Title: There Are Countless Little Glows (He Only Needs One to Blaze)
Fandom: [K], Project K
Characters: Fushimi Saruhiko/Yata Misaki. Mentions of Suoh Mikoto, Kushina Anna, Totsuka Tatara and Kusanagi Izumo
Disclaimer: [K] does not belong to me, nor do I make any profit out of this work.
Warnings/Summary: unbeta-ed, grammar errors ahoy, possible OOC-ness. This is basically just an excuse for me to indulge in my fascination on hatsumode and Japanese matsuri, though.
A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! Have some early year SaruMisa teeth-rotting fluff. :D This is also a birthday present for mizuouji on tumblr, because she's beautiful. Thank you for the hardwork and always scanlating for us, mizuouji-san. :D
Just a quick glossary so I wouldn't confuse anyone? Hatsumode is the first shrine visit on the new year, usually done on the first to third day of the new year, though most come at midnight of the new year. Omamori is, well, charms, they vary in uses though, there are good luck charms, or for protection, or for warding off evil spirits. Omikuji is sacred fortune papers lottery that tells you your luck of the year; it ranges from dai-kichi (great blessing) to dai-kyou (great curse). If you got dai-kyou, to avoid the bad luck, you're supposed to tie it on a branch of a tree.
A [K] Project Fanfiction
There Are Countless Little Glows (He Only Needs One to Blaze)
There are countless little lampions swaying above their heads alighting the way to the shrine; their lights too blinding against the pitch black midnight sky and their tiny fire flirting with the chilly winter night breeze. Everything is a buzzing white noise; the vendors calling for customers, the claps and murmurs of prayers, children's laughter, teenagers' giggles, the soft friction of old kimono brushing against another, the staccato steps of the wooden sandals. Saruhiko squints as he looks up and brings a hand up.
He can't see.
"Here, dumbass, let's go!"
There's always warmth in Misaki's hand. Saruhiko lets his own curls into Misaki's lightly, lets the shorter boy leads him towards the long line of people before the altar. It's always a bit frightening, to be led completely by someone else because he can't see through the blinding lights. A form of complete and total submission in itself, which Saruhiko knows he'll only ever give to Misaki. So he tightens his grip, feels Misaki's thumb brushes his knuckles reassuringly, and he simply follows.
"Did you return last year's charm yet?"
His breath mingle with various scent of food wafting in the air, tantalizing and promising warmth, but the stalls are ridiculously crowded and expensive, so there's no use dropping by, anyway. Misaki would cook him something delicious first thing tomorrow. He always does.
"Totsuka-san did it for me." He muttered, blinking away the white edges on his vision. Misaki's back is blurry, but his grip is solid and there. They stop before the water basin, wordlessly releasing each other's hand to wash their hands and mouth, and then Misaki is tugging at his sleeve again.
"C'mon, Saru, we'll be left behind! King and Anna are already up front!"
Saruhiko scowls. "Totsuka-san will be mad at you if you cut the line." He turns at the incense fire going nearby, at the people bathing themselves in the smoke, frowning, and then starts when Misaki begins dragging him towards it. "I'm not doing that."
"It's for your health, idiot." Misaki grumbles. "We do this every year, stop being so goddamn childish."
"I don't want to hear that from Misaki," Saruhiko drawls, because it's Misaki who looks forward to hatsumode, it's Misaki who's so excited about these stupid traditions. Saruhiko is completely fine sleeping the whole New Year's Eve away, maybe curling up under the kotatsu with a bowl of mikan just an arm reach away. But no, they have to get up and out into the chilly winter midnight, and now he's inhaling smoke from a dawdling fire, Misaki's hands on his shoulders keeping him bent halfway forward.
He coughs once, hears Misaki's laughter, and swats his hands away. Misaki flits back to his side, grinning widely as he bends forward himself, bathing on the smoke.
He can't resist commenting. "Make sure the smoke reaches your head. Your brain could use it."
Misaki elbows him none-too-gently on the guts.
They're the only ones left who are still stuck in the long line before the altar to pray. He can see Mikoto and Anna (perching on his shoulder, damn little brat has it easy) moving away from the altar by the time he's lodged between Misaki and a young woman whose furisode looks like the night bleeds into it. Misaki's talking to Totsuka-san on his watch-phone, leaning onto Saruhiko's side heavily, and Saruhiko lets go of his hand to drape an arm on Misaki's shoulder instead.
"They're going on ahead to get the omikuji," Misaki tells him, a half-hearted annoyed tone lacing his voice, but he isn't moving. "Your fault that we're being left behind, dumbass."
Saruhiko clicks his tongue. "You're the one who forgot your last year charm."
"But you should've gotten into line when I'm busy burning it. That way I can just cut in and join you into the line."
"I'll get scolded by Kusanagi-san."
"Like you ever cared."
I never do, Saruhiko thinks, but smirks down and drawls instead, "if it's you, Mi-sa-kiii…."
