#vashiane

Well, what did you expectPrompto’s favorite flower to be? Of coursethey’re sunflowers and buttercups. He loves the brightness of them,and they’re his favorite nicknames for you besides. (For therecord, he loves it when you call him sunshine, and he went totallysoft and held a buttercup to your chin the first time you asked himwhat his favorite flowers were. Part of him probably thought thatguys weren’t allowed to have favorite flowers. Another part of himprobably thought the myth about holding buttercups to your chin wastrue.) So imagine his surprise, and then his elation, when you present a small bouquet of sunflowers to him. He cradlesthem in his arms the whole time, keeps them in a vase by his windowso they get as much sun and water as possible, and is absolutelyheartbroken when they wilt.  (He makes sure to buy you a sunflowertoo. Just the one. It’s artificial. He tells you he’ll love youuntil it dies.)

Ignis is no strangerto the language of flowers—it’s something he’s dabbled in, inhis spare time. Or at least, what little spare time he finds inbetween advising and stressing and Definitely Not Sleeping When HeShould. Regardless, it probably shouldn’t come to you as a surprisewhen he reveals his favorite flowers to you: lavender and orchids.Lavender, for serenity, grace, and calmness; orchids, for beauty,luxury, and fragrance. (More specifically, he’s fond of cattleyaorchids, which stand for mature charms.) Getting him a bouquetdoesn’t quite fit your image of him, though, but you have a betteridea in mind instead. It takes some time to put together, but at theend of an evening out, you present him with a softcover journalfilled with pressed flowers, specially picked just for him. He’sentirely taken aback by the gesture, delicately fingering the driedblossoms, and with a soft kiss to your forehead, he murmurs thathe’ll cherish it for as long as he lives.

“‘S too loud…”

He said it so quietly Yahaba barely caught the words at all, head twisted away and eyes squeezed shut, like a child hiding from a monster under the blankets.

“Too loud?”

“I was dealing with it,” Kyoutani spat between his teeth, voice still barely louder than a whisper but suddenly full of venom. “It’s always been too loud in my head but I was dealing, I was on top of it--it helped, volleyball helped, it made it better even with all the people, I could handle it until you--until fucking you--” his fingers clenched white-knuckle tight in Yahaba’s collar, arms shaking with the strain. “You fucking touched me and it all went quiet.” The anger in his voice crested, broke...and crashed into shaking desperation. “It was quiet, just for a second you made it quiet and then...and then you took it away.”

“He’s got no defenses,” Sugawara said to Oikawa, speaking in a fast, urgent whisper Yahaba had to strain to hear. “He’s all alone. I found Daichi when I started high school, but he doesn’t have anyone.” Oikawa blinked down at the other boy, eyes wide, his face shocked open in a way Yahaba had never seen before. “I have Daichi, you’ve had Iwaizumi all your life. Imagine if you hadn’t found him until you were sixteen. How long would you have lasted?”

“You want me to touch you,” Yahaba whispered. It wasn’t a question. “You’ve been trying to start fights with me all this time...just so I would touch you again.” He half-remembered the buzzing rush in his head, written off as his own frustration and anger. Kyoutani still wouldn’t look at him.  “Kyouken. Hey.”

You made it quiet...he thought of Iwa squeezing Oikawa’s hand, of Sugawara leaning against his captain’s shoulder, tiny, instantaneous brushes of contact where something seemed to pass between them. He slid his hands up and let them settle over Kyoutani’s, still clenched in his collar, skin to skin.

The inside of his head roared. Yahaba swayed with the force of it, and Kyoutani shivered, hard, amber eyes flying up as their skin touched. It wasn’t sound, wasn’t something heard, but he had nothing else to call it, a screaming wall of pure emotion that crashed through his mind, pushing away his own thoughts in the torrent. He was barely aware of his knees buckling, but Kyoutani’s hands shot down, one to his elbow one to his waist, letting the taller boy sag against this chest. Yahaba clutched at his shoulders, thumb brushing against Kyoutani’s collarbone and the din in his head redoubled...and then it ebbed away, leaving him breathless and panting, ears ringing in the silence.

His eyes were locked open, staring into Kyoutani’s.

“All the time?” he whispered, voice rough. “It’s like that in your head all the time?”

“All the time,” Kyoutani echoed. “Until you touch me. It’s...it’s better when you’re touching me.” He was still half-holding Yahaba, steadying him by the elbow.

Yahaba tightened his grip on Kyoutani’s shoulders. He took a deep breath, and let his head dip down, the bare inch it took to press his forehead against Kyoutani’s.

He was ready this time. The rush of psychic noise still slammed hard into his mind, but it felt less frantic this time, less desperate and hard-edged. It felt like something shared, a river, not a flood, hot and intense but not overwhelming. But still enough to leave him panting, his hands trembling where they pressed against Kyoutani’s neck, his pulse rushing under his skin...He didn’t remember doing that.

Kyoutani’s arms were warm and strong around his waist….he didn’t remember that happening either.

“Better?” he asked, and Kyoutani hugged him tighter. Yahaba sighed, and let his arms  slip around Kyoutani’s shoulders. Could he ever hear individual thoughts, individual words or intentions in all that noise. Maybe in the quiet, maybe while they were this close...as long as they were touching