“Suga,” Daichi says.
“Yes?”
“Your hair.” He swallows, tries to breathe around the thick lump inside his throat. Suga smiles at him, his best friend, his boyfriend, an angel who’s somehow made it into human form to make Daichi realizes just how goddamn gay he really is. If there’s something like Sugasexual – yup. That’s totally him.
“It’s,” Daichi tries again. He reaches up to touch Suga’s hair, gently takes a strand between his fingers. “It’s pink.”
“The colour’s called ‘rosé pastel’, actually.”
“Oh.” And because Suga keeps smiling, tilts his head so adorably, Daichi can’t stop staring. “Daichi, are you going to let go of my hair, or – because we need to do the cleaning – “
“Uhm yeah, s-sure.”
Daichi watches him leave, and the light of the afternoon sun floods through the windows of the gym, painting golden flecks onto the flower colour of Suga’s soft, angelic hair.
Maybe he’s always loved him, Daichi thinks when he follows, throwing his arms around Suga’s waist after checking that they’re alone. Suga makes a tiny gasp and laughs, bell-like, crystal-clear, his head turning with a waft of pastel hair.
“You’re gorgeous,” Daichi whispers into his ear, “and I – I adore you, do you know that.” Suga’s blushing cheeks are warm inside his hands, afterwards, when Suga whirls around to kiss him with an embarrassed mumble of “stop it already, that’s – mhm, Daichi.”
The next day, Suga’s hair has purple tips and a turquoise streak from his pony to his ear.
‘Pastel is an amazing colour scheme,’ Daichi thinks later when he kisses Suga against the lockers and steals his sweet, warm breath away.
Moami 