Koushi thinks that calling Daichi his ‘lover’ is wrong. Neither ‘friend’ nor ‘boyfriend’ fits the connection that runs between them.

No. Daichi is the scent of his mother’s hot milk with honey. He is the smell of hay and wild summer nights and kisses under an eclipse of rain that ran down Koushi’s skin and wiped away his silver, lonely tears with the shimmering kindness of Daichi’s warm hands.

Daichi is not a lover. Because if this man would take his hand and tell him ‘trust me’, Koushi’s lips and eyes spell yes in a language that is older than love itself.

Daichi is not a lover. He is and will forever be, the colour of gold in Koushi’s soul.

Rosé. || daisuga

“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.

For their first official date, Suga and Daichi decide to just stay home and make dinner. Suga ends up cooking, and the food is absolutely delicious. When Daichi tries it out, he goes very silent, his dark eyes widening, and Suga feels his heart stop. He asks if it tastes that bad.
And Daichi blurts out, cheeks red like the strawberry dessert Suga made: “God, I want to marry you so much right now.”

The rest of the evening is awkwardly quiet, but it’s also kind of good, because Suga finally dares to hold his hand while they watch some movie, nestled against Daichi’s side. Suga doesn’t say a word when Daichi buries his nose in his hair, and when gentle fingers trace along his wrist, so shy, as if he’s fragile.

And when Daichi leaves, Suga kisses him with soft lips that taste like strawberries.