I just wanted to write something happy. and something in which N isn't being a big pile of sads. so here is this

Glowing (803 words)

Black watches the ground drop away beneath them, palms pressed to the glass, smiling. The milling crowds below shrink and expand, like a trail of ants to honey. As the carriage ascends, the glittering lights of Nimbasa fill his eyes.

N studies him, sitting at the opposite corner of the carriage, with careful eyes – not that he doesn't already know him by heart; the soft, stocky physique, the small hands with their delicate wrists, the dimples patterning his cheeks when he smiles. Somehow, he is transfixing – more so than the matchbox city of Nimbasa sprawling beneath them, more so than the subtle clicks and growls of the Ferris wheel's formulae in motion; more so than anything. N is being taken hold of slowly by a feeling he doesn't quite understand, one which simultaneously turns his limbs to lead and fills them with helium, makes his heart swell up in his chest, his lungs fill with sand. He cannot decide whether to smile or cry.

He settles for a sigh. "Black," he says, and the boy turns his head to look N in the eyes. "Do you remember the first time I brought you here?"

Black smiles vaguely. "Of course. How could I forget?"

"I told you," N reminisces, "that I was the King of Team Plasma. And you were to be my ally in separating people from Pokémon."

"In retrospect, it wasn't very romantic."

"No." N laughs.

Black leans against the glass and the two Heroes look each other up and down quietly, contentedly. N pats the bench next to him, jerking his chin at the boy. "Come and sit with me."

Black complies, and N wraps one arm around his shoulder as if it's the most natural thing in the world. The brunet leans into his shoulder, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He feels warm and steady and heartening, pressing into N's side, and N presses a firm kiss to his forehead, his grip tightening.

"We both messed up, N," Black breathes.

"Yes."

"But we're doing a lot better, aren't we?"

"I'd say so," says N, and smiles lopsidedly. "I am. Thank you."

Black opens his eyes again and lifts his face to N's. N smiles bemusedly as Black studies him, an unusually serious expression on his face. "You look happier," he says suddenly. "Your eyes are brighter; the skin around them is less pouchy. You're not sallow anymore, N, You look happy." He pauses. "I think you might be glowing. Just a little bit."

N blinks, and then feels his face split into a wide smile before he can stop himself. (It has been a very, very long time since N smiled like that.) He brings one hand to Black's cheek, cups it, presses his face between his palms, rests his forehead against his; he might be crying, but he can't be sure. "And whose fault is that, Black?" he murmurs, and kisses him once on the lips, and then pulls back and continues, "whose fault is that? Whose fault is it that I'm happy? Whose fault is it that I'm glowing?"

Laughing, Black pulls him closer, and the Ferris wheel grinds to a halt as the Heroes hold each other close and exchange nervous kisses and irrelevant anecdotes, and then more kisses, and then less anecdotes. N presses Black against the window and grips his young shoulders and kisses the bridge of his nose, his cheek, his nose again, his other cheek, and whispers I love you I love you I love you until his voice is hoarse, until his hands cannot stop themselves from sliding under Black's shirt and along his skin, until his ears ring with the boy's whimpers and groans, and he kisses down his neck and along his collarbone and Black clutches at his shoulders and gives a shuddering sigh and urges him on and then, convulsing conspicuously, the Ferris wheel lurches off again, and N breaks away, panting. The younger trainer meets his eyes hazily, cheeks tinted pink, biting his lower lip, and N kisses him again, quickly, one last time. I am glowing and it is because of you.

When the carriage comes at last to the ground again, Black manages to stay steady on his feet, but insists on holding N's hand anyway; with the boy's face buried in his sleeve and his fingers clasping his own as if his very life depended on it, it is not difficult for N to put in perspective their first ride's lack of romanticism, their respective mistakes. They have, after all, all the time in the world to make amends to each other, to love each other.

"I love you," mumbles Black, and slumps back against N's side again as they walk from the Amusement Park. "Oh, N. We're doing much, much better."