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Backstage after the concert, Kamiyama is the one tugging Hamada into the little corner between all the sound equipment and the spare stage parts.
"What was that?" he says, breathless and flushed and the most beautiful thing Hamada's ever seen.
Hamada laughs, high-pitched and speechless, his voice feeling so uncontrollable like a dog let off leash in the park, joyous and thrilled. He's so high on adrenaline it feels like he could just float up into the air, up till he touches the ceiling of Yokohama Arena, until he's among all the voices of the fans, thousands of their screams and yells, oh how he's missed them.
"Nothing," he says without thinking, his thoughts still caught up with their fans' voices, their upturned faces, their hope, their joy. Then, "everything."
"I meant, when you leaned down like that, when I was playing," Kamiyama grins. Hamada feels the light grasp of Kamiyama's hand around his wrist tighten. A flash of mischief. "When you almost kissed me in front of everyone... What was that?"
The moment flashes through Hamada's mind in heat and colour; Kamiyama's fingers on his guitar, Hamada's voice echoing back to him, and eyes so bright Hamada had to get closer, tentative until their foreheads were pressed together and the audience was roaring in approval.
"That was... That was... I just had to." Hamada barks a laugh, and the sound is louder and more surprised than he'd expected.
"I liked it," Kamiyama tells him, lips quirking up in one corner, playfulness in the way his grin seems to hang from his cheek like a crooked painting on a wall. His cheek dimples, and suddenly, Hamada has to be that close again.
More confident, this time, though, he tells himself. With less room for teasing. Not that he minds it when Kamiyama teases him. In all honesty, he likes it, likes giving him an excuse to sound so fond.
Hamada leans in without thinking, his left foot slipping in between Kamiyama's, a soft swish of the rubber sole against the cement floor, a tiny pebble caught between the grooves.
He overbalances a little, one arm shooting out to brace against the wall so he doesn't crush Kamiyama.
"Oh, Hama-chan," Kamiyama chuckles, no trace of exasperation in his voice.
This is probably why they work, Hamada thinks vaguely at the back of his mind as Kamiyama's hands reach up to grasp at the front of Hamada's shirt. Kamiyama is the sort of guy who knows what he wants and goes for it, and Hamada…
Well, Hamada is the sort of guy whose body figures out what he wants before his brain does. He's spent his thirty-odd years doing just that, just falling into the right situation at the right time then finding afterwards that he's exactly where he wants to be.
Case in point:
One tug, certain and measured and Hamada is suddenly the rest of the way down to Kamiyama's lips, can feel his mint-flavoured breath tickling at his lips.
"I liked it," Kamiyama says again, firmer now to make a point. "But maybe I'd like this better…"
His eyes dart up to Hamada, a flash of mischief, of heat, his hands pulling Hamada the rest of the way, and finally, Hamada is right there with him.