata grumbled, making Tamamori-san burst into peals of laughter. “She’s going again soon, with some of the other mothers, I think. You should call her, Tamamori-san.”
“I’ll do that,” Tamamori-san looked pleased at the invitation, and she assured Miyata that she’d definitely buy his uchiwa before wishing both of them goodnight and shutting the door on the way out.
“Your mom’s pretty,” Miyata said idly, draining the rest of his peach water. “She laughs like you.”
“She knows,” Tamamori commented, eyes still on the television, and Miyata choked, finally drawing Tamamori’s attention away from the television long enough to pound Miyata on the back.
“What do you mean, she knows?!” Miyata spluttered when he could breathe again. “About us? Did you tell her?!”
“Miyacchi,” Tamamori tilted his head to one side, “do you suffer from the delusion that you’re subtle?”
“Well…” Miyata flushed beet red. “I…”
“I mean, you told Morimoto Shintarou we were practicing for a love drama,” Tamamori reminded. “You nearly fall on your face once a show because you won’t stop staring at me. If your mother came to the show last week, then she knows too!”
“I don’t mean to.” Miyata stared down at Tamamori’s bedspread, mortified. “I just can’t help it. You know, when you’re so…”
“What?” Tamamori scooted an inch closer when Miyata trailed off. “When I’m what?”
“You’re…” Miyata struggled to get words to come out of his mouth, but it was getting harder the closer Tamamori leaned. “Do you have any idea what you look like up there?”
“No,” Tamamori brushed his nose across Miyata’s cheek, “tell me.”
“You’re beautiful,” Miyata blurted, everything coming out in a rush so that he barely had time to be embarrassed at how idiotic he sounded. “The costumes all show you off and you do all the choreography like you were born for it and then you end up stripping off half your clothes and…”
Miyata stuttered to a halt when Tamamori grazed a kiss over the edge of jaw, but then Tamamori murmured for him not to stop. Miyata grabbed Tamamori’s wrist and forced him backwards, so that he was sprawled out on his back with Miyata leaning over him.
“I hate that everybody else gets to see you like that,” Miyata growled at the way Tamamori’s eyes went wide and his breath quickened. “But I don’t ever want it to stop either, because I don’t want to stop watching you.”
“And you wonder how my mother knows,” Tamamori said with a soft smile, reaching up to cup Miyata’s face in his palms, and then he pulled Miyata down for a slow, deep kiss, letting Miyata’s weight settle in between his legs and wrapping arms around his neck to get as close as possible.
“Let’s please not talk about your mother,” Miyata groaned, breaking the kiss to press his face into Tamamori’s neck and try to get ahold of the way their hips were already rocking together. After the show and being interrupted later, it was already almost too much. “Wait, I’m…”
“I want you,” Tamamori said, and that was where Miyata’s control ended. He kissed Tamamori fiercely as Tamamori pulled and pushed their clothes out of the way, his mouth, his throat, his shoulders, anywhere Miyata could reach as more and more of Tamamori’s skin became accessible.
When Tamamori reached down to shove his jeans out of the way, Miyata followed, making Tamamori’s protest cut off in a strangled groan as he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the curve of Tamamori’s hip.
“Don’t, oh,” Tamamori tried yanking on Miyata’s hair, but it only made Miyata growl and push into the touch as he flicked his tongue out over Tamamori’s skin. “You know I’ll…”
“That’s fine,” Miyata interrupted, then slid his lips over Tamamori’s cock, too greedy for the taste of Tamamori’s skin to care about much else. Tamamori threw an arm over his mouth to keep from giving a moan that would have left his family know more about them than anybody would have been comfortable with, but even the muffled noise was enough to make Miyata grind his own erection into the sheets.
Tamamori’s other hand was still tight in Miyata’s hair, tugging and scratching along Miyata’s scalp, making Miyata hum with the sharp sensation of it. Tamamori’s skin was hot under his mouth, and he had to use both hands to keep Tamamori’s hips still as Tamamori twisted and tried to arch into his touch.
Miyata doubted he gave the best blowjobs on earth, his technique consisting most of getting as much of Tamamori inside his mouth as possible and keeping his tongue in the way of his teeth, but the best part about Tamamori was that it didn’t seem to matter, and it couldn’t have been longer than two minutes when Tamamori came apart under him in a hot rush that Miyata worked hard to swallow all of.
Well, Miyata amended as Tamamori yanked him up for a deep kiss and to hold him close while he shivered, maybe not the best part. It wasn’t hard to ignore his own hardness for a little longer while he was smoothing Tamamori’s hair away from flushed cheeks, Tamamori blinking up at him sleepily with impossibly dark eyes.
“What are you waiting for?” Tamamori whispered hoarsely, nudging Miyata’s cock with a thigh and making Miyata gasp and tighten his grip. “I said I wanted you, didn’t I?”
It was hard for Miyata to say exactly what the best part of sex with Tamamori was, although it was high on the list that Tamamori was already half-hard again by the time Miyata had two fingers inside him, or that adding a third forced a string of low pleas out of Tamamori’s mouth, or that Tamamori just couldn’t wait, grabbing Miyata’s hips and pulling him all the way in, until he was close enough to lean down for a kiss, telling Tamamori that he loved him until Tamamori’s breath evened out enough to call Miyata an idiot.
“Nobody else sees me like this, though,” Tamamori reminded Miyata as he rolled his hips, and yeah, Miyata thought, maybe that was the best thing.
Then Tamamori threw his head back and begged for more, and Miyata forgot what it was that he was making a list for anyway, forgot everything except the welcoming squeeze of Tamamori’s body and the way Tamamori called his name, voice breaking with the impossibility of keeping quiet.
“Well, I bet your mom knows now,” Miyata teased when they were curled up together afterwards, laughing when Tamamori cracked open an eye to scowl at him. The television was still on at the end of Tamamori’s bed, lighting their skin in soft blues and muttering quietly about medal counts to itself.
“Maybe she just thinks I really like Usain Bolt.” Tamamori stuck his tongue out. “He’s the fastest man in the world, you know, and if you saw the size of his feet…”
“You’re the fastest man in the world,” Miyata scowled back without thinking, then when Tamamori’s eyes narrowed dangerously, hastened to add, “Not that I don’t enjoy that!”
“Hmmph.” Tamamori relaxed, letting his eyes fall shut again. “You aren’t going to stay awake watching me, are you? It’s creepy.”
Miyata chuckled and kissed Tamamori’s forehead, because the small smile on Tamamori’s lips told him exactly how Tamamori really felt about being watched. But he was glad anyway when Tamamori fell asleep right away, so that Miyata didn’t have to answer with a lie.
Several hours later, Miyata was startled out of a dream where Johnny’s Entertainment was hosting the Olympics, Yamada Ryosuke just about to be awarded the gold for sluttiest hips, by Tamamori angrily demanding to know why Miyata was moaning Usain Bolt’s name.