Twenty minutes later the two of them are standing side by side in front of the altar. Misaki flips the coin before throwing it in, rings the bell and claps his hand, and Saruhiko watches as he closes his eyes tight, an expression of utmost seriousness carved on every single crease on his face. He clicks his tongue; he doesn't know why Misaki's always been so fixated on Hatsumode when they have to wait in line for almost thirty fucking minutes just to pray. It's a good thing there's a local shrine close by; if they'd gone to the famous shrine instead, they'd have to wait more than an hour just to reach the altar, and that's simply ridiculous.
His finger fishes out a coin from his pocket—100 yen. Damn, he forgot to get a change. Can't be helped then. He throws the coin into the offering box, reaches up for the bell and pauses when he touches it. The rope is rough under his palm, worn with time and brittled at the edges, but when he shakes it, the bell still rings loud and clear, breaking through the endless white noise buzzing on his ear.
Misaki brushes up against him, still praying.
Saruhiko claps and thinks I want Misaki to look at me. Only me, only me, only me.
"What did you wish for?" Misaki asks when they move out of the line, leading him towards the place where they could get omikuji. Their fingers are tangled awkwardly; Saruhiko's thumb between Misaki's middle and ring finger, and Misaki's pressed up close against his side, warm and even brighter than the lights.
"If I tell you it wouldn't come true," Saruhiko says. Misaki snorts, turns an amused gaze at Saruhiko and shakes his head.
"Don't tell me you actually fucking believe it, idiot."
Misaki does, Saruhiko thinks, even if Misaki never admits it himself. Misaki believes, because that's one of the last things he has left, a courage to believe in something so abstract like a god, or like the concept of a hero. It's so ridiculous and dumb, but Saruhiko doesn't point it out. Instead he plucks off Misaki's beanie and musses up his hair, listens to the shorter boy's outraged yelp as he holds the beanie up for a moment.
"Idiot dumbass!" Misaki punches him hard on the shoulder, and Saruhiko smirks. Then Misaki turns and brightens, because "come on, omikuji!"
Saruhiko raises an eyebrow. "The omamori—"
"Totsuka-san said he got some for us already. Come on, omikuji!"
One of the stupidest ways to waste money, in Saruhiko's opinion, is for omikuji. It's no different than a lottery for him, after all. He makes a face when he puts his 100 yen into the coin box, takes the silver box Misaki shoves at him and shakes it before taking one stick from the top of the box. He glances at the number on the stick, then turns to the rows of boxes marked with numbers.
"This is stupid," he remarks. Misaki glances up, rolls his eyes and snatches his stick away before bending down back to the numbered boxes, obviously about to get Saruhiko his omikuji. Someone from behind is pushing, causing Misaki to nearly lose his balance, but Saruhiko steps closer and pushes back discreetly.
They're out of the crowd in a blink of an eye later, Misaki holding two fortune papers on his hands with a stupid victorious look. He hands the one on his left to Saruhiko, to which Saruhiko just clicks his tongue and says again, "this is stupid."
"It's for fun," Misaki says, bringing up his paper, then freezes.
Saruhiko can guess. "Dai-kyou?"
The pinched look on Misaki's face grows, the corners of his lips turning downside, his eyebrows tauting in disappointment, and he reminds Saruhiko of a displeased puppy. He glances at his own fortune paper, then smirks and waves it before Misaki. "I get dai-kichi."
Misaki glares. "I got that for you."
"I drew the lot."
"Oh, fuck off." Misaki grumbles, but he's leaning onto Saruhiko's side again, heavier than before, even as he folds the paper into a long rectangular shape. He's pouting, Saruhiko notices, and represses the urge to kiss the lips curving down. They're standing on the sidewalk now, watching people dressed in fancy kimono and furisode pass in the haze of festive, and the lights are still blinding, but Misaki is the only one vibrant and clear enough to see.
Misaki has always been.
"I need to tie this up that tree," Misaki mumbles, waving his omikuji lazily. Saruhiko hums, draping an arm on Misaki's shoulder and pulls him closer subtly. The night sky is pitch black when he looks up, a stark contrast with the blinding glows of the lampions painting white edges on his vision. Saruhiko squints, and then ducks his head to rub his eyes with his free hand.
That is when Misaki leans up, raises a hand to keep his head down and bites Saruhiko's ear gently.
"Oi," Saruhiko grunts half-heartedly when the bite turns into a nibble; Misaki's laughter ringing in his ear. He tilts his head just so and leans forward, presses his lips onto Misaki's once and then moves up to bite Misaki's nose.
The shorter boy yelps.
"Gross, Saru!"
"People bite back," Saruhiko shoots back, but Misaki's fingers are finding his, tangling them together again, awkward but tight and steady. His little finger's between Misaki's middle and ring fingers now, twisting just so that Saruhiko has to step closer so it doesn't hurt. Misaki is laughing, punching him on the shoulderso hard it'll probably bruise a little, and more people are still coming to the shrine, driven by tradition and hopes for a great new year.
It's stupid. Saruhiko can't understand why Misaki is so fixated with Hatsumode.
But amidst the blinding white glows painting white edges on his vision, Misaki blazes a vibrant red brighter than anything in Saruhiko's world, and that's a good way to start a new year, isn't it?
-o0ofinitoo0o-